Method behind the Madness: Contingencies at Every Turn

Does the teaching plan I’ve created have any rhyme or reason? Should I follow the typical teaching plan in which case facts are generated from the case so that we can make sense of what might flow into an action plan? And as usual, the students have other things on their minds; they are obsessing about their own identities within the school, the section, with roommates, with old acquaintances, with new friends—they may be ending relationships they held dear, and more.

My intent is to teach the students how to “crack” a case. I want to teach them a methodology of studying that is consistent with what they are learning in their other classes. Thus, while I may feel certain constraints regarding the teaching plan, I am also optimistic because at the start of the semester, students are more malleable, more tentative, more concerned with their images. Using a relatively formal case study approach allows me to be more aware of the students’ reactions—their excitement, their abject fear, their worry over embarrassing themselves in front of eighty-nine new “friends.”

When I take the time to reflect, I’m struck by how overwhelming it can be to manage the multiple, interactive levels of activities, situations, and processes inherent in teaching: the beginning of the semester and how it impacts the nature of the case-teaching plan; my particular approach to the plan; how I relate with the ninety students in order to teach them class norms, processes on how to study cases, and how to respond to one another in class; and communicating the case content.

New teachers tend to focus on the content more than anything else because they are confident in their grasp of the subject matter. On some unconscious level, they obsess about proving to the students that they “know their stuff.” Too often, they go one step further by trying to prove they are the smartest individual in the room. That is seldom the case at any graduate school, including Harvard—because when it’s one against thirty or one hundred or more, the group wins. The deck is stacked in favor of the students. Their collective experiences, IQs, and confidence will beat the instructor every time. And if the deck is stacked in favor of the students, there is some probability that self-doubt may creep into play.

So I try to focus on interrelationships between various teaching elements rather than proving myself superior to the students. For instance: Does my teaching plan connect with the study questions? Each case the students prepare will have two or three study questions to assist them in framing their study of the case. However, I need to train students on the multidimensional aspects of the puzzle they are trying to figure out. And using the same questions posed earlier as guides in the teaching plan emphasizes regurgitating facts rather than seeing different aspects of the organization. If, for example, I’m teaching the Rob Parson case and the study questions focus on whether or not the protagonist should be promoted, or what the nature of the performance management system is, I might consider beginning the in-class conversation focused on the nature of the work in financial services, or homing in on why Morgan Stanley has entered the business of debt capital markets. But to simply ask students to answer the study questions during the case conversation actually creates inertia, dissipating the energy and excitement in the conversation.

The goal is to see the elephant from different vantage points. Separating the study questions from the plan ensures that a richer conversation will ensue. The curriculum, if it works, will answer the study questions, but in a less direct way.

I need to understand: Have I thought through whether I’m going to do most of the talking or if I want the students to be engaged in the conversation? How will I divide up the eighty minutes so there are different approaches being used? Have I identified the students I want to participate given their background, content expertise, or geographical reach and experience? What student is struggling to keep up or has a crisis in his life? How will I draw him in? Will my boards tell a story? Why will I be using them? What’s the rationale behind their use? Will I use them for a review at the end of the course?

Knowing the Students

It seems so simple. What teacher wouldn’t make the effort to familiarize himself with his students before class begins, or to establish the classroom ground rules? And yet, so many other things occupy the mind of a teacher that, unfortunately, this simple task often goes unattended. Therefore, I remind myself to pay attention to this task. However, if I’ve studied the students and they know I know their backgrounds, I am more likely to avert disaster.

A litany of questions and self-instructions run through my head before this first class. Here is a sampling of the thoughts flowing through my mind:

Learn about your students. Ask for class cards before you begin the teaching process. Learn how to pronounce their names. Know whether or not they have had previous, relevant experiences. Call them by name the first day of class. Ideally, use table tents (name cards) so you can quickly attach a name to a face. Table tents allow the teacher and other students to know one anothers’ names. Some teachers go the whole semester without ever using their students’ names. In the syllabus, note how students can contact you. Set the expectation the first day of class that you expect to be used as a resource for content conversations as well as career advice.

Do any of your students have learning disabilities? Is there anything that might detract from the learning experience? Perhaps a student is visually impaired and struggles to see the board. Do you already know any of the students? Do you already have favorites? Is there a student with whom you’ve had a negative interaction? Should you speak to the person beforehand? Ask yourself what the students will be nervous about on the first day. How much content should you share, or will the first class be primarily administrative, setting expectations?

