Students Make the Best Teachers (A lesson in sensitivity)

I have been fortunate in my career to have worked in many different roles, but the one that has been the most rewarding to me personally has been that of an educator. Teaching is a profession that confronts you with your deepest fears. It cultivates your preparation skills, enhances your problem-solving abilities, and crucially, teaches you to interact with others in ways that are caring, compassionate, and sometimes even humorous.

And while it is the job of the instructor to educate their students, it is often the opposite that occurs and some of the most profound lessons are taught by the students, themselves. Once such lesson was taught to me by one of my own students, one that I will never forget, and one that I’ve carried with me my entire life.

It all started in a class much like any other. Students trickling in, juggling their books, coffee and the occasional Danish. Each one selecting their seats and settling into what was to be come their temporary home for the next five days. Those that completed the personalization of their space peaked curiously around large LCD monitors with eager, yet anxious looks waiting for the class to start.

The beginning of a class can be as stressful for an instructor as it can be for students and one of the techniques I use to alleviate that stress is that of FFF (find a friendly face). So as with numerous classes before me, I quickly scanned the room searching for friendly faces to allay my anxiety. While doing so, my gaze eventually landed on one student that immediately stood out from the rest of the class, but in a very different way. There was nothing striking about him, in fact, he looked like the hundreds of faces I had seen before. He wasn't particularly friendly looking as his face conveyed a rather nonchalant attitude. What was different about this student was that he had metal hooks in the place where hands were typically found. I quickly regained my composure and continued my introduction, hoping my brief pause hadn't caused discomfort.

Once I had introduced the class, it was now time for each student to return the favor by introducing themselves both to me and to their fellow classmates. "My name is Bob, I work in Operations, and I’m here to learn about X." "My name is Mary, I’m a Developer, and I’m here to learn about Y". "My name is Steve, I’m a Project Manager and I’m here because my boss told me to be here." As each student introduced themselves, I listened intently, but couldn't help but wonder about that one student in particular, eager to hear their story.

When his turn came, he introduced himself as Ed, a systems administrator, and not only shared his goals for the class but also addressed the curiosity about his prosthetics. Ed had previously worked as a lineman for a telephone company when he suffered a terrible accident. One day, while on the job, he accidentally touched a live power line with both hands, causing a short circuit. The resulting surge of electricity was so powerful that it not only threw him through the air but also, in his own words, ‘blew his arms right off of his body.’ Ed's sense of humor emerged as he concluded his story, quipping, ‘I guess you could say I got a kick out of that.’

Over the course of the class, Ed proved to be an adept student with an understanding of the material that outshone his fellow classmates. When it came to labs, he successfully completed them navigating computer tasks more swiftly than others - despite what may have been considered a "disability".

Instructors have their quirks and phrases that help them manage a class and one of the ones that I typically use after introducing a lab exercise is to ask students to 'raise their hand' if they have any questions. This class was no different, at least not until I experienced what felt like a shot to the stomach when after one such introduction, Ed looked at me and stated flatly, "I can't". My embarrassment at my insensitivity was profound, but after a long pause and many startled looks from others in the classroom, Ed revealed his playful nature by laughing and stating, "I'm just messing with you.". Even so, that one moment taught me a valuable lesson in sensitivity.

Despite my embarrassment, I eventually slipped back into my old ways, asking again for hands to be raised. This time, Ed, with a conspiratorial grin, raised a piece of paper with a handprint above his head — a prank he had prepared with a classmate. It was a humorous yet poignant reminder to be mindful of my words.

The handprint paper that I’ve preserved for over two decades serves as a powerful symbol of the sensitivity and awareness lesson Ed imparted to me. This experience underscores not only the importance of being cognizant of visible disabilities, like Ed's, but also the need to be sensitive to hidden disabilities that aren't immediately apparent.

Hidden disabilities, such as chronic pain, mental health conditions, sensory impairments, and neurological disorders, can significantly affect a person's interactions and capabilities without being visually obvious. People with hidden disabilities often face misunderstandings and lack of accommodation because their challenges are not visible. This can lead to feelings of isolation or being judged unfairly, as others may not perceive the genuine difficulties they encounter.

Creating an inclusive environment requires a proactive approach to understanding and accommodating all types of disabilities, visible or not. Educators, employers, and peers alike should strive to cultivate a culture where individuals feel comfortable disclosing their conditions without fear of judgment or exclusion. This involves training on disability awareness, encouraging open dialogue, and implementing practical adjustments to support diverse needs.

For example, simple changes in how we communicate—like avoiding assumptions based on physical appearances, offering various ways to participate and respond, and being mindful of language that could inadvertently exclude or offend—can make a substantial difference. In educational settings, this might mean providing lecture recordings for those with concentration difficulties, or allowing alternative demonstration of competencies for those who might struggle with conventional assessment methods.

Ultimately, the lesson from Ed and the handprint paper is a call to action: to always be observant and empathetic towards the unseen struggles others may be experiencing. It challenges us to continually refine our interactions and ensure that sensitivity and inclusiveness are at the heart of our communities.