19 pieces of teaching advice

Because it's a new semester

NOTE: I post this at the start of each semester, making edits and corrections each time.

Please add more teaching tips in the comments.

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A few years ago, I put together some informal teaching advice for college and university profs teaching their first classes (though I hope it applies more generally.) I post it every once in a while on social media, and people find it useful, so here it is again.

1. Enthusiasm. When you’re in class, you should act like there’s no place in the world you’d rather be. Enthusiasm is infectious—it makes your audience perk up, enjoy the material more, like you more, and learn more.

2. Confidence. Act as if you know your shit. Act like you’ve done this a hundred times before, and it’s always gone smashingly. This will reassure the students that they’re in good hands and they’ll learn better.

3. Mix it up. Don’t just do the same thing repeatedly; throw in some variety—movies, demos, etc. Variety is the cure for boredom.

(yes, I have been told that some of the above is also sex advice.)

4. Bring in other people. Guest lectures, interviews, etc. Easy to do with Zoom.

5. Be modest in your goals for each class. The most common mistake of beginning teachers is cramming too much material into a single session. (Early in our careers, we teach as if our advisor were in the room, drumming his or her fingers impatiently.)

6. Be yourself. Everyone has strengths; teach in a way that aligns with what you’re good at. For example, if you’re funny, engage the students with humor—if not, don’t bother. Serious and intense is also a fine way to run a class ... but so is cheerful and mellow. There are a lot of ways to do this right.

7. Teaching prep can leech away all your time; don’t let it. Say to yourself: Diminishing Returns. Then say: Opportunity Costs. Repeat as needed.

8. A well-timed “Great question. I don’t know — but I’ll find out for next class” is charming and makes everyone feel good. This is so powerful that some profs are rumored to do this even when they DO know.

9. Use specific students as examples in arbitrary ways. For example, in a Developmental Psychology course, you might say: “So, Stella? — let’s pretend you’re a 5-year-old. So imagine we asked you ...”. You don’t have to actually ask Stella anything, but once students become aware that you do this, they’ll pay more attention, wondering if next time it will be them.

10. When I was in the second grade, I asked a stupid question, and the teacher, Mrs. Pound, made me feel like an idiot. It says something about how awful this was that I still remember this experience so many years later! Don’t be like Mrs. Pound. Every question a student asks is, at minimum, “Interesting!”. If it’s total gibberish, go for something like: “Parts of your question might go a bit too far beyond our topic for today, but one of your points raises something really neat ...” and then talk about something else.

11. Use concrete examples whenever possible, often from your own life. They don’t necessarily have to be true. (There is no Mrs. Pound).

12. Many good teachers self-medicate before class, especially if they suffer from anxiety. This is fine, so long as you’re careful with dosage.

[Thanks to Chaz Firestone for comments on an earlier version of this]

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Over the years, I’ve received objections, support, and new ideas over email and X. Some feedback was good; some wasn’t.

One person was offended by my silly sex joke and wanted me to remove it but wouldn’t explain why, so no. Several others pointed out that some of the other points are also good sex advice. My friend Tamler Sommers voted for #4: “Bring in other people.”

A few people complained about #12, but I don’t see the problem. Of course, it’s irresponsible to teach when you’re drunk, baked, or tripping balls. But there is a Goldilocks level of anxiety, and many people benefit from taking something to calm them down. I know a famous professor who pops a lorazepam before she lectures, and nobody gives her any grief, and nobody should. I don’t think a gulp of vodka is any different (though, given that not everyone sees it my way, pop some mints, too.)

As an extreme case, Scott Stossel, editor at The Atlantic (an excellent editor—he worked with me on a few articles), suffers from extreme anxiety. Here is how he deals with it.

Let’s say you’re sitting in an audience and I’m at the lectern. Here’s what I’ve likely done to prepare. Four hours or so ago, I took my first half milligram of Xanax. (I’ve learned that if I wait too long to take it, my fight-or-flight response kicks so far into overdrive that medication is not enough to yank it back.) Then, about an hour ago, I took my second half milligram of Xanax and perhaps 20 milligrams of Inderal. .. I likely washed those pills down with a shot of scotch or, more likely, vodka, the odor of which is less detectable on my breath. … I need the alcohol to slow things down and to subdue the residual physiological eruptions that the drugs are inadequate to contain. In fact, I probably drank my second shot—yes, even though I might be speaking to you at, say, 9 in the morning—between 15 and 30 minutes ago, assuming the pre-talk proceedings allowed me a moment to sneak away for a quaff.

Scott gives a great talk.

Others benefit from an upper like caffeine to get them going. They’re not naturally hyped up enough; the double espresso puts some spring in their step. As with many things, the motto here is: Know Thyself.

