What can teachers really accomplish with the class sizes of today?
Efficiency-Minded
It took me a long time to finish my last piece of writing (“On Teacher Exhaustion”). It was difficult to really communicate what kind of exhaustion is hitting ELA teachers in 2025 without seeming like I’m outright kvetching or lamenting nebulous “good ‘ole days.”
I remember sitting in my living room on two occasions with printed out drafts–a sign that I’m stuck and need to see my writing/thinking in a different way–crossing out whole pages and turning each page over to write a clean new draft on the blank back.
All that effort tangentially revealed an almost satirical but practical solution to the problem of the many variables of a high school ELA teaching job–including a caseload of 125-150 individual teenage humans–and one of our most important variables, time.
Like many human innovations, we have made modern education efficient in order to conserve resources: The modern classroom is no decorated and wood veneered Hogwarts; a bell schedule keeps us all synced up; and grades provide a single metric instead of non-standardized holistic feedback on how students progress in a class.
And here is where I must bring up an advertisement I saw on Twitter for an “AI-powered” service for journaling:
My favorite part: “Journaling can be tedious.”
Even a sloppy internet search reveals the many ways journaling in itself is therapeutic. Can we really be such gullible humans in the face of quick fixes?
Every stakeholder in education would agree that we have much to improve. We just disagree on what to improve and how to improve it. Education is a large project. It is not easy to make major changes without affecting other stakeholders and even non-stakeholders (those who pay property taxes but have never had children–though there is an argument that they do have a direct stake).
Without sufficient resources (think Apollo 13 hurtling through space and repurposing parts to fix their damaged shuttle) tool experimentation flourishes. Education has not had the funds prioritized for decades, if not ever, to decrease class sizes to, say, 15-20 per class in the public realm. To do that, we would need a cultural change in the respect of how we value a more effective brand of education. Hence all the apps and now all the AI.
If we are here, stuck in a compromise type of situation and tasked to make the best of it, is there a solution more fit for human growth than the efficient tools now being proposed?
I must declare here that decreasing class sizes is the most effective measure to help both students and teachers. And because such a thing won’t happen anytime soon, us ELA teachers are always on the hunt to decrease our workload because it is a lot. You just have to do some simple searches to find the need. Or read any of the books about how to manage the paperload. In my own journey to both be authentic and efficient in my feedback, I’ve read Papers, Papers, Papers by Carol Jago, Reimagining Writing Assessment by Maja Wilson, and Flash Feedback by Matthew Johnson, all solid thinkers in the education world. And then there are the countless articles, blogs, and podcasts. And probably some books sitting in my classroom right now that I’ve forgotten about.
What is clear is that students need to write as much as possible. In other words, they need to practice. But what should us teachers spend most of our time upon in terms of supporting this practice? Sitting at our desks and giving feedback? Conferencing as much as we can?
The following proposal is a different tact. It has the potential to decrease teacher exhaustion and increase the connections that good education fosters. Another caveat to this is that solutions such as the one below have all sorts of benefits that seem intangible in regards to data, which needs a controlled environment that human psychology can yet mess up in terms of the validity of the data.
And, please, remember, the title of this essay says, “Half-Serious.” But I must say that there is strong merit to what I propose.
Operating in Limitations
The multimedia artist, Phil Hansen, once made a compelling case that limitations can provide shocking amounts of creativity. Austin Kleon’s blackout poetry (using print newspaper as a canvas for poetry, blacking out most of the article except for the words that make up the poem) is another solid example of what happens when an artist sets upon a project in a finite realm. The famous pianist Keith Jarrett recorded the most popular album of his career on a flawed piano he did not want to play on. And he did it live. Perhaps we should embrace our ELA teacher limitations?
It is hard to do this when our ELA standards ask for the mastery of writing, reading, and communicating, even though this is a tall order for any teacher to take on with only a measly year to work with. I dare say no one can master any of the three in one lifetime. For instance, each piece of writing requires its own mastery. It is the confidence and the knowledge concerning how to work through such problems that needs to be learned. This means attempts and reflections on said attempts are worthwhile. They build more skilled writers, readers, thinkers, and communicators. The more practice–the more failures and success–the better.
So let us embrace the current limitations of the modern ELA classroom where it is impossible to be truly there for each of our students, to give our full attention to each of their individual arcs of growth by giving good and actionable feedback at the most salient steps in student writing, reading, or communicating. And here I must be very specific in that I’m talking mentor-level, truly personalized instruction.
Okay. I’m sidebaring again because this is absolutely nuts for me to say. We want to be there for our students. It is what we strive so hard every day to accomplish, fighting through solid amounts of imposter syndrome along the way. But it is impossible to really be there, to pretend our finite beings can soldier through an exhaustive amount of work we find rewarding and interesting. The guilt to pull out all the stops with no regard to our own time and truly serve is hard to diagnose as a marker that burnout is imminent.
