Fred Aiken Writing

Tag: teaching

January 31, 2025

Get Off the Stage

Daily writing prompt
What’s the thing you’re most scared to do? What would it take to get you to do it?
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My initial reaction is to say that the thing I fear most doing is socializing, but I suppose that’s not entirely true. I can, when prompted, socialize just fine. I just don’t like doing it. I’d prefer to live as hermetically as possible.

But when it comes to a genuine fear, then I suppose public speaking is pretty high up on that list. I absolutely detest getting up in front of a crowd and discussing a topic in great detail. I’m sure it’s just a matter of practicing and doing it repeatedly, but I think the initial fear of going up and having all eyes on you drains me of any motivation to ever volunteer, especially since it’s not like my job and/or lifestyle really calls for such occasions.

I never understood why it was required to do public speaking in grade school. There always seemed like a better way of testing a student on their grasp of the material, and the sort of speeches that grade-school students gave, myself included, were always so very terrible. If anything, I feel as if a good chunk of the credit as to why public speaking is so difficult for so many people could probably be attributed to the poor guidance given by teachers as to how to overcome one’s natural hesitations and dislike for speaking in front of the class.

The only feedback I ever received about how good or bad I did presenting the information I was supposed to regurgitate in front of the class was always some letter grade, but I was never really give any sort of concrete suggestions or feedback that could be considered useful in perhaps getting better and less nervous when giving a public speech. Instead, I developed a horrible anxiety about the whole matter, and that sort of feeling only grew with time.

Now, the handful of times in which I do need to speak in front of a crowd of more than three people, I will stutter and stumble over most words. I have a hard time looking at people, and so it probably just looks like I’m just staring off into space, which I will then become incredibly paranoid about and start to intensely look at everyone as awkwardly as possible. Without fail, I forget what I need to say, or I will speed through everything that needs to be said so fast that it becomes difficult to understand what it is I’m discussing, both for the audience and myself as well.

While I absolutely detest giving public speeches, I do not envy the position that anyone in the audience must go through while listening to whatever I’m talking about. I mumble. I sweat. I skip over huge chunks of the speech that I thought I had memorized. I do not follow a coherent line of reason. It really must be quite a mess listening to me stumble through my speech. And yet…and yet, for whatever reason, the audience will always limply clap at the end. Never because I did a particularly good job, but rather out of a sense of obligation, because, well, that’s what you do when you listen to a person give the most awkward, incomprehensible speech imaginable; just nod, and wait until they get off the stage.

With all that said, though, I’d much rather give a public speech than have anyone ever touch any of my nails. I have a true, though slightly weird, phobia about anyone touching my nails. It stems from my parents not paying too close attention to me while growing up, and so I got into watching a lot of inappropriate horror movies, especially the ‘Saw’ franchise and any of Rob Zombie’s movies. I credit having watched those films as the reasons why I can no longer stand gore in horror movies, nor do I like when anyone other than myself touches my nails, as I have this abnormal fear that they will rip the nail off and, I dunno, torture me or something.

It usually not that big of a deal. I just cannot go and ever get a manicure or pedicure, which is fine by me. But I also kinda dislike whenever people click their nails together, but that’s probably more so a personal preference in not enjoying that sound rather than a fear….though I’d say it stems from my fear of people touching my nails in some way.

The two fears have little to do with one another, other than the fact that they’ll elicit the same sort of heart-palpitating anxiety from me, and I’ll just start to shut down and want to be left alone more so than normal. So yeah, I guess just never ask me to speak in public or try to touch my nails, and I think we’re good, since I cannot see a scenario for the rest of my life where either of those things would be necessary to do in order to live a fulfilled sort of life.

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June 30, 2024

teach or taught

Daily writing prompt
What makes a teacher great?
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I would not pretend to be an expert at determining what makes a teacher good, great, or bad. All I can speak to is my personal experiences and the teachers that I liked the most and the ones that made me want to learn more. But I also recognize that they might not be the best sorts of teachers for every student, since I would imagine a teacher’s success would also partially depend on their students.

But the best teachers I had tended to always have a handful of things in common. The first being passion. I always got the impression that the teacher wanted to be there despite the fact that there were any number of kids that did not. And that sort of energy was always infectious. I feel like when a teacher was low energy and blasé about what they were teaching, then it would rub off on me. That’s probably why I did really poorly in geometry. Our teacher, Mr. Carson, came off as very dispassionate. He sort of ran through lectures without giving any good explanations, and by the end of each class, I had more questions than answers. Mr. Carson was so unapproachable that I tended not to ask any questions.

In contrast, my eleventh-grade biology teacher, Ms. Robbins, was a whirlwind of enthusiasm. She would leap around the room, demonstrating mitosis with oversized foam cells and narrating each stage with the excitement of a sports commentator. Her energy was infectious. Even students who hated science found themselves drawn in by her passion. She made us feel that what we were learning was not just important, but thrilling.

Another quality that stands out is empathy. The best teachers I encountered understood that students are not just receptacles for information, but individuals with their own struggles, fears, and dreams. They took the time to get to know us, to understand our backgrounds, and to tailor their teaching to our needs. For example, Mr. Thomas, my high school history teacher, had a knack for weaving stories into his lessons, making historical events come alive. He understood that not all of us found dates and events compelling, so he brought history to life through the lens of human experience, connecting past to present in a way that felt immediate and relevant. He once spent an entire class re-enacting the signing of the Treaty of Versailles, assigning roles to each student and guiding us through the complex negotiations. It was unforgettable and made the intricacies of history stick.

