How My Very Humiliating Moment as a Teacher Made Me Stronger

The parents were staring at me, and they were out for blood. I had proven myself as both a teacher and after school program assistant, and I had earned a secretly unwanted position as the new third-grade teacher.

Oh, I had teaching experience before. That wasn’t the issue. The problem: The parents didn’t know that. From their perspective, a former, lowly teaching assistant had suddenly been given the responsibility of teaching their children English in a bilingual school. They assumed I was inadequate before the year barely started.

My own anxiety had been whispering similar, deceitful thoughts into my mind since I accepted the position the previous June.

“You’re not good enough for this!”

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“You’re going to fail again!”

You see, I recently had a traumatic “breakup” with education before finding myself at this private school that touted its bilingual program and pedagogy. I believed in the school’s mission, the program, and the curriculum; however, my past experience prevented me from having the self-confidence necessary when asserting my expertise in front of twenty parents who believed their thousands of dollars in tuition payments were being wasted on a new, inexperienced teacher.

So there I was, along with my fellow new co-teacher, essentially defending our teaching abilities and knowledge of the curriculum in our packed classroom on a warm September night.

To say that I was sweating bullets would have been an understatement. My heart was pounding as I tried to ignore the moisture on my face and project a calm, confident veneer to the parents. I failed horribly.

I had heard through the grapevine that there was one mother in particular who wanted to see my head roll. She had unfairly assumed that I had no prior teaching experience. When I told the parents that I indeed had my own classroom before, that I was a licensed teacher in a neighboring state, and that I had my Master’s in Education, I was really speaking just to her. She looked as if I had given her a sedative. I had, for the time being, won her and some other parents over.

The room began to cool down.

And then it happened – When I lost all confidence in my teaching ability, in my own intelligence, and my desire to teach. As pointed out by a disgruntled father, I had mispelled the word “through” on my “Learning Through Writing” poster that I had created in the corner of the room.

I had reversed the “h” and the “g,” thus writing “throuhg.” I was mortified. How could I have made such an error? I remembered looking over the poster before hanging it up. Hadn’t I checked the spelling? Maybe I wasn’t cut out for this job after all.

The father, a lawyer who was used to arguing his point, didn’t back down. “How can we trust you to teach our children?” Another parent came to my defense, and the tone of the conversation quickly changed to my benefit.

However, the damage was irreparable. I’m not a lawyer who goes to courts and is accustomed to frequently being berated by the pompous opposition; I’m a teacher who wants to do a good job helping students read, write, and complete grade-level math problems.

In class the next day, his daughter came up to me and said, “My dad said you spelled that wrong!” I had already taken down the poster. My anxiety, which had been whispering, was now screaming in my head, “You are a failure!”

I cautiously continued with the rest of the school year, second-guessing every lesson, action, and word while I was in school.

Following the parent meeting, I noticed that I would often make similar mistakes; I would switch around numbers in our checking account ledger, forget the correct spelling of words with silent letters, and, what I found the most interesting, would make similar mistakes in my second language, French. Was I just careless? Dumb? Unfit for education?

Years later, I was at a family gathering, and my cousins were talking about how dyslexia runs in the family. Even though I have never been diagnosed with the condition, this news hit me like a ton of bricks. I thought back about the times when I switched letters and numbers; for each circumstance, I was either stressed or tired.

This realization boosted my self-worth and confidence: I wasn’t stupid; I have low-key dyslexia. Yes, I’d have to be more careful when I’m exhausted or overwhelmed, but this was manageable. But, perhaps most importantly, I realized that it wasn’t whether or not I have dyslexia that was the problem. Everyone makes mistakes, especially while stressed. The real lesson: I needed to work on refusing to let the actions of malcontents get under my skin.

Fast forward a few years. My education background has improved exponentially – I’ve worked at every level from kindergarten through seniors, served on committees, been a mentor, took on a role as an after school program assistant supervisor, and earned two teaching licenses. I’m not mentioning this to toot my own horn; I still often second-guess my abilities despite the reassurance of my colleagues. Even after all of this time, I still sometimes feel like that new teacher in a warm, stuffy classroom full of disgruntled parents.

However, I keep reminding myself, I’m not that person anymore. Being human, it’s inevitable that I’ll soon make another mistake. In fact, I probably unknowingly make many a day.

The pain of a situation can stay with us for years. While I’ll never forget that parent meeting, I’m grateful that it happened. On that night, a callous father spotted my Achilles’ Heel and drove in his spear. Years later, I removed his weapon, allowed my foot to heal, and now show my scar to inspire others.

There will be people who try to knock you down. Some may succeed. If they do, take a moment to breathe, recoup, and then stand back up.

Don’t give them the satisfaction of staying down.