So, onward.
So what is this solution that causes me to do a bunch of rationalizations and disclaimers for such a time and resource deprived classroom? One that is not an app or AI?
This: An ELA teacher’s first priority should be to maintain who we are in the classroom above all else.
That’s it.
In a simple way, this might be called being a good role model or it might be called fostering the oldest form of human learning possible–imitation. It is what my son, who has not started to speak yet, does. If he finds something I do interesting–speak in a weird voice, dance, open the lid of my side table and put things in it (which has translated to every lid in the house, including the trash can) or hold whatever it is that’s in my hand–he’s going to want to do that as well.
And if we really process this argument, it seems a bit obvious. Who you are is usually what will define the memories and wisdom students take with them when they leave our classrooms.
I mean, that’s not entirely true. (Especially for non-ELA teachers with knowledge and skill trees to progress through.) We all remember when something was unlocked for us by a great or even a bad educator. These sorts of moments are powerful. And I’m not saying that our content is not important; it is very important. Being a good role model means doing so while teaching. I need to show my students I’m the best learner in the classroom. One that learns every time they write or read. But when I look back at my life as a student, I remember the ways teachers approached what they taught and general life more than anything. These are super memorable things that come to mind apart from the learning that is now a part of me and hard to discern exactly where I got it.
For instance, my linguistics professor in college, the way he talked to us, leaning on the desk, fielding questions from the entire class, it was amazing that a class would just keep going, fueled by student questions and discussions. For an entire 90 minutes.
His learning plan could’ve just been, “Today we are talking about irregular verbs and their existence.” And we were off, discussing, debating, questioning, and telling stories. It was one of the most perfect college classes I’ve ever taken. It felt like students were just driving things, though it was the subtle promptings of the professor that really created the road we were on, always directing us to common errors or links to other linguistic or cultural factors. It was what I wanted to do in my classroom when I was student-teacher. (I’m not sure I have ever achieved this 17 years into my career.)
I do remember the books we read in that class. I was changed by them too. But I don’t really remember the things the linguistics professor said in class, though I wish I could. Well, that’s not true. This just came to me as I typed this: I remember one story where he talked about the phenomenon of “unintentional mirroring,” when you adopt the accent of the person you are talking to, usually because you are interested in the interaction. We do this every day with our postures. (Next time you are talking to someone, and you are having a good conversation, check your body posture and those who are in the conversation. Chances are, you are unintentionally mirroring each other.)
But that was a sidebar story and, come to think of it, is super relevant to what I’m talking about.
And then there are memories that are formative but in unintentional ways.
I remember an English teacher who had a special fear of students passing writing utensils to each other with any kind of airbornness. A serious incident had occurred earlier in her career with such a thing. She gave a version of detentions for any who defied the safety order.
One day, one of my friends lost his pencil. I absent-mindedly tossed him one of mine. She reacted immediately, and I remember being jolted from my own reality of normal classroom life to hers. How present she had been to notice the small thing I had just done; how automatically I had broken a rule I thought I had internalized. I remember the first thing out of my mouth was, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Which sounded ridiculous for such an intentional act, but it was true.
I also remember that we were required, for a year-long experiment, to write only with fountain pens. Would it make our handwriting neater?
I remember a history teacher who said she remembered another life before the life she was living now. Something about being a young girl in the middle ages, or some not-so-recent past, who did not make it to adulthood. Though she was born in America to an American family, she had a British accent as a young child. She also said she was Madonna’s cousin. I remember making a binder with all the monarchs of England as a final project.
I remember a coach who kicked in a locker at half time due to our poor performance on the basketball court. We were the visiting team. I remember trading “fantasy” stocks in his financial math class and doing really well until the NASDAQ crashed and put me in last place, granting me a D (or C?) for the project. I remember his kindness and bits and pieces of how he thoughtfully rationalized sports and financial decisions.
I remember an AP Psychology teacher who believed in me and wrote me a letter of recommendation. And also gave us the test answers beforehand, and said that if we memorized the answers, wasn’t that the point of the class anyway?
I remember English teachers I looked up to not because of what they assigned me, but for how they approached thinking–always curious and thoughtful.
I remember a principal who tried to see me as a human even when I made the dumbest mistakes.
I remember a college graduate student working at the writing center in college who helped unlock what it was to write an essay.
I can’t remember what this person looked like or what they told me, but I remember it changed me. I had harbored the following secret for all my life: how do you write? I felt an imposter, scared to ask, more terrified than ever that I made it to college without learning until one of my professors finally told me I needed some massive help with my writing. And then that grad student kindly demystified the writing process. (This happened at Purdue’s Writing Lab, and it has always been a lovely reminder of that moment that afterward, at least for MLA formatting help, I would direct students to the place everyone else did: the Purdue Online Writing Lab.)
