“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Dennis said, his eyes sparkling.

We’d been talking about teaching. I’d only been in my post at International Christian University for a year, and I lacked confidence. I’d prepare my lecture for hours on end, and then the day of my class, I felt I was barely coherent.

“You want to know the three most important steps I take before each class?” he asked.

I leaned in, ready for his words of wisdom.

I had seen Dennis teach. Here at International Christian University, he was an Assistant Professor of Economics.

He was a natural.

He walked around the room, barely glancing at his notes—if he even had any—introducing important concepts, drawing on current events, telling jokes. His students were riveted, following him with their eyes, laughing at his punch lines.

He came alive in the classroom. His voice loud with confidence.

“Supply and demand….”

“Externalities….”

“Indirect taxation….”

He broke things down in a way even I, a non-social scientist, could understand. If I were still a student, I’m sure I’d want to take his class.

“Please, tell me,” I encouraged, not quite yet catching onto Dennis’s game.

“The three most important steps I take to prepare for a class are the steps I take to reach the podium.”

Ba-dum dum!

Dennis told dad jokes before dad jokes were even a thing.

I groaned and rolled my eyes.

In fact, he hardly prepared for a class. Not like me. I’d draft out my lecture, practically word for word. I thumbed through my old class notes from graduate school. I pulled books down from my bookshelf and checked for dates or salient quotations.

Now, when did that author die?

How did that literary movement start?

What’s the setting of this story and when did the author write it? What school was he in?

There were so many facts I needed to impart, just as they had been imparted to me.

When I paged through my notebooks from graduate school, I’d see I had written down my sensei’s lectures almost word for word. I remember how the soft pad of my middle finger throbbed after a lecture, tender from where the pen had pressed against it as I madly transcribed the lectures. I barely raised my head.

Not my students.

They sat at their desks twirling their pens through their fingers in acrobatic maneuvers so intricate, I nearly lost my place as I strained to follow the mesmerizing motions.

Occasionally a student would miss a loop and the pen would clatter to the classroom floor. All eyes would shift to the distraction. Mine, too, as I paused to catch my breath.

“I guess we can skip this section,” I’d tell myself, realizing we were short on time.

“Okay, let’s turn to the story. What do you make of the setting?”

Silence.

“Do you think the setting influences the way the story is told?”

Students shifted uncomfortably in their desks, eyes downcast, hoping I would not call on them.

And so it went.

Most of my students were politely bored. But occasionally there was one or two who would sigh audibly.

Or, challenge me.

I hadn’t expected that. I would never have even dreamed of questioning any of my professors. They were like gods to me, and the words flowing from their mouths were the manna from heaven that I dutifully collected in my notebooks.

“What did you just say?” I remember one student asking—a young man with uncombed hair and poor posture who nevertheless exuded maximum confidence.

“Hirsute,” I repeated, surprised at the interruption. It wasn’t yet time for discussion.

I had been talking about the Ainu people, who were racially distinct from the majority Japanese and had more facial and body hair.

Only I didn’t pronounce the word correctly. In fact, I had never heard the word pronounced. I had only read it. When I was preparing for my lecture, I had never even thought to practice the pronunciation. I practiced other words out loud before class—mostly Japanese—but occasionally words like Nihilism.

Was it Nigh-a-lism? Or Knee-a-lism? I could never remember.

But hirsute was a word I only said to myself, and I always said it in my head this way: “Her-u-sute.” And so that’s what I said.

And then Mr. Arrogance called me out, insisting that I say the word again and then again, in my incorrect pronunciation before providing me—haughtily—with the correct pronunciation.

I could feel my face flush.

I didn’t really know what to say in response.

I imagine I stammered out some kind of halfhearted word of thanks, giggled at my own incompetence, and then resumed my lecture.

Another time a student grew visibly angry when I reminded them of the final exam.

“Why do we have an exam? Isn’t this a literature class? No other literature class here gives final exams.”

I had never thought of that. My literature professors had always given exams. There were so many facts to master, after all. Dates, terms, historical schools.

“What is Naturalism (shizenshugi)?’

“Who was Shiga Naoya and what important works did he write?”

And so on.

I knew my Japanese literary history backward and forward.

But…and this was a real moment of enlightenment for me…maybe my students didn’t need that kind of knowledge. In the end, what good did it do them?

What was I teaching them, after all?

Maybe I didn’t need all those notes. Maybe we should just talk.

It wasn’t easy at first.

Walking into a classroom without my entire lecture printed out was terrifying. I felt vulnerable, unprotected. What if I made a mistake?

I started reading passages with my students.

“Kimberly, read the first paragraph of the story.”

“How does this paragraph introduce the major themes in the story, or does it?

“How does it establish the setting for the story?”

“What surprised you?”

And so on.

Starting this way meant that I had less control over the direction the class would take. Students can say some pretty unexpected things about their readings.

And, sometimes I didn’t get to introduce all the “facts” that I thought were important. But it didn’t matter.

Class discussion proceeded organically. Each class differently. Some more successful than others.

I like the randomness now, never knowing exactly what I’ll find. It is no longer terrifying.

And most importantly, though I don’t have Dennis’s exquisite confidence, I no longer mind if I make mistakes.

I’ve learned to say: “I don’t know.”

Or, “let me check, I’ll get back to you,” when a student asks a question that I hadn’t anticipated.

I’ll never be a professor like the professors I had in graduate school. They were gods.

Rather than a god, I am a guide.

I prefer to take my students on an adventure in the texts we read. I’m not always sure where the adventure will take us, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to get them through the class and with a better understanding than when we began.

And, though I am the guide, I find that my students show me paths and directions I hadn’t considered earlier.

I’m still not able to walk into a classroom with only the three steps to the podium as preparation—as Dennis claimed to do—but I am able to leave my notes back in my office.