How many women are represented in the class? What about international students? Married or single? Socioeconomic diversity is important to me, and I know I’m likely to make judgments based on limited amounts of information—their home towns, schools attended, clothes, and accessories.

I will be dividing them into groups of six for intensive interaction after the class has concluded. They will meet for two hours after class to discuss the class session and go over specific assignments in the smaller groups. How will I divide them? I will need to have diversity around gender, age, previous work experience, college experience, and whether the students were in the same sections in their first year. I want to avoid grouping close friends together; I want them to meet new and different people.

As I prepare for the first class, I sit back and ask myself if my students could choose any teacher to teach Organizational Behavior or Authentic Leadership, would they prefer someone else to me? More important, would I want to be taught by me? How will the students experience themselves because they have had an interaction with me in the classroom?

Preparing for the First Day of Class … and My Anxieties

Well before the first class period of the semester, I visit the classroom where I’ll be teaching. I walk to the four corners of the room, sit down in different seats, and reflect. Rob Kaplan, head of the Federal Bank of Dallas, used to go to his assigned class days before it began and stand in front of an empty room and simulate a class. At times he would bring a few colleagues with him, and we’d sit around the room and be cold-called. Rob never acted self-conscious or worried what we might think. We role-played as if it were a full classroom of first-year students. Rob wanted to hear his own voice in the class. He needed to hear himself asking certain questions to see if they sounded right or forced or off point. When I heard Rob talk about this exercise, I found myself admiring his brave idea and surprised at how “out of my comfort zone” it made me feel—Rob was allowing himself to be vulnerable in a way that was scary.

After visiting the classroom, I reflect on what I’m going to say in class and how it may affect different students. Will my approach ensure that different learning styles are respected and valued? For students who are more visceral, will I use enough metaphors that help them internalize what I hope they draw from the session through story? Will I use a role play to illustrate how difficult it is to terminate someone so that the students can viscerally feel, see, and experience peripherally what it would be like? For students who depend on the sense of vision to take in knowledge, will I use the boards to guide their cognitive journey? When I’m telling a story to make a point, how will I use tone and how will I raise and lower my voice to underscore a point? When will I whisper to draw students closer?

I deal with these preclass anxieties by arriving early, setting up the room and my notes, walking up to students and asking them how they are doing, or acknowledging students when they enter the room by name. This is all self-serving because it reduces the ratio of ninety to one, allowing me to relate to individuals rather than to the large group. It makes the students more human, more approachable, more fallible, and more vulnerable in a positive way. It changes the nature of the communication pattern from a vertical (where I’m talking down to them with the answers) to a more horizontal relationship. It means that I treat them more like adults, full and equal partners in the learning process, rather than acting like I’m the source of all knowledge. If I create an atmosphere in which they expect me to deliver all the answers, they will settle back in their seats and wait for the answers rather than actively participate. Because I expect the students to assume some responsibility for the classroom learning, I want to connect before class with a few students to create an inclusive start to the process and reduce my anxiety of facing the multitudes alone.

Take My Words with a Grain of Salt

As I reflect on what I’ve written so far, I realize the implication is that I’m prescribing my approach to all teachers. Yet there are teachers who arrive in class with no notes and can masterfully involve and include students in the learning process. They can be hypnotic in their ability to transform the learning experience into a memorable classroom adventure. I don’t have that ability. I do have anxiety, and so I’m sharing my ways of coping with it.

I tell myself the night before I teach students: I know I’m effective and that I’m prepared and have a good sense of self as a teacher. Nonetheless, I’m still filled with self-doubt. I can meditate or jog or watch trash TV, but to no avail. The morning I teach, I know that I won’t want to eat or to talk to anyone. I know that I’ll declare to Dakota, the faculty specialist, that I never want to teach again. I know it will happen even after thirty-five years of teaching. I will seriously think about retiring or changing professions hours before I enter the classroom. So rather than perseverating in my office, I must move physically. I must get up and head to the teaching room early. Rather than listen to irrational thoughts and feelings, I need to engage with the “enemy.” I need to look students in the eyes and engage. I need to get out of my head and be interested in something other than my thoughts and feelings and insecurities.

The pattern that surfaces is the either/or syndrome. Will I leave the classroom with a feeling of either success or failure?

