What Being an English Teacher Taught Me About Humans

 Before I became an English teacher, I thought I was signing up to teach literature, grammar, and the occasional persuasive essay about whether school uniforms are a violation of human rights; what I did not realize is that I had accidentally enrolled in a long-term field study on human behavior conducted in fluorescent lighting. Teaching English is less about commas and more about observing how people construct meaning, defend their opinions, avoid vulnerability, and panic when asked to write more than three sentences about their feelings. If you want to understand humanity in its rawest, least filtered form, put thirty adolescents in a room and ask them what a poem “means.” You will leave with data.

The first thing being an English teacher teaches you about humans is that everyone wants to be understood, but very few people want to do the uncomfortable work of expressing themselves clearly. I have watched students passionately argue a theme they cannot fully articulate, waving their hands as if the right vocabulary might materialize mid-air. I have also read essays that begin with, “This shows that life is complicated,” which is technically true and also impressively vague. Humans, it turns out, are full of feelings, insights, and half-formed revelations, but translating inner chaos into structured language requires effort — and effort is negotiable when there is WiFi.

Another universal truth I have learned is that people will defend their interpretations with startling intensity, even when those interpretations are based on absolutely nothing. Tell a class that the blue curtain might symbolize sadness, and someone will counter with the confidence of a seasoned literary scholar: “Maybe it’s just blue.” That moment is not about the curtain; it is about autonomy. Humans crave ownership of perspective. We want our lens to matter. The classroom becomes a miniature democracy where ideas compete, alliances form, and someone inevitably changes their mind but pretends it was their idea all along.

I have also learned that avoidance is a core human hobby. Ask a group of teenagers to analyze symbolism and you will witness a masterclass in deflection — bathroom requests timed with suspicious precision, questions about formatting that could have waited, sudden fascination with sharpening pencils. But adults are not exempt from this behavior; we simply disguise it more elegantly. We reorganize desks instead of confronting discomfort. We check emails instead of writing difficult paragraphs. Teaching has made me acutely aware that procrastination is rarely about laziness; it is about fear of imperfection wearing sweatpants.

Humans are also deeply performative, especially when observed. I have watched students pretend not to care about a book while secretly reading ahead. I have seen eye-rolls dissolve into thoughtful discussion the moment they feel safe enough to risk sincerity. The classroom reveals how often indifference is armor. Humor is deflection. Sarcasm is self-protection. And when you create space where vulnerability is not immediately punished, the transformation is almost cinematic — minus the soundtrack and with more awkward pauses.

One of the funniest and most humbling lessons is that humans will test boundaries not because they despise structure, but because they are wired to explore limits. “Do we have to?” is less rebellion and more curiosity about consequences. Adolescents just do it out loud. Adults do it in meetings. The negotiation is universal. So is the relief when someone else holds steady. Authority, I have learned, is not about dominance; it is about containment. People function better when they know where the edges are — even if they pretend to resent them.

And perhaps the most enduring lesson is this: humans are contradictory and magnificent at the same time. The same student who refuses to capitalize “I” will write a sentence so emotionally precise it knocks the air out of the room. The same class that complains about reading will fall silent during a powerful passage. The same teenager who insists they “hate poetry” will quote a line months later without realizing it stuck. Being an English teacher teaches you that growth is rarely loud, that impact is often invisible, and that people — chaotic, distracted, occasionally dramatic people — are capable of more depth than they initially reveal.

The Hot Mess Express may run through essays, debates, missed commas, and last-minute submissions, but underneath the grammatical chaos is something steady: the persistent human desire to make meaning. And if that isn’t both hilarious and hopeful, I don’t know what is.