This desire for transformative teachers is universal, and Hollywood has responded to this in fairly uniform fashion; indeed, whether it’s To Sir, with Love, Stand and Deliver, Mona Lisa Smile, or Dead Poets Society, the teacher is almost always represented as a maverick who wills students to fulfill their potential through an mixture of singular classroom activities, defiance of stultifying bureaucracy, and unique belief in the abilities of the kids in their classroom. The success of such teachers seems to rest solely upon their individual genius and willingness to defy convention.

What these movies miss are elements of the craft which are less glamorous, but just as essential to the possibility of student transformation. It’s these vital commitments that I celebrate during this year’s Teacher Appreciation Week.

For example, despite the pyrotechnics of a cool classroom lesson—standing on a desk to recite Whitman, say—without timely, usable feedback, students are not going to learn as much as they could. Strong teachers don't seek the center of attention; rather, they focus relentlessly on the experience of their boys. Every day they make scores of decisions in real time about how best to redirect, re-engage, restore, and respect each student in their care. And this focus extends past the school day, with hours spent reading, re-reading, and commenting on student work, all in the name of providing students with the kind of coaching that best supports learning. While not riveting movie fodder, these are the essential commitments that excellent teachers make to help actualize a child's potential.

In the movies, teachers maintain order through their charisma, or via some dramatic gesture that brings once-wayward students in line; in To Sir, with Love, Sidney Poitier’s character wins the respect of a rebellious student by defeating him in a boxing match. But a well-run classroom is founded less on teacher charm or on epic episodes; it is the product of careful planning, reliable practices, clear expectations, and caring communication. When I walk into a classroom of 16 eight year-olds and see them working and laughing together, listening to their teacher, and still finding ways to express themselves, I know that hours of thought and practice have gone into defining that learning space. Effective classroom cultures are seldom born of extraordinary, singular moments or the teacher’s social wizardry; instead, they emerge from shared norms and habits of mind that are intentionally, patiently cultivated and affirmed throughout the year. What looks to some like “magic” is actually the product of careful, caring design.

In the same vein, our boys need encouragement—consistent, loving, aspirational encouragement—over the arc of an entire school year. On the silver screen, kids find instant turning points when the star teacher pulls them aside and gives them some Platonic combination of hard truth and emotional honesty that has been sorely lacking elsewhere in the student’s life. These moments in real school life are vanishingly rare. Boys come to accept the emotional support of their teachers on different timetables, through varied overtures, with advances and retreats and reclamations, with teacher effectiveness waxing and waning and waxing again. As practitioners, we teachers—like we parents—would love to deliver the well-timed line that earns us a page in a boy’s memoirs, the insight that marks the difference between the Boy Who Was and the Man He Is. But the wise teacher knows, from both research and practice, that a boy is a work in progress, resistant to facile slogans, and absolutely entitled to being known, loved, and challenged every day of the school year.

Not all films feature heroic teachers. The Breakfast Club, which celebrated its 40th anniversary this year, gives a glimpse into the life of a burned-out, bullying principal who has lost his way. As the school’s janitor wryly tells him: “You took a teaching position, ‘cause you thought it’d be fun, right? Thought you could have summer vacations off, and then you found out it was actually work and that really bummed you out.” Browning teachers know that teaching is, in fact, work—but this is not a reason to be bummed. This is, instead, the reason they summon their best efforts, their deepest thoughts, their warmest affections, all in the name of helping boys become their best selves. (And both boys and teachers do have a bit of fun along the way, too!) It is not because they are like the teachers in the movies that Browning teachers are excellent; it’s that they perform the things that teachers in the movies never do that makes them transformative. And this, as much as anything, is why I appreciate them—this week, and every week—so much.

The Real Magic of Teaching