A few people objected to #1 and #2—they see something insincere about projecting enthusiasm and confidence when you may not feel it. Now, I should emphasize that I’m not suggesting dishonesty. As I said in #8, professors should be up-front when we don’t know something. But there are many ways to present oneself honestly, and my advice is to choose a relatively confident and self-assured mode. Projecting the notion that things are going well can be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I know some disagree. A while ago, someone described on Twitter how they start a new class each semester. I lost the link, but it went like this:

I’m honest. I tell the students about my own struggles with my career and my life. These are hard times, and we’re all doing the best we can, and so I try to make it clear that I know what they are going through. And humility is important. I’m not some sort of guru, some “sage on a stage”, and I don’t want them to see me that way. They’ll learn from me, sure, but I’ll also learn from them, and we’ll make it through this class together, as a team.

I tried to be fair here and not caricature this view. And maybe there is something to it, particularly for a small advanced seminar where the professor and the students work together through difficult and unfamiliar material.

But I don’t think it’s the right approach for a less advanced group of students. It’s self-indulgent; it centers the professor too much; it puts too much of the responsibility onto the students. It’s like a therapist saying: “I know you’re here to talk about your problems, but I’m a person too, and I have my own problems, so let’s approach this as equals and help each other.” This isn’t how successful therapy works.

Now, these things are on a continuum, and I’m mindful of the advice of #6—There are many ways to do things right. But I do think my way is better.

Here are three things I think I got wrong.

First, regarding #4, people have pointed out that bringing in other people is risky, particularly for a lecture class. Most guest lecturers are awful (most lecturers are awful), and when the lecture goes poorly, the students blame the prof, as they should. Even when the guests do well, the act of bringing someone else in can signal laziness on the part of the professor and can disrupt the flow of the class. So now I do it sparingly.

Second, I’ve been persuaded that the advice in #8 isn’t for everyone. Making a big deal of how I sometimes don’t know the answer works well for me, but I am an older white male professor. Students have stereotypes that work to my advantage. They start with the assumption that, in general, I do know my shit. If you are younger, or non-white, or non-male, you won’t have the same leg-up, and so confessions of this sort are riskier and perhaps best avoided.

Third, I do think #11 is sensible—concrete examples from one’s own life are pedagogically useful. But I suggested that it’s ok to make them up. Lying is wrong, so I take that back. (You can, however, exaggerate for comic or dramatic effect. There are no good stories without exaggeration.)

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Here are some further pieces of advice.

13. At least for the first class, get there early and make small talk with the students who are also there early. You also need plenty of time to check if the AV works.

14. Take notes after class about what worked and what didn’t. I sometimes give a lecture off of old notes or slides and then get to a point where things go badly (an explanation doesn’t work, a joke falls flat, a graph is unreadable), and I think, goddamn, this same thing happened last year when I gave this lecture! It wouldn’t have happened if last year I had taken notes after class. Take these notes immediately once the class is over; your memory and motivation will disappear the moment you walk out of the room.

15. You have a captive audience that relies on you for your grades. This is a position of power. They can’t walk out or tell you that you’re being an ass. (Well, they can, but at a cost.) Don’t abuse this. Your lecture class on computational neuroscience or your seminar on the 19th-century British novel is not the time to tell your students your opinion of Elon Musk, Fox News, or the final season of Game of Thrones. Be a fucking professional.

16. If you can help it, don’t swear unnecessarily. It offends some students, and the rest will think you’re trying too hard to be cool.

17. This will be the most controversial opinion of all, but I’m not a fan of having students give presentations in seminars. Most student presentations are awful (of course they are—it’s really hard to give a good presentation; as I said above, most professors give awful presentations), and while the students might get something out of preparing and presenting, it’s boring for everyone who has to listen.

18. But I do like to make sure that every student talks in every seminar meeting. One way I do this is by beginning each class with some statement, argument, or study relevant to the day’s topic and then going around the room and having everyone give a short remark about it.

    For instance, in a moral psychology seminar about the role of social pressure in how people act, I might begin by telling the story of the Ring of Gyges, which bestows the power of invisibility to anyone who wears it. In Plato’s Republic, Glaucon says that anyone who had this power would do whatever they pleased without concern for morality:

    No man would keep his hands off what was not his own when he could safely take what he liked out of the market, or go into houses and lie with any one at his pleasure, or kill or release from prison whom he would, and in all respects be like a god among men.

    I go around the room and ask each student whether they agree with Glaucon. I then respond to what they say and connect their answers to those of other students: Great answer, Moira, but why do you think you disagree so much with Eva about this? Eva—why are you so much more optimistic about human nature than Moira? And so everyone, even students who will never talk otherwise, gets to say something to the class and helps shape the discussion.

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I’ll end by returning to the issue of centering yourself in the classroom. It’s an issue I struggle with. There are many rewards to being a good teacher, and one of them is getting a reputation as a good teacher. This can feel wonderful.

There are worse goals that a person can have—among other things, students tend to learn better if they feel they’re in good hands (see #1 and #2 above). But too much focus on how students see you can distort your priorities. You can start to prepare your lectures to impress and entertain—as opposed to teach. Sometimes these goals are in synch; but not always. So, here’s the final bit of teaching advice:

19. Remember: It’s not about you.