Good teachers also have a certain flexibility. They are willing to adapt their teaching methods to better suit the needs of their students. This doesn’t mean abandoning the curriculum but rather finding innovative ways to present the material. Mrs. Hernandez, my eleventh-grade English teacher, introduced us to Shakespeare not through dry recitation, but through performance. We would act out scenes, discuss the motivations of characters as if they were people we knew, and even write modern-day adaptations of the plays. I remember our class’s modern adaptation of “Romeo and Juliet,” set in rival tech companies. Her approach made Shakespeare accessible and even fun, something I never thought possible before her class.

Patience is another essential trait. Learning is not a linear process, and good teachers understand that students learn at different paces and in different ways. They are patient with those who struggle and find ways to support them without making them feel inferior. Mr. Patel, my chemistry teacher, would spend extra hours after school to help students who were having a hard time. He never showed frustration, only a calm determination to ensure that everyone had the opportunity to succeed. I remember one time when I was struggling with stoichiometry. He patiently walked me through the concepts step by step until it finally clicked. That kind of dedication made a huge difference.

Lastly, good teachers inspire. They ignite a curiosity and a love for learning that extends beyond the classroom. They encourage students to think critically, to question, and to explore. My middle school science teacher, Mrs. Owens, did just that. She had this way of presenting scientific concepts not as dry facts, but as mysteries waiting to be solved. One memorable experiment involved creating a small ecosystem in a bottle, where we could observe the water cycle, plant growth, and even the decomposition process over several weeks. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and it made me want to learn more, to dive deeper into subjects I had never considered interesting before.

While I can’t claim to have a definitive answer to what makes a teacher great, my personal experiences have shown me that the best teachers share certain qualities: passion, empathy, flexibility, patience, and the ability to inspire. These traits create an environment where students feel valued, understood, and motivated to learn. And while every student is different and may respond to different teaching styles, these qualities seem to be a common thread among the teachers who made the most impact on me.

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June 12, 2024

A Musical Note

Daily writing prompt
What are you passionate about?
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Thomas leaned back in his chair, feeling the worn wood beneath his fingers, and closed his eyes. The morning light filtered through the window, casting a warm, golden miasma across the room, as if trying to gild the world in a fleeting moment of perfection.

This was his sanctuary, where the noise of the city and the weight of responsibilities dissolved into the background. He came here not just for the quiet, though it was part of it, but for the rhythm of it all. The tuning of the strings, the waiting for inspiration, the sudden rush when a melody took shape—all of it a dance as old as time itself.

His passion, however, wasn’t just playing music. It was understanding it, feeling it.

Back in his daily life, Thomas was a teacher, his days filled with the clamor of students and the steady rhythm of the mundane. But here, alone with his thoughts, he could hear the music of life, the subtle symphony that played in the background of every breath he took. It was here that he composed, the melodies rising and falling with his thoughts, the harmonies inspired by the whispers of his memories and the silence of the early morning.

He reached for his guitar, its body worn smooth from years of playing, and strummed a chord. The sound mingled with the creak of the old house and the soft rustle of leaves outside, forming an impromptu duet. Thomas closed his eyes again, letting the notes guide him, each one a stepping stone across a river of memories.

His mind wandered back to his childhood, to the small, dimly lit room where he had first picked up a guitar. His father’s instrument, it had been a portal to another world, a place where he could express the emotions that words failed to capture. His fingers had stumbled at first, but the passion was there, igniting a fire that would burn bright through the years.

Music was his language, a way to connect with the world on a deeper level. It was in the lullabies he played for his daughter, each note a promise of love and protection. It was in the songs he wrote for his wife, capturing the essence of their life together in melodies that spoke of joy, sorrow, and everything in between.

As he played, the sun climbed higher, its light sparkling on the polished wood of the floor like a thousand tiny stars. He thought of his students, the way their faces lit up when they finally grasped a new concept, the pride they felt when they played their first song. Teaching was a part of his passion too, a way to pass on the gift of music, to ignite that same fire in another soul.

A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. He set the guitar aside and stood up, feeling the weight of the moment. With practiced ease, he answered, finding a young boy standing there, clutching a sheet of music with eager eyes. Thomas invited him in, guiding him to the chair by the window where the light was best.

They worked through the notes together, the boy’s initial hesitance giving way to confidence as the melody took shape. Thomas watched, a quiet pride swelling within him. This was his passion, not just for music, but for the act of creation itself, for the ability to take the chaos of the world and transform it into something beautiful.

As the lesson ended, the boy packed up his things, his face glowing with a newfound sense of accomplishment. Thomas watched him go, feeling a sense of fulfillment that words could scarcely capture.

Thomas picked up the guitar again, his fingers finding the chords without thought. The song that emerged was one of contentment, of quiet moments and the simple joys of life, notes that filled the air with daydreams. It was a reflection of his passion, not just for music, but for living a life that resonated with meaning, each note a testament to the things he held dear.

And as the day drew to a close, the room bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, Thomas carefully placed his guitar back into its worn case that had been a constant companion to every relationship, every move, every change he had made over the years. He went into the dining room to have dinner with his family.

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