So even if you aren’t a teacher who is wrapped up in your own doubts and insecurities, you should know what your patterns are—the tendencies and habits that either serve or disrupt your effectiveness. I urge you to teach your way. But I would also urge you to consider what your style is. How do you put yourself in a position to put your best teaching foot forward in order to bless the lives of your students?

I have to ask this question of myself regularly. Recently, I forgot to do so. My latest batch of students experienced me as a bit distracted when I entered the classroom and as I began class. They believed that I was fitting class between other activities that were more important to me. I didn’t stay true to my basic principle of preparing and calming myself and being present in every way.

Arriving at the Classroom

What are the implications when, as a teacher, you arrive one minute before the class is to begin? What do you communicate? Do students care about when you arrive? What you are wearing? Notice the cleanliness of the classroom—for example, whether the boards have been erased. Is the temperature of the classroom too hot or too cold? Are there enough chairs? Is there chalk? Is the audiovisual system running properly? What is different about the room that the students might recognize and that might become a distraction? Is the previous teacher in the classroom speaking with students from her class? Is the clock set to the right time?

To become aware of these factors when you arrive late might mean that they become a problem while you are teaching. If you show up a minute before the class begins, is there a chance you may begin the class late? If you sense you are in a hurry, what does that signal to your students? If you don’t make eye contact with your students because you are focusing on teaching notes, what does that signal? Every activity, from when you enter the classroom to whether or not you end on time, communicates multiple messages. As the instructor, you need to increase the probability that your students will see and experience and feel what you want them to experience. If you are running late or are in a rush, students could very well believe that you’re not fully invested in teaching them. They may not give you the benefit of the doubt if they believe that you’re fitting them in between other tasks that seem more important to you.

Remember, it doesn’t matter what your intentions are as a teacher. Intentionality only goes so far. The key is what the students experience in the classroom. How do they experience themselves when they see you leading the class or conversing with them one-to-one? You do not get to vote on how they interpret your efforts as a teacher either in front of the class or in your office. If a student comes up to you in the minute before class begins and asks a question and you never make eye contact, the student and those observing the interaction will interpret what they see and hear. They won’t know what you are thinking or feeling. You may have intended to be interested, empathic, and helpful, but their interpretation will be far from your intent.

How students react to you has a lot to do with when you arrive in the classroom and how you prepare to begin the class. I try to get to the classroom as early as possible. Twenty minutes beforehand isn’t too early. I want to visit every corner of the room every time I teach to get a feel for the environment. I mentioned earlier checking media support, boards, temperature, chalk, students, and more. I want to come early to deal with my nerves. If I picture facing ninety smart, driven, and time-sensitive students the night before, I can easily imagine myself as Daniel in the lions’ den.

Fifteen Minutes before Takeoff

When I enter the room, I consider what I should write on the board. I also walk to the back of the room to grasp the view from the “cheap seats.” I go through my list of to-dos as the time ticks down. Practice speaking in the room as you would the first day of class, I tell myself. Give a mini lecture. Or, if you can convince colleagues to join you, have two or three sit in various seats around the room and listen to you practice. You don’t have to wait for fifteen minutes before class starts. You can rehearse at any time, donning your teaching attire so the first day of class doesn’t feel too foreign. I’m suggesting that you role-play yourself. Understand that you own that space. It is sacred for the eighty minutes that you share it with students. Bring your attitude and spirit and intentions into the room well before you teach your first class. The class should feel like an old friend whom you look forward to visiting, not a foreign, uncomfortable space akin to a new city in a different country.

Here is what I promise will happen. As many times as you visit the room and become comfortable with your surroundings, something will occur on the first day that will be unexpected. A student will want an answer to a question that throws you off. He will want to know if he can bring his dog to class and whether he has to ask permission from the registrar. Someone will be pregnant and will want to sit next to one of the exits so she can leave the room quickly—and these exit-area seats will have already been taken. Someone will have poor eyesight and request that you write extra-large on the board. Three students will want to add the class at the last moment “because it’s the most important class in our graduate program.” One of them wants to take it from home. Could you arrange that the course be video recorded for him? And minutes before class begins, you realize you dropped part of your peanut butter and jam sandwich on your pants, leaving a stain of both the butter and the jam. Because this is the first time you’ve taught in the building, you have no idea where the restroom is. And class begins in seven minutes.

