Dropping the L-Bomb at School

A few years ago, I accidentally told a student that I loved her. It was so weird. Mushy-gushy talk was not my M.O, despite the plethora of viral TED talks and motivational videos touting the importance of love when working in schools. “Kids will not care how much you know until they know how much you care”, and all that. Saying “I love you” at school felt weird before I even finished my sentence; it was like trying out a language that wasn’t mine. To confirm the absolute discomfort of it all, I heard another delightfully sarcastic student repeat the words under her breath to a friend, followed by “AWKward!” on her way out the door. They don’t mention that part in the TED talks.

This particular girl was an archetype with whom too many teachers are familiar: dyed black hair hanging in her face, trying on a new friend group every few months, often crumpled in the hallway over something that had upset her. She drew tragic angels in her sketchbook, and skulking anime characters who wept as they tangled their bodies together. She was one of those students whose deep well of needs, despite the attention of counselors and teachers and her peers, seemed bottomless. On that day, she was withdrawn about something new and refused to talk with anyone, even a counselor. I felt exasperated in my loss for words. So as she made her way out of my classroom at the passing period, I blurted out, “I love you and I just want you to be happy.”

I love you and I just want you to be happy? Could I have been more cliche? AWKward! is exactly what I would have said if her cynical classmate hadn’t rolled her eyes and done it for me. Besides that, love is a word I saved for my kids, my husband, my parents. You don’t muddle that kind of stuff with teaching teenagers how to write essays. It’s gross.

I treated the word love like a currency that could be worth more if I said it less. So, setting it loose with this one student, this one time, felt like invoking King Kong to tear his way through my classroom to show that I cared; it felt a little over-the-top. Climb down from the Empire State Building, Mrs. Miller. That is not the kind of thing you say at work. Or at least, it didn’t used to be.

The whole thing reminds me of a dear friend who went paddle boarding with me once: he spent the whole ride rigidly straining for balance, until he finally fell off the board at the very end of our trip. He was so astonished that falling in the water was not actually awful, that he wished he’d fallen in earlier so he could have had more fun. Likewise, stumbling over my own cheesy words that day, being mocked by a student who channeled my inner critic with precision, and feeling a little ridiculous, didn’t actually destroy all my credibility.

My compassionate word-blunder had an unexpected side effect: it unlocked the “do not touch” part of my vocabulary.

Things got worse. I began using the word love with all my classes. Even the rough ones. (On certain days, especially the rough ones.) To many of my students, it probably sounded silly- but I discovered that I relish being the person who is that kind of silly. “Love you guys, see you tomorrow,” became a routine sign-off at the end of class. Sometimes I even began with a “Good morning, love y’all, glad to see you… make sure you have something to write with today.” Yeah. That kind of hippy-dippy, touchy-feely fluffy language, paired with teachery get-out-your-school-supplies. It did not mean that I was overjoyed to see every student who walked into the room- there were 150 of them, and they were teenagers, and I am a mere mortal. But there was love there, and saying it seemed to make the sentiment more real.

Teachers have the uncommon privilege- and challenge- of setting the tone for culture among groups of thirty-plus at a time, multiple times a day, 180 days a year. In my classroom, the L-word happened a lot. I don’t know if my students felt it deeply or they wrote me off as a jolly-good person who just says that kind of thing to everyone. But I do know that the words I used had a powerful impact on the only countenance I can truthfully measure: mine. There is something to that “fake it ‘til you make it” adage; by May, I can honestly say that I really loved my job- and my students- more than any other year in the classroom.

I must report that telling my classes that I loved them wasn’t a cure-all, for my students or for me. It did not endow me with the zen to withstand every single sling and arrow that middle schoolers throw. And I doubt that my instruction improved or that students became better readers and writers just because I let the word love fly around the room like a class pet. No one threw their arms around me and said, “Thank you! It’s just what I needed to hear!” But by saying that I cared more, I started to care more. And if I sounded a little ooey-gooey in the process, so be it.

So I’m grateful for the student that finally got me to talk about love, however awkward it sounded. Love is only a limited commodity if we make it so.