Like every other teacher, at some point between the last exam paper corrected and the first timetable emailed, I begin to dream of the PERFECT! I imagine a class. A class where everyone listens with rapt attention, raises their hand before speaking, remembers their homework without reminders, and reacts to every lesson with “Wow, that’s so interesting!” (and means it). In my mind, this class laughs at my silliest of jokes, understands metaphors before I even begin to explain them, and hands in projects with cover pages, page numbers, and no glitter falling out.
I am Da Vinci and I see a painting. Flawless. Polished. Organised. And honestly, completely FICTIONAL!
Then there is this moment of truth. The year begins. The real class walks in. And it’s... well, human.
There’s one who’s forgotten which class they’re in (again), one who’s writing yesterday’s homework right now, one who says “Ma’am, can I go fill my bottle?” (not realising his bottle is already full), just as the lesson is getting good. Then there’s the quiet one with a world of thoughts, the loud one with a joke for every minute, and the one who builds paper planes faster than I can say “Worksheet”
And somewhere between the imaginary and the real, I begin…teaching begins…
The class I receive is not perfect—but it is real. It doesn’t always get the answer right, but it’s full of curiosity. It doesn’t always colour within the lines, but it’s brimming with personality. It challenges me, surprises me, tests my patience, and deepens my purpose.
Over the years, I’ve learned to let go of the imaginary class. Not completely—but just enough to leave room for the unexpected magic of the real one.
The class I receive may not come with cover pages. But it comes with stories. Laughter. Energy. Moments of sudden brilliance. And the quiet joy of watching real learners, with real quirks, become real people.
And honestly? I wouldn't trade that for any fantasy classroom—even if that class always submitted their homework on time.