Would you skip my classes?😁

It’s an odd question, I know. But humor me—just for a minute. Let’s say I’m your teacher, standing at the front of a classroom. You shuffle into your seat, half-asleep, maybe holding a coffee if it’s college, or maybe dragging your backpack with the enthusiasm of someone heading to a dentist appointment. I raise my eyebrow, smirk a little, and ask, “Would you skip my class?” Now, would you?

If you said “yes,” don’t feel bad. Plenty of students have done it. And honestly, some teachers should be skipped. Dry lectures. Endless PowerPoints. No room for laughter, creativity, or even a decent snack. But that’s not what my classroom is like. Or at least, I’d like to think it isn’t.

Let’s rewind.

I wasn’t always a teacher. Once upon a time, I was the student—the class-skipper, even. I used to measure time not in minutes but in how long it took for my teacher to start talking about something completely irrelevant (like their cat’s latest behavior) so I could zone out guilt-free. I skipped classes I didn’t see the point of. I wasn’t lazy; I just wanted something real—a reason to care.

Fast-forward to now. I’m on the other side. And every time I step into a classroom, I try to become the kind of teacher that I wouldn’t have skipped.

Here’s what my class looks like:

There are no boring intros. I start with a question. Something weird. Something you don’t expect. “If you were a flavor, what would you taste like and why?” or “Do you think robots will ever fall in love?” or even “Would you rather have unlimited snacks or unlimited sleep?” These questions sound silly—but they open the door to something deeper. We begin to connect, as people, before we connect as teacher and students.

In my class, learning isn’t about memorizing. It’s about exploring. You won’t find tests where you circle “A, B, or C.” You’ll find projects where you build something, write something, or argue something passionately. Want to turn a poem into a short film? Go for it. Want to draw a graphic novel about the Cold War? I’m listening. Want to bring snacks and make a podcast about your grandmother’s stories? Even better.

You see, I don’t believe in education that happens to you. I believe in education that happens with you.

Would you still skip my class?

Maybe you would, if you had a rough day. Maybe you’re dealing with something I can’t see—a family problem, anxiety, burnout. I wouldn’t be mad. In fact, I’d ask if you’re okay. In my class, you’re not just a name on a spreadsheet. You’re a human being. And yes, sometimes humans need a break.

But if you ever came back, you’d find that your seat is still there. The light is still on. The door is still open.

I once had a student named Leo. He skipped my class for almost two weeks straight. When he came back, I didn’t say, “Where have you been?” I said, “Hey, I’m glad you’re here.” He stayed after class that day and told me about his dad’s illness. He cried. I listened. We didn’t talk about the syllabus at all. But you know what? That conversation was part of the learning. And after that, he never skipped again.

Because my class is not about punishment. It’s about possibility.

If you come to my class, you might learn how to write an essay, yes. But you might also learn how to speak your truth. How to disagree without being disagreeable. How to listen. How to be brave. These things aren’t always in the curriculum, but they’re what truly matter.

Would you skip my class?

What if I told you we don’t always sit at desks? Sometimes we go outside. We write poems under trees. We talk about history while sitting in circles. One time, we acted out a courtroom drama about a Shakespeare play. Another time, we held a mock presidential debate—complete with campaign posters and very questionable slogans.

We laugh. A lot. We also get serious when we need to. But even then, it doesn’t feel heavy. It feels honest.

I ask for your voice, your story, your opinion. And not because I want to grade it. Because I want to hear it. Because what you think matters.

I’ve had students who thought they were “bad at school.” They said they were dumb or lazy or unmotivated. But in my class, when they were allowed to do things their way—draw instead of write, speak instead of type, create instead of copy—they flourished. They surprised themselves.

Would you skip a class where you felt seen? Heard? Respected?

Of course, I’m not perfect. There are days I get cranky, when the Wi-Fi doesn’t work, or when I spill coffee on my lesson plan. Some days my jokes fall flat. Some days students fall asleep anyway. That’s okay. Teaching is messy. So is learning. But we keep showing up.

And that’s really what this question is about, isn’t it? Would you show up?

Not just physically, but with your heart, your curiosity, your imagination?

Would you show up to a place where you’re allowed to be you?

Where your weird ideas are welcome?

Where failing is part of flying?

If the answer is yes—then great. I’ll save you a seat. Probably near the window, because that’s the best thinking spot.

And if the answer is no—if you’d still skip my class—then I want to know why. Not so I can punish you, but so I can grow. So I can learn how to be better. Teaching, after all, is a two-way street. I teach you. But you also teach me.

So, would you skip my classes? 😁

Or would you help me make them unforgettable?

Want to tweak this into a speech, turn it into a story, or add some humor or a specific subject focus (like math, English, or science)? I can help with that too!