My Students, My Teachers — Forty years of stories from a teacher who believed that every lesson worth remembering began with a human being, not a textbook.
Games were never a treat in my classroom. They were the classroom. Grammar lessons were looked forward to — genuinely, eagerly — because there would always be a team game waiting. Memory games, flashcard battles, card packs for prepositions. We jumped, we hid, we acted, we played. Dumb charades, vocabulary contests, word relays. My students were adept at all of it, and I took enormous pride in their accomplishments — even as I quietly knew they were talented entirely on their own and didn’t owe a word of it to me.
When the much-anticipated interclass contests were announced, the air in my classroom crackled with excitement. And that year, I had a secret advantage — two girls who had recently relocated from the United States. I secretly marvelled at their ease with language, their confidence, their seemingly boundless vocabulary. They were, I was quietly certain, unstoppable.
I nominated them for What’s the Good Word? — the crown jewel of the contest, held in the auditorium, where one partner gives clues and the other guesses within a minute. No preliminary round needed. It would be, I told myself, a cake walk. The other students agreed. The cheerleaders of our class were already rehearsing their celebrations.
On the day of the contest, the girls made an impression even as they walked in. Their flowing pastel frocks caught the light. Their heavy American accents made the other contestants shift in their seats. I sat back, folded my hands, and waited for the inevitable.
The first five teams performed beautifully. Then it was our turn. The judges smiled. The auditorium leaned in.
The word was revealed.
N I C E
Four letters. One syllable. The simplest word in the English language.
One girl looked left. Then right. She reached for a synonym — something elevated, something impressive. Out came a string of sophisticated adjectives that circled the word like aeroplanes that couldn’t find the runway. The other girl responded in kind — offering words one would never ordinarily think of, magnificent words, entirely unhelpful words. Round after round, the scoreboard moved for everyone else. Our girls stood frozen, eloquent and completely lost.
We finished a poor fourth.
“Your class could have participated in a fashion show instead!” — a colleague, with a smile that was not entirely kind.
I hung my head. I had spent weeks drilling difficult vocabulary — polysyllabic, impressive, examination-worthy words. It had never once occurred to me to practise the simple ones. The girls had been magnificent in complexity and helpless in simplicity. And that was entirely my doing, not theirs.
They, for their part, were entirely unbothered. They laughed it off before the bus ride home was over. I avoided my colleagues for days.
Children have no egos.
They fall, they laugh, and they move on.
It is we adults who build monuments to our embarrassments
and visit them long after everyone else has forgotten.
Those two girls are doing wonderfully today. One is a journalist. The other, a successful entrepreneur. They have both, I imagine, long forgotten that afternoon in the auditorium. I have not — but I smile when I think of it now.
The lesson was not about vocabulary. It was about the oldest trap a teacher can fall into: mistaking complexity for mastery. The simple word is often the hardest one. The simplest lesson is often the most profound. And the most beautifully prepared teacher in the room can still be undone by four letters and one syllable.
Sometimes life hands you the word nice when you are ready for magnanimous. The wise thing is to smile — and answer simply.