Many of us chose to become teachers because we ourselves had life-changing moments with our own teachers in the past. For me, perhaps one of the most defining moments of my life came in the final lesson of my 10th-grade history class. My teacher had gotten to know us deeply over the year, and to end our time together, she gave out awards to each student. What was remarkable about these awards was the level of thought put into each one. I felt—and I know my classmates did too, from discussions with them afterward—that she had taken my very nature under a magnifying glass and chosen something unique and wonderful about me to praise. No platitude, no generality, but something so concrete that it immediately clicked: wow, that truly is who I am. Even 17 years later, I continue to pride myself on that part of my character and strive to be an example of the virtue she saw in me.

When I became a teacher myself, I wanted to replicate that experience for my students. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the courses I teach now, I can’t spend enough quality time with my classes to give the same level of specific, discerning praise that my history teacher once gave me. I have found a happy medium, however, that allows the students to finish on a note of pride in their own success—one which several past students have told me has proven a motivation to them as they continued their studies.

Setting the emotional scene is important for them. I dim the lights. In the background, I begin to play John Williams’ Olympic theme music. Slowly moving through the categories of awards, from small to great, I pull out the prizes hidden under my desk: Black Thunder, Lotte chocolate pies, a more impressive seasonal treat like a strawberry daifuku or expensive fruit jelly, cheap dollar-store gold medals, and achievement certificates printed on thick cardstock, each student’s name handwritten by me in cursive.