When I was a kid, my idea of a perfect afternoon was playing Atari and smoking weed. And in school, most of my teachers let me get away with a lot of crap. Take my junior high English teacher — she'd talk above us, deliver her lesson, and go back to her seat. Job done. If I just kept my mouth shut, she'd pass me with D's and leave me alone.
I knew I was smart; I knew I could learn. Just not from her. I could spot who was a real teacher and who wasn’t from a mile away. Mr. McHarg was the real deal. He was a dean of discipline and a history teacher — and he commanded every room he entered. He taught students, not lessons, with the kind of presence that made a kid like me want to watch and listen. And I didn't want to listen to anybody.
The difference wasn't just his teaching style — it was his willingness to stand between students and their bad decisions. Most teachers would just let us walk on through if we weren't causing trouble in their classroom. But Mr. McHarg chose to step in, even when it meant dealing with a stoned kid about to get someone killed.
You’re Better Than This
Toward the end of 8th grade, me and my buddy Steve were messing around during lunch. We got the brilliant idea to fill milk cartons with sand and throw them over an ivy-covered fence. The fence was so tall that we couldn’t see where our cartons were landing, but we could hear cars swerving. We were laughing our asses off — until someone snuck up on us, scaring us half to death.
Steve took off, leaving me to face Mr. McHarg alone. McHarg grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. "What are you doing?" he yelled. "You're better than this, man!" Nobody ever said I was better than anything.
He'd heard the sand hit a car window and tires screeching as a car spun. "If a pregnant woman got in a wreck and lost her baby because of your stupidity," he said, "you could be tried for murder." That shocked me. Instead of taking me to the office and suspending me (which would have taken maybe all of 3 minutes of his time), he took me to his classroom for the remainder of the day.
Teaching Instead of Punishing
I don't know what struck me more: the fact that he didn't suspend me — or the fact that he did the same lesson masterfully 3 periods in a row. I tried to lay my head down and sleep, but he wouldn't allow it. After all these years, I still remember the well-crafted lesson; he compared the Trojan horse to the first settlers coming in to America, bearing gifts for and then killing the Native Americans. He didn't use notes or videos, and he had total control of the room. I sobered up and paid attention. He was engaging, and he was a little silly.
He showed me what grace looked like in action. Did I deserve to be punished for being high and endangering drivers' lives on the other side of the wall? Yes. But he seemed to have a sense for what I needed and chose to follow his gut, not the rules. It was a turning point for me.
The following year, I found myself in a different headspace. I watched him be fair and calm in the classroom and in the hallways when other teachers would have been reactive and punitive. Day in and day out, he showed me that an authority figure could use their power to work with kids instead of lording it over them.
When I got to 9th grade and people asked me what I wanted to be when I got older, I answered, “A teacher.”
A Good, Fair Man
After that critical day in 8th grade, Mr. McHarg would give me a playful wink when he saw me around school. He certainly never acted like he was my homie, and I admired him for it. He was simply a good, fair man. And that spoke volumes to me. The language wasn't around then, but Mr. McHarg had an instinct for Restorative Justice practices — which are a cornerstone of my teaching philosophy today.
Many years later, I was leading a professional development on cooperative tolerance classrooms. I shared why I became a teacher, and I talked about Mr. McHarg. A woman raised her hand and told me he was a friend of hers, and he was dying. I went home and emailed him: Mr. McHarg, I'm Jose Luis Navarro, now a National Board Certified teacher. I wanted to let you know you're the reason I became a teacher.
I remember you, Louie, he replied. You had a great smile. I remember how smart you were and how engaged you were in class. Shortly thereafter, Mr. McHarg passed away, and I’m so grateful I got a chance to say thank you to him.
Our Moral Imperative as Teachers
I have a tattoo of a bow and arrow on my right forearm, a nod to these lines in Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet:
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His
might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
As educators, we carry the profound responsibility to guide and inspire our students — even if we can’t know the impact we make or don’t hear a “thank you.” It's our moral imperative to be that steady bow, launching young people toward their potential. But we're also the arrows, constantly learning and growing as we fulfill our calling.
Let’s work together to create those transformative moments that change the trajectory of a student's life — and renew your passion for being a great teacher.
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