In the last year, I’ve pursued a career change in teaching, and I expected this would come with some difficulties. I assumed lesson planning would be arduous and classroom management would be an adjustment—but I didn’t think that explaining middle school math would be difficult! I’ve taken calculus classes, and I naively assumed that that would be the easy part. Let’s just say that I was humbled on a chilly day in October.
I stood in front of a seventh-grade class, eager to demonstrate how to combine like terms in front of my professor. I had a thorough, well-thought-out lesson plan, and I was prepared—or so I thought. I began combining 3x and -2x when a sharp student raised his hand and asked why the subtraction sign was negative. My outward answer? We treat it that way, even though it looks like a subtraction sign. My inward answer? I was frozen. Not surprisingly, my answer didn’t satisfy this student, and he continued to insist that he didn’t understand. I tried a few half-baked explanations that I came up with on the spot, but these only confused more students. I stood there, sweating and helpless, feeling my face turn red. I realized I was struggling to be helpful, so instead, I worked through more problems, hoping the question would go away. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
As I walked around the room, helping students with their worksheets, I was taunted by the sound of whispers about how the subtraction sign could also be a negative sign. This was when I began to feel helpless. I wanted to respond like a stereotypical middle schooler and scream, “I don’t know! It’s just how math works!” but, for some reason, I suspected that wouldn’t have been appropriate.
After school, I sat in my car, feeling utterly devastated. It wasn’t just that I had struggled; it was that I worried I had lost the trust of these kids. Of course, I was capable of working through every problem on their worksheets, but I had confused them when they asked for help. I worried that the next day I would have an invisible red target on my back and that nobody would want my help. I was terrified to show my face at school the following day.
Nevertheless, I came back, and my mentor teacher took the time to explain how he would approach the question. He explained how subtracting was the same as adding a negative, so yes, a subtraction sign is also a negative. He gave me the opportunity to teach the concept again in class, but even then, I fumbled, and needed him to help with additional explanations. It was humbling to realize that even with direct guidance, I still struggled.
This is the moment when I realized I needed the same advice I continually give my students: it’s okay to make mistakes and that struggling is how we learn. As a twenty-six-year-old with a college degree, I hate this reality—especially when these mistakes are in front of twenty kids. I want nothing more than to appear competent and intelligent, and I don’t think this comes from a bad place. I genuinely want students to trust and respect me.
Perhaps an even more eye-opening part of all this was realizing why it was okay to make mistakes. As someone who has grown up in the church, I was taught that it’s okay not to be perfect because God loves me and my worth comes from Him, and of course, I still believe it! But what shocked me is that while I viewed what happened as a catastrophe, the students were more forgiving than I gave them credit for. Nearly every day since, they continue to ask for help and look to me to validate their work. They know I make mistakes, but I haven’t lost credibility in their eyes in the way I imagined.
And the best part? This subtraction question still comes up, and now I’m armed with a good explanation. I’ve sure gotten a lot of practice.
Michelle Ferdinands (’22) graduated from Calvin University with degrees in mathematics and computer science. She lives in Kansas City and works as a software engineer. She loves to run and read, and she’s always up for an adventure.