Finally, a colleague walks by your room, sees you, and asks if you can go to dinner in two weeks at his house with two other couples. As your colleague leaves, you look up and see a light in the ceiling that is flickering off and on. Is there time to replace it? Are you the only one who will notice it? It feels like the biggest distraction possible at the worst possible time. As the clock ticks down to the starting time, you notice a student wiping her eyes as if she has been crying. Or is it allergies? Or have you done something unintended that has made her weep? As you begin the class, you suddenly panic and realize you haven’t turned off your cell phone. Or have you?

Beginning the First Class

The first five minutes of the course are the most important of the day and of the semester. How you begin will set expectations. The tone, the use of the boards, and the spatial distance between you and the students communicate your intentions. How loud you speak matters. It all matters. It matters because the students have expectations about what the experience is going to be like. From what they’ve heard and read about you—or if they’ve taken courses from you previously—they have expectations of how you facilitate, govern, and teach the class.

Beginning on time communicates that you care about their time, about their lives, how they learn, and the importance of learning. When you begin on time, you communicate your intention to keep the time sacred. You are telling students that every moment in class is priceless, never to return. You are demonstrating how sacred you hold them as participants in the learning experience. You are reinforcing how sacred you hold the content of the course, what is to be learned, and how it is to be learned. Most important, you are communicating that you hold them in high esteem. You are saying to them that they are adults; that they deserve all your energy for the next eighty minutes; that you aren’t looking down on them from a perch of all knowingness, but that you are full and equal partners in this endeavor.

Some teachers begin class with administrative information. Others start with various types of information that don’t capture the interest or hearts of the students. These small start-time decisions are big decisions.

I like to begin each class with a story that represents an objective of the course or subtext of the course. By telling a compelling story or parable, I hope to capture the students’ hearts, their attention. I want to pull them into the experience by painting a picture to which they can relate. When I teach a case like C&S Grocers, a story about the dramatic growth of a wholesale grocer, I tell them of a twenty-eight-year-old son of the owner, who is asked by his father to take over the business. An example:

You are working on the docks as a twenty-eight-year-old in Worcester, Massachusetts, and your father asks you to stop work for a moment so he can talk with you. He tells you that the business isn’t doing well, that your older brothers don’t want to work in the business, and that he wants you to take over—not in a year, but next week. He wants you to deal with the unions and the aftermath of a flood that cost millions of dollars of inventory. He wants you to consider moving the business to Vermont. Your father begins to cry, telling you that he feels like a failure. He feels like he has ruined the business his father began in the early 1900s. And he wants you to save the business.

Through the story of Rick Cohen, I have invited the students to join me emotionally and psychologically in this adventure called Organizational Behavior. I have invited them to become cotravelers with me on this journey for the next eighty minutes. I have invited them into my “mad scientist lab.” And I need their focus and interest to be inside the classroom, with me and with the other travelers.

Seeking Common Ground

That focus and interest, however, depend to some extent on factors that have nothing to do with me or the class. You see, I don’t know what has been happening in the lives of the students. However, I do know that some probably would have been out drinking the night before class. Or a few of them might have broken up with their girlfriend or boyfriend. A few will show up to class not feeling particularly well, with colds, or fevers, or lacking sleep. Others will have parents or siblings who are ailing or going through difficult transitions in their lives. Some students will have taken a test the day before in another class with the knowledge that the test didn’t go well. And some will be dealing with the conflict between traveling home to see their families and attending a campus party on the coming weekend. Other students may not have prepared for class as well as they should have; they studied for someone else’s course and not yours. And of course, some will be hungry, and some will be yearning for a cup of coffee.

By beginning with a story, I’m trying to provide students with a similar framework for learning the concepts of the day. Through storytelling, I hope to create a common experience that engages all their senses. I don’t have the luxury to begin the class in a leisurely manner—time is too precious. I want students on the edge of their seats from the moment they sit. I have invited them into the lab. I don’t request it. I use metaphor as a means to create the collective experience.

If I have announcements to make, I insert them after a story so that students are listening. They know the setting and the case for discussion, and they will be listening more intently to announcements about when papers might be due, when the next exam will be administered, and so on. However, much of the administrative content can be communicated through other processes, whether it be through a website or a course syllabus. Determining when to make announcements may seem like small stuff, but it’s actually a big decision. If you make them too early, you may lose student intensity, interest, and focus. If you decide to hold off on announcements too long, the students may be focusing on festering questions: Do I have to hand in a hard copy of the paper? Can I have extra time?

