When the Shirt Hits the Fan: Lessons in Teaching and Tact
By: Nicky De Proost
Teaching is meant to be a noble endeavour: shaping minds, opening doors, and perhaps, occasionally, inspiring a student or two. What no one tells you, especially during training, is that sometimes it’s less about inspiring and more about surviving—and possibly preventing public nudity.
It was during my teaching placement, a two-week stint in my old high school, where I was assigned to teach English to 16-year-olds training to be electricians. They loathed English. Not in a passionate, Shakespearean-monologue kind of way, but in a deeply resigned, why-are-you-doing-this-to-us way. Honestly, I couldn’t blame them. “To be or not to be” doesn’t always hold much relevance when you’re learning how to rewire a fuse box.
This particular class was being observed by my former English teacher and a professor from my teaching college. I’d planned what I thought was a solid lesson on grammar—one of those deductive reasoning activities where students figure out the rules themselves from examples (which, in retrospect, was probably optimistic). But optimism, like lesson plans, often crumbles in the face of teenage chaos.
The students tumbled into the classroom fresh from gym class, their energy levels somewhere between “feral ferrets” and “rabid raccoons.” I was barely two sentences into my carefully crafted introduction when John—let’s call him John—interrupted, beaming.
“Hey, miss! I’ve got something way more interesting than grammar!”
Before I could summon the presence of mind to ask what, he had not only begun to but had succeeded at stripping off his whole shirt until he sat there, bare-chested in the middle of class.
My brain short-circuited. I could literally feel the blood drain from my face and pool in my toes; my legs suddenly felt impossibly heavy. Adrenaline kicked in, hijacking my thoughts. Fight? Flee? Flail helplessly?
In hindsight, I now understand this was my sympathetic nervous system in full swing—adrenaline flooding my system, prepping me to escape this surreal “danger.” Back then, I was mortified—not just in the “to feel very embarrassed or ashamed” sense, but in the “to be affected by necrosis” sense: dead. All I knew was that I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. Or at least lend me a shovel to start digging.
I still don’t know how my green, 20-year-old self managed to collect herself long enough to respond. But somehow, miraculously, my brain found its footing. Maybe it was survival instinct. Maybe it was divine intervention. Maybe I’d just read enough books to know that rolling with the absurd was my only way out.
I pulled up the laptop, connected it to the projector, and opened a well-known online shopping website owned by a mostly untaxed billionaire—not that this narrows things down. “Alright, class,” I said, summoning a calmness I absolutely did not feel. “This is where your English skills come in handy. Let’s forget grammar for a moment and find John a new shirt. In English. What are we looking for?”
Laughter erupted, mercifully directed at the situation rather than at me. Within seconds, the class was united in the noble cause of improving John’s wardrobe. “Black T-shirt!” “No logos!” “Something cool but not too expensive!” The suggestions became confetti, and even John—shirt back on—joined in, after grinning his way through a smug apology.
The shift was instantaneous. That chaotic post-gym-class energy transformed into something productive and collaborative. The rest of the lesson was peppered with references to John’s wardrobe (courtesy of the students themselves), and by the end, we were back on track with grammar.
Afterwards, I made sure to point out just how impressive their English had been. Navigating a practical situation in a second language? That’s no small feat. Their response? Sheepish smiles, a few muttered thanks, and a grudging acknowledgement that English might, on occasion, be slightly useful.
Their skill was actually a second surprise for me. Their previous lack of enthusiasm and reluctance to speak English had led me to assume their abilities were far less advanced than they truly were. These future electricians just needed a little jolt.
As for my observers, I think they might have mentioned something about “calm under pressure” and “quick thinking,” though I was too busy trying not to collapse into a post-adrenaline puddle to appreciate the compliment. I definitely didn’t feel calm, or quick at the time. (Pro tip: when the parasympathetic nervous system kicks in to bring you back to baseline, it can leave your brain feeling like it’s been wrapped in cotton wool. Highly inconvenient during a post-lesson feedback session.)
Looking back, I’m proud of how I handled it. I didn’t just survive the moment; I turned it into a teaching opportunity. That day, John’s actions may have disrupted the class for five minutes, but their brains definitely shifted into active engagement for much longer. (Turns out teenage audacity has its uses.)
Of course, I realise now that luck played a role. Without the rapport I’d built with the students beforehand, or if John had been more of a menace less of a good-natured troublemaker, things might have spiralled. But I learned something invaluable that day: surprise, when harnessed, can transform a classroom.
And maybe, just maybe, English is useful—even if only for buying T-shirts online.
Nicky De Proost, eager to teach again