For two summers, I had the privilege of building dry stone walls with fellow faculty members Josh Norris '92 and Peter Southworth. It was hard work, but the results were tangible. We would walk away from the job site each day seeing what we had built; the well placed foundation rocks, tetris-like fits locking the wall into place, flat tops and square corners. There was an immediate gratification and instant feedback with this summer job that stood in stark contrast to the usual delayed feedback experienced by educators.
As teachers, we possess this unique patience and optimism, a faith even, that the seeds of wisdom and guidance sown in our students will eventually bear fruit. We believe that the relationships we develop with our students and the lessons in perseverance, critical thinking, and collaboration will eventually serve as cornerstones of their lives. We have confidence that the pieces will all fit together eventually for them, just like the stone walls Josh and Pete build each summer.
It is a patience that is increasingly tested by society’s demand for us to live quickly. We consume media by scrolling, expect wifi everywhere we go, order groceries online so they can be delivered to our cars in the name of efficiency. We operate under this misguided belief that faster is better, more is superior to less, and yet we are confused when we feel an ache for connection that previous generations embraced through their slowness. A century ago, the Lost Generation wrestled with many of the same issues of endless possibilities and unprecedented affluence in the roaring 20s. Yet a deep emptiness persisted. We’ve read Fitzgerald, Stein, T.S. Eliot, Hemingway, and Steinbeck. The themes resonate: the helplessness, the shallow optimism, the longing for meaning. What can we learn from generations past who similarly felt something was missing in the midst of having everything?
Repeatedly our remedy at Proctor to this societal emptiness has been in our connection with each other and with our students. Connection among adolescents does not happen by chance. It happens through shared, untethered experiences. It happens in small advisory groups. It happens in dorms during late night conversations between roommates. It happens in classrooms where teachers are focused far more on doing to learn than learning to do. It happens in schools where parents and teachers are teammates paddling toward the same destination.
We know that we will never legislate our way to connection with adolescents, but we can work tirelessly to show our students the possibility of connection that lives in every corner of Proctor’s campus. One of the greatest intrinsic educational benefits of a boarding school experience will never be quantified on our students’ transcripts; it happens by simply learning to live life within a community.
We may mark our profession as ‘educator’ on a questionnaire, but our responsibility to our students extends well beyond the walls of our classroom and the pages of the textbook. We want to serve as examples for our students: in the dining hall, in assembly, when we play with our own children, when we interact with our peers, and when we volunteer our time in the local community. This work of teaching is exhausting and wonderful and everything in between. But when we focus on connecting with our students and each other, we walk into the next class block, the next meeting, the next practice understanding that our work matters, both for us and our students.
“True teachers are those who use themselves as bridges over which they invite their students to cross; then, having facilitated their crossing, joyfully collapse, encouraging them to create their own.” - Nikos Kazantzakis
