During my 20-year teaching career, I asked nearly 3000 middle school students, "Why were you born?" The question and its answer emerged from an insightful comic strip I'd come across in my new teacher's zeal to gather creative orientation material for the inspirational first days of school. The message I'd discovered encrypted in cartoony word balloons became the cornerstone of my teaching practice.
At the beginning of each school year, the question would be the first to make its way on my freshly polished whiteboard. I scribed it in wet ink from a new bold, black expo-marker: ready to be addressed. But, as the ink dried, the question went unnoticed by most students. Some boys and girls were more interested in my strange collection of artifacts; others in rekindling friendships and realigning their peer groups. As usual, this first-day ritual left a few individuals awkwardly sitting alone, anxiously waiting for class to begin.
Interrupting their private chatter, I cheerfully smiled good morning and introduced myself. My signal to begin class sent a wave of adherence among students who got up and settled into an assigned seat. By the time I finished taking attendance, checking schedules, and leading an orientation game: the class was over. I glance at the hourglass I'd staged on my desk and wonder where the time went. Students left, but the question stayed.
The next day, I'd direct attention to the "MOST important" question of the year and begin class with my rendition of the comic strip:
"In a world filled with pollution, famine, disease, natural disasters, crime, and poverty: babies are still being born at an exponential rate. Despite the gloom and doom, a new baby enters a world population of over 7.9 BILLION human beings every second." I'd point to the World Population Counter ticking silently on the screen behind my back and continue: "Why were YOU added?" "Why were you born?"
The contextualization was particularly poignant during COVID's aftermath. In conformance with the mask requirement, I felt ALL students connect to a world crisis as if for the first time. Peering wearily above and beyond a flimsy mouth cloth, each set of eyes confirmed my assumption.
I allowed time for the question to marinate while I brooded about how students responded in the past. From experience, I knew what some were thinking, so I clarified:
"Not HOW; WHY?" I quipped, "you'll learn about sexual reproduction later in the year!" Giggles rippled the room.
"WHY were you born?" I put it out there again, in a more serious tone.
I quietly revealed how, back in the day, I'd have everyone submit a written response to the question, but I stopped doing that. Their sighs of relief met with my confession about how the feedback I received saddened me. I was disappointed by reading countless papers scribbled with an empty "I don't know." It broke my heart to read replies like, "I am a mistake; my parents didn't plan on having me."
Instead, given a few moments of uncomfortable silence, students were asked to THINK about what they would write. Glancing up, down, and all around-except toward me: they scanned the room looking for an answer.
"Come on now; you've walked this planet for 12 years without knowing WHY you're here?" I'd prod and continue, "That saddens me, too!" It's simpler than you think."
I broke the silence.
"You were born to make our world a better place."
At this point, I'd display the goosebumps erupting on my arms. My voice crescendoed into a call to action, "From a smile to a helping hand to finding a cure for cancer, you were born to MAKE IT BETTER!" I'm getting old, I tell them. My life will soon be in your hands. I'm sincerely counting on you to make it better.
BOOM! The spark ignited and sizzled into the next big question: HOW are you making the world a better place? It would soon evolve into a series of journal prompts: How did you make the world a better place today, this week, this month, this year?
During the first weeks of school, I'd kinder the spark by randomly calling on students to recall why they were born. Prepared for the few who could not, I'd tell them to think about the message I taped to the classroom door or look at the sticker I gave them to paste inside the cover of their science journal. The answer was everywhere. Together, we rehearsed the retort until the question echoed a choral class response: "to make it better!"
Once ingrained, the "purpose" became my tool of choice for classroom management. In the heat of a critical moment, I'd ask the question and receive the anticipated reply. A brief exchange of words often helped shift a student from crisis mode into solution mode. A discreetly placed motivational sticky note would later reinforce the shift, broadening the impact of crisis resolution.
"Why were you born?"
"...to make it better."
"Is what's happening here making the world a better place?"
"No."
"How can we change that?"
"Are you ready to go back to learning the things you need to know so that you can make the world a better place?
Looking back, it seems every science lesson I've taught had a way of connecting back to this fundamental purpose; empowering students to bring about the changes, big or small, needed to "make our world a better place."
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