Take a Cue from Other Teachers

You possess a distinct style of teaching, and you want to stick to that style—that’s what will convey your authenticity to a class. At the same time, make it a habit to think about other teachers’ styles. It can help you make adjustments that will make you a more effective teacher, especially as it relates to your storytelling. Observe other teachers in the school. Beware during the process of watching other teachers that you aren’t comparing as much as reflecting on your style. Know that “trying on different styles” is part of the evolution of your teaching style.

Do you know why you speak the way you do? Jim Austin, a former professor at Harvard Business School (HBS), used to begin his classes speaking very quietly. He wanted the students to lean forward and feel as if they were hearing something very special. He might start out in a voice barely above a whisper, “Today, you are going to go inside a remarkable company that you’ve never heard of. And you will never forget it once you visit it.” This approach puts students on notice that they are going to have a unique experience; that only those sixty students in the classroom will have this experience. It also communicates that the students will need to be paying attention and keeps them on the edge of their seats.

While I prefer beginning with a story and Jim Austin uses a dramatic whisper, other professors are just as strategic in their beginning class moments. Jan Rivkin of the Strategy department at HBS opens with a puzzle. For example, he asks: Coors versus Anheuser Busch? One of these companies is growing with double-digit growth; the other is in gradual decline. They’ve both been making beer the same amount of time. What differentiates them? Which one would you invest in?

David Garvin, former professor who passed away in 2018, began by offering students choices. He might describe a story’s protagonist very briefly and then say, “Today, we need to figure out whether our protagonist is brilliant, naïve, or just lucky.”

So we have a story, a whisper, a puzzle, and a choice, all valid alternatives to begin a class. Each instructor leans or depends on a particular approach. I use story, knowing that it will take two to three minutes to set the stage. But I believe it’s worth using that time, given that I’m trying to pull the students into a common consciousness and attempting to do so by inviting them into a scene viscerally. Have I tried the other approaches? All but the whisper. Do I believe in the other approaches? Yes! But each instructor should experiment, trying at least one other approach (see Ibarra, “The Authenticity Paradox”). Through observing other approaches and through my own experimentation, I realized that storytelling also pulls me into this common consciousness, and so I’m having a similar experience with the students. We are all in this together. While there are times when I use other methods, storytelling is often my starting point.

Early on, students begin to expect a story or parable. I often reflect back on reading stories to my daughters when tucking them into bed. These students are being invited into a similarly altered state of relaxation but also a learning state. I am like a hypnotist swinging an old-fashioned timepiece in front of the patient. With the cue of the story, the students begin to surrender to the spirit of the class. Students of Austin, Rivkin, and Garvin also begin their psychological journey based on the cues given by their respective professors.

I’ve spent a significant amount of space writing about the first five minutes of class. Why am I going into so much detail? Because I don’t want the new teacher to spend all eighty minutes parrying with students or using unnecessary energy and effort to keep them engaged, or worse, trying to convince them of their superior knowledge from the outset of the class and never winning them over.

There is no more difficult task than trying to “win over” students. You will find yourself working harder and harder trying to create a space in which the class carries the conversation. Unless you reach some modicum of flow, the classroom will feel more like a boxing ring than a place for learning and vulnerability and courageous conversations. You will find yourself in a defensive mode right from the start. Your view of students will shift and you’ll perceive them more as opponents than partners in the learning adventure. Win them over now. Don’t wait until the thirtieth minute or the fiftieth minute. Create the context in which the probability increases that students will be working with you as opposed to against you.

Irrational Imaginations: Preparing for Class

Your particular environment—the philosophy of a particular school, the content of a particular course—determines how you prepare for your class. At Harvard, much of my preclass thought and anxiety is about a class I teach called Authentic Leadership. It’s a class that asks a lot from the students emotionally, and it can turn into an emotional roller coaster. Perhaps that is why I find myself writing more about anxiety and fear than most faculty might. But the questions I pose to students require transparency and disclosure, both from the students and from myself. Modeling behavior is central to the outcome I want to achieve. The key component of my teaching model is to be the example of authenticity.

My class preparation varies by seasons. If it’s winter, the students may feel they have figured out how to get by in school. Thus, I need to prepare for a certain degree of complacency. In the fall, there is more energy and excitement around this new adventure of beginning an MBA. In this instance, I try to capitalize on this inherent interest and involvement. I also prefer teaching in the fall, in part because I like how the students arrive with a fresh perspective on this new experience. The time of day, too, is critical for me and perhaps less so for students (some sign up for courses based on what fits their schedule rather than their interest in a topic).

