As an educator for the past twelve years, I have steadily learned an incredible amount about children, the human brain, and what helps us learn, but a few instances stand out, and they all have to do with how our psychology affects the way we obtain information.

As a young teacher, I led a 6th-grade skills class called English Workshop, designed to bolster the reading and writing skills of students who were struggling in those areas. These were smart kids, at an elite and academically rigorous school, and many would go on to attend the top universities in the world. But in sixth grade, compared to their peers, they needed extra help. One thing I did know going in was that writing, in particular, is emotional. The act of writing is brave, and putting words on the page, even if the subject is as mundane as a book report, often feels incredibly vulnerable. Many of the students in this class landed there because their home was not a place where English was spoken as a first language, so they were at a temporary disadvantage when it came to the background information they could draw from.

They needed help. Still, they didn’t like being there; it separated them from the other kids and meant they had to hold back on taking a second language. Additionally, though I was 30 years old, I looked and dressed as if I were graduating high school that spring. Every day for the first two years, another teacher would ask for my elevator pass. It’s no surprise that first class, that first semester, gave me quite a bit of grief. I caught on eventually: rules and structure helped them thrive. I did not need to be their friend. I could loosen up halfway through the year, and we would have a wonderful time and learn, to boot. But those first few months were a series of lessons, many due to one student.

The one student, we will call him Jeremy, seemed determined to cause chaos, or simply dampen the mood. He was like that one audience member at a comedy show who refused to laugh. Usually, he kept his head down on the desk (despite my constant request for him to sit up properly), and occasionally he shouted out or, his signature move, ran his hands over another student's keyboard. Curiously, these incidents seemed to occur during the times in class when I was asking the students to respond by raising their hands (which was pretty constant) or by writing a short response. One day, when I was asking the students to compose a simile and a metaphor, Jeremy literally threw his school-issued laptop on the floor. Calmly, but a little confused, I took him outside to ask what had happened. He wouldn’t look at me. Later, I brought the incident up with a seasoned teacher, and he told me something I still think about at least once a week: for them, he said, it is better to be “bad” than "dumb."

Dumb? I thought. What an ugly word and what a shameful feeling. It floored me. I knew Jeremy was far from dumb. He spoke two languages besides English, for one thing. But he wasn’t getting that reassurance from me, and I clearly had no idea what was going on inside his head. I needed to fix that.

So the next class, instead of telling him to sit up straight, I asked if he was okay. The shift was palpable, and it grew from there. He didn't need a lecture. He needed an ally.

My goal that day, and the next, was to make him laugh, make him smile, make him know I was an ally the only way I knew how. Over time, it turned around. He was writing metaphors like an absolute poet by the end of the year. And that kid, I kid you not, is attending Duke as I write this. (Not at all because of me, but worth mentioning nonetheless.)

I wouldn’t be telling you this if that tiny piece of advice from my former colleague did not transform my entire teaching career. But it goes even further.

More recently, I had a student with significant learning difficulties. Let’s call her Annie. Annie didn't fit the typical diagnostic criteria for anything. From the way she spoke, connected ideas, wrote and read, I could tell she was more than smart. But her overall performance did not align with her abilities. She seemed to forget our math lessons from one session to the next and would act out, slouching in her chair, and sometimes saying hurtful things when redirected to more challenging topics. While TikTok culture may now call this Demand Avoidance, or PDA, that wasn't the diagnosis at the time.

I was at a loss, except that I did remember the phrase, “it’s better to be bad than dumb." And I remembered the turnaround in Jeremy when he started to laugh. So, I got an idea. I told her jokes, putting her mind at ease. Each session, I arrived with material that I knew would make Annie laugh, based on what I had learned about her. In a one-two punch, I delivered the jokes, followed by mini math concepts.

Astonishingly, it worked. She began solving problems on the whiteboard with relative ease and retaining what she learned from one session to the next. I ascertained that she needed a relaxed state of mind to be receptive to learning at all. (Most of us do, but some come by it more easily than others.) She liked books and reading because she already knew how to read and learned when she was too young to put up serious walls. It was new concepts, like higher-level math, which required a teacher witnessing her struggle, that shut her down emotionally and shut her off to learning. My solution wasn't scientific, but then again, teaching rarely is. Each student responds differently, but we are all emotional beings, and our success hinges on having someone who recognizes that and responds with compassion to exactly who we are.

So, the next time your student acts out when faced with a challenging academic demand, remember that, to them, it's better to be “bad” than "dumb." Choose curiosity, empathy, and humor. Be their ally. You might be surprised by the results.