Teaching is hard. I have fond memories of the classroom from decades ago. I was reminded of the challenge this summer when I led a one-hour workshop on photography at the Nor-East’r Music and Art Festival.
My little taste of the classroom lasted two years, way back when I was 20-something. Back then, I leveraged a handful of years working for small-town newspapers to land a teaching assistantship at Marquette University in Milwaukee. I had been reporting on sports and local government — and taking photographs — for a twice-a-week newspaper in northern Nevada for three years, and hungered for something new, something different.
Back in that pre-internet era, you looked for job opportunities by eyeballing paper pages in national magazines and trade publications. I scoured the classifieds in journalism trade publications, then borrowed a typewriter to apply to opportunities that looked interesting.
I had high hopes for an advertised opening in Bermuda, for a sports writer specializing in sailing and golf. But the Royal Gazette wisely hired someone else. My experience reporting on high school football, rodeo, volleyball, track, wrestling, and donkey basketball (yes, the players rode actual donkeys, shod with rubber shoes to protect the gym floor) didn’t measure up. I still wonder where I would be today if I had landed that island gig.
Instead, I was lucky to hire into a two-year position in Milwaukee. I worked toward a master’s degree in journalism, paid for by work in dual responsibilities. I managed the school of journalism’s student darkroom (two studios, six film developing rooms, 14 enlarger stations, six evenings a week, with the help of three student assistants). And I taught photography. The first semester, I co-taught Photojournalism 101 alongside a tenured professor. The following three semesters, I was cut loose on my own to teach groups of two dozen trainee journalists how to use a camera and create finished images.
Those two years were exactly the new experience I was seeking. New place, new people, new challenge. Then I returned to newspapers, first in Colorado and later my home state of Michigan.
During the four decades since, my teaching experience has been limited to helping coworkers with individual questions and mentoring young reporters. I had plenty of photographic and writing practice during my professional life, but no additional formal teaching practice.
My wife and I had enjoyed being spectators at the Nor-East’r Music and Art Festival, near Mio, for two consecutive Junes. This year, I heard organizers were seeking workshop instructors for the art side, which they hope to expand alongside the music portion of the program. They signed me up to lead a workshop on photography.
So I went back to school. And learned that I am wildly out of practice.
Festival organizers requested a workshop focused on smartphone photography. Like everyone else in the world, I take pictures with my smartphone. But I strongly prefer actual cameras when I set out to create serious imagery.
I did my best to construct a short workshop that would help guide attendees toward creating well-composed images they could be proud of, using only a smartphone. I outlined a syllabus. I labored over composing a one-page handout. I had four dozen images printed as examples to pass around. I practiced my delivery.
The festival arrived. A few minutes before my session, the workshop coordinator stopped by and told me the art workshops so far that day had been rather poorly attended, at least one attracting zero attendees. Apparently, everyone was too busy listening to music to be distracted by non-music sessions. The festival’s music program is terrific, and it is understandably hard to compete with talented musicians performing on multiple simultaneous stages.
Rather than the dozen “students” I had envisioned, the photo workshop attracted a single teen and three adults, one of whom was my wife.
The situation was very different from my organized college experience of 40 years ago. Instead of a quiet classroom in a multi-story brick building with 20 people seated in neat rows, the five of us sat around a picnic table in a cavernous fairgrounds barn with a slow folk tune drifting in through one open door and a hard-driving bluegrass melody rolling in through another.
That setting, plus the light attendance, stacked atop my long hiatus from formal teaching, triggered a sudden case of imposter syndrome. I was back in school — and I wasn’t emotionally prepared for the day’s assignment.
I momentarily forgot those weeks of preparation. My confidence dripped onto the concrete floor and pooled there like motor oil under my 20-year-old Jeep. I could feel sweat beads oozing out of my forehead. I struggled to to begin speaking.
But I dove into my prepared spiel. Which quickly fell apart in my head like shattered glass. So I took a deep breath, mentally regrouped, and winged it by showing the group example photos and talking about the composition of each image. When that tactic ran out of steam, I fell back to the handout and expanded on those talking points. Then I answered questions.
When the hour ended, I felt disappointed in myself, emotionally deflated. But I survived. No one complained to the management, which later asked if I would be willing to do a repeat performance next year. They still hope to attract more interest to the art-focused workshops in addition to the well-attended music workshops.
I think I’ve learned my lesson. I was reminded that teaching requires more than just knowledge and preparation — it also requires relaxed and confident presentation. I already knew that, but apparently needed a remedial lesson.
In just 10 months, I may again be called to teach. I know the material. I enjoy sharing my knowledge. I just need to get my head on straight.