I find myself freshest in the morning and would like to teach the first class at 8:30 a.m. Yet family considerations alter this preference, since I take some responsibility for launching my kids into their daily activities. The second class period begins at 10:05 a.m. It’s the most popular time to teach for faculty because the students are fresher and have mainly recovered from the previous night’s activities. The students also like this time period because their coffee and roll will carry them through until lunch time. The third session runs through lunch. The students begin to get antsy and distracted in the waning minutes of the class period. Hunger takes over. As Abraham Maslow and his hierarchy of needs demonstrate, basic requirements like the need to eat can sabotage my efforts to hold student interest.

For eighteen years here in Boston, I have wanted to teach in the first part of the week and not the end of the week. I wanted to finish by Wednesday and gloat over my colleagues who would be working while I was off. Two years ago, I taught at the end of the week and realized how much nicer I was to my family the weekend before I taught. Later, I’ll go into excruciating (for me and my family) detail about how I made everybody around me miserable as I prepared psychologically for the beginning of class. Once I experimented with teaching at the tail end of the week, I noticed how pleasant my life became during weekends.

I assign seats. I know no one wants to sit close to the professor. Most of them think, “The farther away from Professor DeLong, the better.” I want students to sit next to students they don’t know well, so that when we have dyadic conversations between students, personal discoveries emerge based on a lack of familiarity with their nearby classmates.

I also know that a few students aren’t sure they want to take the course. They have heard that they should take it—perhaps their friends have recommended it to them as a way to foster interpersonal awareness. But even the students who were sure they wanted to take the course may be nervous because they know the class won’t simply be straight case method teaching. It will consist of myriad experiences that will push them to be more reflective about how they impact others because of their behavior.

Given all this, my presence during that first class can have either a positive or a negative influence on students’ perceptions. How do I manage the impact I have on my students? By being reflective and self-analytical. And the way I do this is by asking myself a series of questions about who I’m teaching for:

• Are my needs being sequenced before those of my students?
• Is there anything I care deeply about that I want to communicate to students about me?
• By dressing up conservatively and looking stern, am I going to convince students that this is a hard course?
• Am I going to convince them that I’m a tough guy, a disciplinarian, someone to take seriously?
• What will I do to convince students that I’m smart, that I could have taught a finance course (though that’s a stretch)?
• If students have been told by friends that the course is easy, how might I change their minds?

Notice that the questions I’ve posed are about me and impression management. The questions are about drama and manipulation and coercion.

What happened to those pure motives about helping students live more fulfilling lives? What happened to that person who spent six months redesigning the course in order to give students a more meaningful class? If it’s all about me, the students will sense it almost immediately. For this reason, first impressions count. It’s why the first class is the most important class of the semester. It is the one that sets the standard for openness, for congruence, for being vulnerable. To achieve this ideal objective, I must focus on the moment at hand and create the kind of experience I would want from a great teacher. I believe this moment between teacher and student can change both of us for good, and it’s the type of change that begins with that first class.

Finally, as much as I don’t want to admit it, the fear does lie below the surface that I won’t succeed. Conversely, flying without a net is incredibly exciting. As class begins, I’m filled with self-doubt and either/or thinking—either perfection or failure. I try to get past these doubts and either/ors. If I can get past them, I can attend to the moment. I will be aware and ready to make the class a great one, and not just routine.

Emerging Patterns

As you read about my thoughts and behaviors before and during class, you may have thought to yourself, “Professor DeLong is one anxious, self-critical soul.” I am. Perhaps more to the point, I’m obsessive about analyzing my teaching. As Socrates said, “the unexamined life isn’t worth living.” I would add that the unexamined teaching life isn’t worth continuing.

By examining my teaching continuously, I can identify patterns—patterns that helped me understand my teaching mindset and methods and helped me become better at my profession. I may not be the world’s greatest teacher, but I am reasonably self-aware. This self-awareness is a negative and a positive—a negative because it caused me to beat myself up continuously over my real and imagined shortcomings, a positive because it helped me become cognizant of my patterns.

