He made me feel like a dunce, the man I’ll call Mr. Petee. And I wasn’t the only one. I could tell by the way my classmates dragged into class with shuttered faces.
Mr. Petee was smart. None of us questioned this. He knew all about graduate-level statistics. He could solve applied problems in differential and integral calculus and apply probability theory and construct a predictive model with regression analysis. He could do all this without strain, and likely in his sleep.
But his depth of knowledge was our curse. Especially since it was paired with a shortage of imagination.
He couldn’t seem to conceive what it was like for someone else not to know what he knew. It didn’t occur to him that he saw through polished glass while we peered through fog. And when he assumed certain steps were self-evident, our fog deepened.
Mr. Petee lacked what we in education call theory of the mind—the ability to distinguish between his own mental state and that of another. And to honor, not disparage, that difference.
But it’s not just nerdy statisticians who fail to bridge to others’ minds. We all do it.
Some of us know how to manage time instinctively or catch a rhythm or say words that uplift and bring peace or visualize which way is north and which is south.
It’s tempting to think others should carry the same impulses. And when they don’t, we become irritated at their lack of sense. And we try to scold them into knowledge.
But good teachers recognize that we all have different inner lives. And they know where to start—in their students’ minds, not in their own. Instead of deepening fog, these teachers go into it and lead the way out. And with each step, students feel smarter, not dumber.
Apple to Apple 