The Power of Critical Thinking: To My Teacher

We all have figures in our lives who irrevocably change how we think and therefore how we are without even realizing it.

I dedicate this to one of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing, a teacher.

I was often bored in high school, by the people, the insipid environment, and minimal lessons. This sounds arrogant, I know, but I just was. There was one particular teacher with whom I built a strong connection with. They had been bored in school as well and sought out other avenues of learning to stimulate them and build their time.

My first experience of this teacher was in a language class–Italian, to be specific. I wanted to hone the foundations of what I had been previously immersed in; the country of my birth and childhood. The teacher asked that we introduce ourselves on the first day and went around accordingly.

Me being the show-off I was then, happy to be in a familiar environment, said “Mi chiamo Vanessa.” The teacher cackled, yes, cackled (an often misunderstood gesture) and mimicked “Mi chiamo Vanessa,” in my atrocious German/Southern Italian accent.

In just that one moment, I felt understood. After that, I took every course I could take from them. They were the only classes I felt stimulated by and genuinely enjoyed; Italian II, Italian III, AP Italian, AP European History, AP World History–any excuse to have this teacher in my life.

History though, was and is my enduring passion. Language and History were this mentor’s passion.

In these classes, learning was abundant. We didn’t learn just language or history. They taught me and other students to challenge our minds and beliefs. I was a child raised in a very conservative household and I held strongly to my parent’s beliefs, as is normal for adolescents.

Through their instruction and example, little-by-little I began to question the internalized beliefs I held about the world, and the more I learned from this teacher I also learned that I needed to reevaluate.

There were so many incredible lessons in which we used critical thinking and imaginative powers to learn about history and language. We memorized operas and geography, painted according to Pre-History concepts, read thought-provoking literature, and were trained to write true, reasoned essays in measured time. Discussion was encouraged, ideas flowed, but idiocy was often acknowledged.

I have several delightful examples of this. Once, (truly many times) there was a very obnoxious, terrible, and deliberately uninformed kid who insisted upon disruption and baiting. As any true Italian would–my teacher responded (the last straw) to a deliberately mocking remark about demanding ranch dressing in an Italian restaurant with, “Get out. Get out of my classroom.” Ranch is a thing never to be remembered and requested in any Italian diet. Why would you request such a thing when a world of culinary delights awaits you? My teacher used these comments to bring attention to the term 'Ugly American' and taught about and encouraged against such a stereotype.

At the teacher’s abrupt dismissal of the student, at first other students gaped, then laughed and clapped in understanding and approval as the disruptive annoyance removed themselves from the classroom.

I was delighted by the daring and honesty in that classroom. “Whatever blows your skirt up” and “Close, but no cigar” were often-heard comments. I once repeated the phrase “Whatever blows your skirt up” in response to a remark by a parent and they gasped in disbelief. I’m sure this teacher would have cackled, my favorite thing.

Perhaps more poignant were the brutal and truthful history lessons, the ones that made it personal–more real. It was either near Memorial or Veteran’s Day that they gave this particular lesson, I cannot quite remember exactly when. We shuffled into the classroom, yawning in an early morning fugue. My teacher stood at their podium at the head of the classroom, silent, waiting. We sat at our desks, unaware of what was about to happen. Then it began: a solemn, stirring recitation of “Dulce et Decorum est” by Wilfred Owen, a soldier in the horrifying WWI.

We sat silently, a pin could have dropped and we would have heard it. Their words ricocheted in the classroom; a brilliant, educated performance of an extraordinary piece of history and literature.

This last part haunted me, still visible in my mind:

“If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.”

How sweet and right it is to die for one’s country.

When that teacher finished speaking there was absolute silence and shock. Adolescent minds churned. The simple, but gripping recitation of the poem made us question patriotism, what it meant to serve one’s country, and the cost of it in only a few minutes. We just sat there, blind-sided and struggling to process a profound realization.

As if our worlds had not been shaken, they then began the lesson. That is simply one example of an inspired lesson that changed my life, and there were so many more. I learned my love of W.B. Yeats from them and their fierce recitation of “The Second Coming,” the first stanza of which I have now memorized by love and will recite here:

“Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.”

Those words echo in my mind often, especially in these times of great political strife.

Noticing that I was an avid reader, they often commented upon the books I read and recommended more, which I devoured with my insatiable mind.

What’s more, they provided unrelenting dry and clever humor. When there was some sort of remembrance, the school tortured us with the sound of heartbeats going and then faltering every...it felt like five minutes, for the whole day. My teacher kept trying to teach. But then, thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Eventually, it became too much. We could not complain, so they crawled upon a desk with a pair of scissors and cut the wires to the school speaker, providing blessed relief. I laughed at the daring and boldness of it, most of us filled with gratitude at not having to hear the arbitrary thump of a heart every five minutes.

More importantly, this teacher gave more than they ever knew beyond classroom learning. To those students who felt bored, outcast, or alienated–or simply those who felt different, they invited to homemade Italian lunches and dinners. These many-course delicious, authentic Italian meals were punctuated by wit, critical discussion and warm friendliness.

To a child wanting anything but to think of my life and return home every day, dreading every moment of my life in a deep depression, those lunches were a soulful escape that reminded me of my home country (Italy). They made me feel that I was not so very different after all and not so very alone.

This teacher had no idea of the problems I was facing at home or my depression (which I won’t describe here), but their classroom and opened home became a solace, an escape, and incredible grounds for learning, free-thinking, and acceptance that defined and changed not only my school experience, but how I think, feel, and view the world now over a decade later.

In spite of our age difference, I related to them. They did not belittle me or condescend to me because of my age, but instead recognized a kindred thirst for knowledge, for truth, and acceptance and gave it whole-heartedly.

They helped me keep going, giving me a hope of a better and different life. They, in short, changed the course of my entire life.

This is why our educational system needs to change. Teachers form thought, expression, empathy, and ways-of-being to entire generations. They influence, educate, comfort, and inform those that later contribute to and build our country. Yet they are treated so poorly, given little recognition, and compensated so minimally when the future of our country lies in their hands. Is it any wonder that we have reached our current state?

I hope, as this generation, the generation of now, we support our teachers. We honor our teachers. We campaign for them. We protest for them, understanding that the future lies in the young minds they nurture.

This teacher saved my mind–fed it, nourished it, and influenced so many of my important life-choices because of the capacity to think critically and empathize; abilities they nurtured. Twelve years later, I am a secondary history teacher as well, hoping to provide comfort and growth to the minds of the future the same way one teacher did for a lonely, sad teenage girl with a voracious mind.

I say to you dearest teacher, thank you. I will forever admire you and call you my dearest friend.