The closed door

The door is closed. On one side there is an empty hall. On the other side there is a room full of people. Twenty-five of them sit in their chairs and look to the front. One sits in the front and looks at the others. He gets up, stands in front of the black board, and starts talking. The others listen. The door is closed for 90 minutes. This scenario repeats four or five times each day. What kind of room is this? Who are the 25? And who is the one?

The questions seem to be easy and the answers clear. The room is a classroom. The 25 are the students. The one is the teacher. Of course, these answers aren’t wrong. But they are incomplete. And still, it is what the most of us see when we picture this room in our minds. It’s what even the protagonists see, when they look at each other. The one sees 25 students. The 25 see one teacher.

When each of us looks in our bathroom mirror, we see a son, a sister, a friend, a girlfriend. We see a sportsman, a musician, a bookworm, a linguistically talented girl, a physics freak, or an IT professional. We see talents, things to develop, dreams, wishes, plans, and visions. We see ourselves. This is as true for students as for teachers. But as soon as we enter school grounds, we lay down all of these parts of ourselves and become the limited facts that our files contain about us.

Together, these facts create certain pictures in our minds, called prejudices. A girl: white skin, German parents, German as her mother language, no migration experience, good marks, no special notes. The conclusion? She must be quiet, friendly, committed, able to follow instructions and learn the subject matter of her classes. A boy: black skin, Eritrean parents, Arabic as his mother language, migration experience, not very good marks, three written warnings. The conclusion? He must be difficult, hard to teach, special needs of inclusion, a “problem case.”

The things that are written in the files are facts. But the conclusions drawn are just imagined pictures, based on things they’ve seen and heard, referring to a general group of people.

What the files don’t say: Only four years ago the boy came to Germany, accompanied by his mother and his little sister. None of them can speak German fluently, so they mostly speak Arabic at home. He can’t answer the teacher’s questions in class. His mother works in the afternoon, so he has to take care for his little sister. She cries a lot. She misses her daddy. The boy would give everything to be able to build a better life for himself and his family one day, but what he gets from his teachers are suspensions and written warnings.

Since first grade the girl has been favoured by her teachers. She never had to learn to get good marks, so she didn’t understand why it wasn’t that easy for the other students. Encouraged by the constant praise from her teachers, she started to treat her classmates unfairly and condescendingly. It was a long process for her to learn how to treat people in a better way. But many years later, she was still not accepted by her class.

Every one of us, every single student in the entire world, is more than just the things that are printed in black letters on the white paper of their files. We are all individuals. For most of us, the little questions “why?” or “how did that happen?” could change the picture from a useless stone into a wonderful flower.

Every person has prejudices. Every teacher. Every student. Every human. We need to become aware of our own prejudices and, even more, become aware of their effects on our ways of thinking, talking, and acting. The actions of a teacher who is influenced by even unconscious prejudices have a huge impact on a student’s success or failure. We, as students, recognize who is liked and appreciated by our teachers and who is not. In whom they believe and in whom they don’t. To whom they want to give the diploma, and to whom they have to give it.

How can a picture that is inspired by just a few sentences truly show who a person is? We need to deeply get to know each other, listen honestly, and ask questions that get to the heart of the matter. If we start to act that way, we will realize how much potential and greatness there is in everyone.

The door is closed. On one side there is an empty hall. On the other side there is a room full of people. Twenty-five of them sit in their chairs and look to the front. One sits in the front and looks at the others. He gets up, stands in front of the black board, and starts talking. The others listen. The door is closed for 90 minutes. This scenario repeats four or five times each day. What kind of room is this? Who are the 25? And who is the one?

These questions are not easy and their answers are not clear. In this room there are not just 25 students and one teacher — there are 26 individuals and each one, in their own way, is a remarkable human. Every single one has their own stories, strengths, needs, areas to develop, wishes, dreams, and visions. And all together they will embark on an amazing journey full of ups and downs. They will learn about themselves and all the others. They will become a team. They will be there for each other and love each other just the way they are. Because every one of them is more than just a student. More than just a teacher. More than just the facts in their files.