By my mid-thirties, I began to see these patterns emerging not only as a teacher but as a human being. I categorize the patterns in two ways: core and stylistic. The core patterns are deeply embedded in my psyche, and they have significant influence over my most important behaviors and decisions, especially as a professor. The stylistic patterns, as the name suggests, are more surface oriented, affecting everything from how I prepare for the first day of class to how I speak to students. These patterns are neither good nor bad; or, more accurately, they can have good and bad effects. Managing the bad and taking advantage of the good require awareness—awareness that came to me only with teaching experience and maturity. Before examining my growing awareness, let’s look at each of these two pattern types in more depth.

Core Patterns

I react to successes and setbacks as either/or experiences; they are either very successful or disastrous. There is never a four or six on a ten-point scale. I either hit a home run or strike out looking on three pitches. After each speech or class or even interaction with a student, I am quick to put a normative value on it. I assess how I did. The more I recognized this pattern, the better I could manage it. Though this pattern continues to disrupt my life, it would be even worse if I was not aware of it.

Another pattern is a variation on the first. I am pleasant and engaging until I’m not. I respond quickly with too much emotion, sometimes bordering on real anger. I don’t seem to be able to respond as an observer and keep perspective in the moment. This pattern arises in the classroom when a student disagrees with me. I can feel my amygdala go into overdrive. My face reddens. The first words out of my mouth are edgy and defensive. I think, “How could this arrogant student push back in class? How could this punk think he knows more than I do?” Finally, I engage in an internal dialogue about how I will dig myself out of the hole I’ve just created. You see, I’ve assumed that I am in a hole, instead of envisioning having a symmetric conversation with a friend or colleague or student.

A third pattern relates to risk taking, the pattern I referred to in the previous section. I left a very secure position as a tenured faculty member, as an associate dean at BYU, to join Morgan Stanley; earlier, I headed off to a PhD program when I hadn’t been accepted into the program as a twenty-five-year-old graduate student; later, I thought I could travel back to HBS as a thirty-five-year-old who had never taught the case method and begin using it in the middle of the year and teach a course I’d never taught. On the personal side, I initiated a divorce, after twenty-eight years, risking my relationship with my older daughters and going against the strictures of my conservative religion.

This risk-taking pattern has a twist. After I make a big move or do something out of the ordinary, once I land on my feet, I play it safe. It’s as if I’m saving up emotional and mental energy for another big risk somewhere down the line. I might take smaller risks in teaching—I might be willing to teach a class I’ve never taught before—but I’m playing more not to lose than to win. So I’ve made more dramatic changes than most, but in between these changes, I play it safe.

Not to be overly psychoanalytical, but when I feel like I’m not central to an enterprise, I need to do something that proves I belong. Taking chances in the classroom by teasing students or role playing with drama illustrates that my patterns all possess a high-risk, high-reward outcome, at least in my own mind.

Stylistic Patterns

As a professor, I assiduously avoid lecturing from on high. Instead, my style favors participative classrooms. Early on I realized that show-and-tell was the most important part of the curriculum for kindergarten students. Why would it be any different with adults? Putting voice to thoughts and feelings draws the learner into the process of learning. So I lean on participation for those in the class. I know I can lecture, but to draw out students who may not be engaged and pull them all together as a facilitator has become key to my teaching style.

Another stylistic pattern is that I need to tell stories, as I have already mentioned. My father and mother would tell stories late into the night when we traveled in the car as a family. They were either war stories from my dad’s World War II adventures or stories from my mother that related to scary moments she had as a kid. As I reflect on my early teachers, Mr. Stickel and Mr. Snively, I can still recall the hypnotic trance they put me in as I listened to stories about the history of America and the world. Stories enrapture. Stories reach multiple emotions. Stories settle us down and assist us in all getting on the same page, at the same time, in the same room.

A third stylistic pattern is that I like movement in the room. I need to get the atoms colliding, and my pacing creates mental energy. I want students to share this energy and my interest in whatever subject is under discussion. I want us to share conversational intimacy. But most of all, I want to make it personal for them, and when I can move into their space, the conversation becomes more personal. Another benefit: As I move, I gain multiple views of the terrain and the individuals who are involved.

These stylistic patterns manifest themselves in 101 different ways—ways that may seem small initially but in total can affect the classroom environment and my effectiveness in it. As you’ve seen, these patterns affect how I present myself and material in a classroom.

Now let’s look at how I try to manage these patterns and shape my teaching approach to benefit individual students.