Were these the memories that these individuals wanted to impart upon me? They wanted me to learn and be a good human, and they most certainly contributed to that. But would they all choose these memories that I have as the ones they intended with their teaching?
I have some of these scenes still in my mind. Us humans can’t help but absorb anything novel or interesting. If we see anyone going through something difficult, we are honed in. What will they do? What would I do if it was me in that situation? It’s why we love stories; it’s why we love gossip.
I’m sure my students remember odd things about me too, if they do at all. I know one of my former students remembered a binder that I used with a picture of Wilson the volleyball (from Castaway) on the front. I didn’t remember it myself. I had to search my extensive Google Drive files for what that was. Writing this right now, I have already forgotten it again.
Being a Good Human
In my first year of being a full-fledged teacher, the ELA teaching coach for the county told me something I ignored and still ignore: “Don’t grade everything. Let them reflect and grade themselves.” I have read Sarah Zerwin’s book, Point-Less, and have even led groups for several years, one year with teachers from both middle school and high school discussing this issue. I have done a lot of research on the power of metacognition over the evaluations/judgments of teachers. Yet I still spend a lot of time reading and commenting on student writing. It is hard not to. Even if my school did not expect it of me–genuine feedback–I would feel I was doing a disservice to my students. They want to be heard. It is a part of being human to be heard. It is what smaller class sizes afford–students feeling more heard and seen, driving them to push themselves more.
Our faculty book club just finished reading James by Percival Everrett. It is the retelling of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn but with Jim as the narrator. Read it, and you will find one of the strongest reasons why it is important that we be seen for who we are. Sometimes it takes the perspective of someone so much denied to see that.
And maybe just being a good human is the solution to all of the band-aids that have been flying around, all of the benchmarks and metrics and data caches. Just be a good human and show others how to do that. Show, don’t tell. You know, good writing advice translated to general teaching advice.
As an English teacher, perhaps this is simply showing good open-mindedness in our teaching practices. To model reading widely. Thoughtfully write and draft and revise in front of students. Ask questions and find the questions that aren’t being asked.
To do this, to be fully present in the classroom, one must be present. Not try to save time by providing feedback on student work you collected earlier or last week. That means feedbacking (or grading) in general needs to go down. (Thus the “Half-Serious” bit in the title.) Otherwise, we are working full work weeks and piling on approximately 21-25 hours of extra work for each essay, attempting to get timely feedback of student writing back to students. And this just accounts for the essays we collect. Not the handouts or the reading checks or anything formative in nature. And not to mention the planning, which I would argue is secondary in importance to being a good learner role-model.
This isn’t going to solve the problems of education. For that, we need resources that cost money (more teachers to reduce class sizes or more programs to help students who come from difficult home/community lives). But perhaps embracing this limitation can free us from burnout, whether student or teacher or anyone else in the learning community.
So, just be a good human. Let students practice things; practice things yourself. Reflect. Help each other. Simple.
Sounds hippy dippy. And it is. But if a multi-generational Harvard study shows that the single predictor of a happy life is being involved in communities, imagine what such a thing can do for a school, let alone a single classroom. If we let ourselves be stretched too thin, we are losing out on this aspect of teaching and learning.
The caveat to this is that like other “status quo breaking” ideas in the educational sphere, it’s ripe for exploitation. I can foresee TED Talks and AI-inspired companies populating the internet rapid fire, gurus creating ways to make the classroom even more efficient: “The answer is just be a good human! You can do that with a class size of 200 or even 300. Save money and time! Buy our program!” And then the class sizes would go up, and we’d back where we are now–looking for band-aids and quick fixes. Perhaps even embracing AI as a way to supplement our generous human role-modeling.
I jest, but if we are waiting for a culture to change, perhaps it is best to accept the resources we have and realign our outcomes. Make them human-centric. Ease the burden of what should be a pleasant and enlightening experience, this art called teaching and learning.
But learning is necessarily friction-based, and it requires the learner to not only learn about how the world works (and the way human perception works) but also to build ways to know one’s self as time passes. We are complex and beautifully intelligent learning machines, but we are not receptacles for algorithms. If we only look to efficiency to improve our classrooms, then we are driving ourselves from the simple equation of humans being there for other humans. And if we are doing the opposite, trying to be there for every student, we are burning ourselves out with our current caseload. Either way, we are in danger of losing the thread of understanding ourselves and being drawn into a realm of shiny object solutions that creates more hope than actual results.
Whenever I’m having a bad day or feeling overwhelmed or feeling like I am the worst teacher imaginable, the thing that always brings me out of it is the human elements of a classroom. One of my students might ask a very interesting question or make a personal and insightful comment. Or I might look over and see a student helping another student understand something. Or maybe I’ll have a great conversation with a group. Or, like last week, (though this doesn’t happen as often) a student will write me an essay about something class-related, unprompted and unassigned. It is delightful to work with the curious side of humanity, and we must always remember that this is truly why we are all in the game of education.