There’s a lot one can do with their mouth shut — sip a quiet cup of coffee, overthink things that don’t really matter, or even plot a conspiracy or two. But would you believe it if I said you could teach with your mouth shut?
Sounds impossible, right? Well, then you haven’t met Donald L. Finkel and his book Teaching with Your Mouth Shut.
My first impression, when I read the title?
A smirk.
Well, how could I possibly teach with no talking?
If only my students were all Buddhas, they might reach enlightenment in silence. If only they were all Sherlock Holmeses, the clues I leave quietly could help them unravel the mysteries of the poems and monologues without a single hint from me. Or, if only they were all Shakespeare’s apprentices, perhaps they’d craft the perfect poem, while I kick back, legs up, and sip my coffee.
As I read on, I realized that it’s not really about the silence—it’s about the presence. It’s about sometimes taking a step back so that my students can take a step forward. It was uncomfortable at first. As uncomfortable as going on a diet, dragging yourself to a workout, or getting out of bed after a heartbreak. And yet, strangely, some of my most liberating moments as a teacher have been found in those very pauses, in those quiet spaces where learning silently unfolds.
Never did I imagine that I would find guilty pleasure in watching a group struggle, only to nudge them with a subtle gesture or a single question and see them succeed. Teaching with my mouth shut often meant letting my students try their own way first—even if it was messy, muddled, and malformed—only to witness the brilliance that emerged later.
I often get the feeling that, without a word, my students are thinking: “Is she asleep? Has she forgotten to prep? Did someone spike her coffee?”
Slowly, they engage with the task on their own, wrestling with ideas, making mistakes, experimenting… until, moments later, they realise: “I got this!” or “Oh, this makes so much sense now!” Sometimes it happens in the same class, sometimes the next day, sometimes a couple of days later, or even months down the line. And, it works. Somehow, it really works.
In the process of mastering the art of saying nothing, the silence has taught me more than words ever could. As Finkel says, it is not about transmitting what’s in my head to the students’ notebooks, but about creating the circumstances in which real learning can happen.
“Turns out, Finkel wasn’t kidding — teaching can happen even when I’m quiet”