I’ve always been bad at doing things I’m not interested in. So in high school, I did as little homework as I could.
I got away with it in most of my classes.
For physics, the grade was almost entirely based on tests and in-class participation. The homework was just for practice. I did well in that class.
In my network engineering class, I was the only person to sign up. The teacher figured out what my deal was and simply gave me projects. Anything project-based was way better for me. So I also did well in that class.
Band was the best. I played an easy, unpopular, and necessary instrument: the tuba. The teachers were very inclined to make my life easy. I just had to show up to class and play. It didn’t hurt that I actually liked it.
It was a problem in English class, though.
I actually really liked my English class. I liked my English teacher, Mr. Harris. I felt respected by him. He took what I said in class seriously: the questions I asked, and the points I made.
I didn’t mind reading things outside of class—that was easy. I mostly liked the books we read. Like Brave New World, which I’d already read independently in grade nine.
I did the reading so that I could participate in class. I could just show up, know things, and interact with a teacher who cared about what I had to say.
But I didn’t like writing very much. So I just… didn’t do that.
When each term finished, I’d get my report card. In English, I had excellent class participation, but that was only worth around 20% of the mark. Homework was 50%, and I’d done almost no homework.
In order to graduate grade 12 in British Columbia, you needed to pass English. It was non-negotiable.
And I was failing.
So Mr. Harris came to me towards the end of the semester. He said: “Look, you’re really smart. I get that. You obviously understand what’s happening in the class. You understand the material. You understand how to analyze the story and themes, everything we expect from you.”
“In order to graduate, you need to pass this class. You’re currently not passing it, but I can’t fail you. And I can’t give you a good grade, either.”
“So here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll give you a 50%. That’s not really what your grade is, nor is it reflective of your ability, but you’ll pass.”
He also asked me a question: “Can you tell me what’s happening? Why don’t you do the homework? I just want to understand.”
I told him the truth: that I wasn’t interested in the homework.
He seemed surprised and taken aback.
I just didn’t care about the homework. I didn’t like writing. And the essays seemed totally divorced from what was happening in class.
I just wanted to do the reading, and participate in class.
Mr. Harris asked a few clarifying questions, and then let me go. That was it.
As time went on, I felt guilty about the interaction. I thought “Man, that was probably really mean. Maybe I should have done some of the homework.”
Later on, I saw Mr. Harris at a concert that a friend from the same program was in. I went up to him and said, “Hey, it’s been a while. Sorry for being such a jerk.”
And he said, “Oh, that changed how I taught everything. It was actually really helpful to have that feedback.”
I didn’t expect that response. I was used to adults responding differently.
Usually, you tell adults something real, like “I’m not interested in the homework,” and they act like: “Well, you should be interested.”
It turns out, no. The coolest adults will listen to you, take your feedback, and actually do something with it. They can be inspired by their students.
The way I see it now, Mr. Harris had a blind spot. He was a relatively new teacher. He was very passionate, but inexperienced.
He assumed that if he assigned homework, his kids would just do it. They might do it badly, but they would do it. He didn’t realize that it was an option to just… not do the homework.
My feedback changed things. I wasn’t upset, I just didn’t care. Somehow, what I said made Mr. Harris think, “Maybe I should listen to him.”
I don’t know exactly what he did after that to change his class. I think he realized that the homework had to be interesting, and tie into the rest of class, into the students’ lives.
I think he learned something about relevance to the student. Someone’s enthusiasm for something can be infectious, but if it’s not, you might want to look for ways to connect it to a student’s own interest.
Looking back on this, with all that I know now, I would have handled this differently. I would have been even more stubborn.
I was only silently failing, which is a terrible feedback loop. I would’ve been louder about my disinterest in the homework. I’d have more questions about how I was supposed to do it, and have even more questions if I was left with unsatisfactory answers.
This probably wouldn’t have worked with most teachers, but it would have worked with Mr. Harris—especially with our rapport.
Thanks to my friend Tasshin for helping me to write and edit this story.