First, do no harm
It dawned on me during my second semester pursuing my Masters in Art Pedagogy and Practice, when I was overwhelmed with research and getting to grips with impossible academia writing, that I could have enrolled in an MBA* instead (yes, it got that bad).
I had spoken to a few of my teacher friends and was suddenly hit with a realisation: that teachers are one of the most lowly paid of professions in relation to the work that they do. Compounded by that, a full-time teaching job was stressful, at times demoralising, and there was a wave of resignations in the education industry due to stressful working conditions. My heart sunk. My MA was quite an investment. Thoughts of why the heck I chose to do this to myself swirled in my head for a couple of weeks.
I knew why I wanted to do it in the first place. I loved teaching at the college/university level and while my experience has taken me quite far, I could no longer ignore that I would have to have a postgraduate degree to do so. More so if I were to move abroad to teach, which was becoming a real possibility.
I wasn’t sure if it was timed perfectly, or if it was serendipity, but we were then asked to write about our teaching philosophy. Our professor had asked us to think about why we decided to teach, to dig deep into theoretical insights, and invited us to share letters and commendations written by students. In doing so, we tapped into stories, memories and experiences in order to understand what drives us. While I didn’t recognise it back then, the incident made me realise the power an educator wields, and how words have the power to either build or destroy. It’s a responsibility I do not take lightly.
One memory emerged clearer than others in the exercise, which I wanted to share with you: it was what made me determined to constantly strive to be a better teacher. I don’t think I’ve shared this with anyone publicly before as it’s very personal. Telling this story in the course of my MA made me realise that its impact ran deep, which in turn formed a big part of my teaching philosophy till this very day.
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Before
It was presentation day, and tensions were high.
I was a third-year student studying for my Bachelor’s degree in Landscape Architecture. A few lecturers were seated at the front of the class, giving their critiques to students who took turns to present their work. The place was a blur of activity.
I remember walking into the studio, and hearing a lecturer shout at my classmate, Chern. He threw his work across the room, berating him in front of the class with disparaging, scathing remarks. I couldn’t remember what he said, but I was stunned. But more than that, I was seething in anger. Chern walked away, silent and humiliated as he collected his boards. After it was my turn, I looked around trying to find him and to talk to him about what happened, but he had already left.
That same night, I learned that he was involved in a traffic accident and had passed away the same day.
Details soon emerged: In his distraught state, he had driven off in his motorcycle soon after the session and made his way back to his hometown, 4 hours away. He was on his way back to campus when he was clipped by a bus and sustained a head injury during his fall.
I was livid at this point, enraged by the abusive lecturer (and a few others) who had done this often to other students and called it “teaching”. From then on, I refused to acknowledge and interact with those who I felt were complicit in perpetuating similar treatment to students. When I stood and spoke up against an injustice, or pushed back against unfair treatment, my classmates would tug on my sleeves and tell me to sit back down and to be quiet — but I didn’t care. Someone had to say something.
I was also angry with an education system that perpetuated abuse and unethical practices. After Chern’s passing, I no longer acquiesced to any lecturer’s denigrating remarks. I rebelled by asking more questions to seek answers, and disputed their sole authority as knowledge providers (this was Google’s nascent years, after all). I was relegated to earning low B’s and C’s despite knowing I deserved better — punishment, no doubt for my outspokenness. While I was proud of the work that I handed in, some of the marks did not matter to me, as I no longer respected the lecturers who doled them out. Even though I had limited experience of being in a constructive learning environment, I knew for sure that this was not one of them.
I don’t talk about Chern much, but I always wonder if things could have been different. What if the lecturers back then used words to build him up instead of tearing him down? What if teaching came from a place of empathy and curiosity, instead of constant comparison and derisiveness? What if we played to each student’s strengths instead of forcing them into a mold that does not fit?
After
Thirteen years after the incident, I began to teach. I silently refused to follow what leading advocate of critical pedagogy Paolo Freire (2005) called “prepackaged educational materials”, handed down from teachers before me. Instead, I crafted a curriculum seeded in my own experiences, one that encouraged discourse and challenged students’ ways of thinking as well as my own. For me, one of the joys of teaching was learning itself. As Freire iterates, “there is no teaching without learning”. Through their eyes, I find myself continuously re-thinking issues, experiences and the knowledge I had sought to facilitate, and often — to my surprise and delight — earnestly revising my position on the subject at hand.
I have been teaching for almost 15 years now, both offline and online. Watching students and clients slowly (but surely) gain self-confidence in the pursuit of their voice and meaning continue to fill me with indescribable joy. I ensure that they have a safe space to learn and grow, reiterating time and again that criticisms are welcome and that no matter what comes up, we’ll find a way to work through it together because I believe in them. And I believe in what is possible.
After a few weeks of fantasising about having an MBA, a fancy corner office and wearing fashionable high heels, I snapped out of it. Who was I kidding? I didn’t like climbing the corporate ladder to begin with, and I hated heels with a passion. I stopped kicking myself for wanting things that I thought I wanted. Things that for some reason, my brain equated with success. It may very well be someone else’s definition of success of course, but it wasn’t mine. I realised that the idea was formed in a moment of weakness brought on by stress and societal expectations from living in expensive Singapore. (Note: I could also be horribly mistaken about what an MBA could do, but it was an irrational fantasy that stuck).
Now that my studies are over, I’m getting some much needed breathing space. I’m really looking forward to teaching once again. During the course of my research, I was reminded of how much I loved interacting with students as I watch them emerge from their shell; how their self-confidence grew by tackling difficult subject matters in the course of finding their own voice. I missed all of it. Plus, there’s an excellent chance that I might be pretty good at it, so bring on the comfy shoes!
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*MBA: An MBA (Master of Business Administration) is a graduate degree focused on building leadership skills and learning business principles. But for the majority of students, MBAs offer much more than that: a stronger professional network, access to job opportunities, and a bigger paycheck. [source]
