When Disruption Hijacks a Lesson

Sensing that my lesson was about to take a dive, I hit the brakes.

“Hang on, guys. This is ridiculous. You’re making noises, pulling silly faces, and acting like everything is funny. How will anyone feel ready for the test with all this horsing around?”

The room was quiet for a moment. Then, near the back, a hand went up. “Jade?”

“Well, ... you could try using your happy voice, Mr. Bandstra. That would help us not be so bored.”

What?! I spent more than an hour crafting a lesson that would engage their interest, and now they were pinning their bad behavior on me?

Jade’s remark seemed so absurd that I almost laughed—until the rudeness sank in and I felt myself on the verge of a rant.

I get it. After 30+ years of teaching, a random entitled comment shouldn’t knock me off balance. But it still does, occasionally. 

Part of the reason is my softhearted personality. I’m inclined to take things personally. But there’s also a wealth of neuroscience and attachment research that explains the volatility in teachers who aspire to show professionalism and care.

For example, when the nervous system feels threatened, it can pull us into our emotional brain, denying access to the essentials of healthy communication—rationality, flexibility, and empathy. Even words themselves may escape us.

When fight-or-flight takes over, how do we regain balance and shift a recalcitrant group back on course? One strategy is to create a distraction. A topic switch. A topic shift awakens curiosity, and curiosity fuels other executive brain functions that support healthy interaction.

What distraction was within my reach? Since our review session marked the end of a study topic, I hoped that a preview of our next investigation would shift the disinterest. 

I took a slow, calming breath to regain composure. My unexpected quietness disrupted the silliness as kids began to wonder what my next move would be. “I think we need to switch gears,” I said.

Pulling up slides of our next topic—I showed mushrooms perched on tree trunks, mold attacking bread, and kids from previous years performing yeast experiments. The novelty of the images sparked questions and conversation, rerouting energy to my oxygen-starved executive brain. And so, the unhealthy group vibe shifted in a more positive direction.

What about the students’ bad behavior, you ask? Or Jade’s ill-mannered comment?

I hear you. Employing the diversion tactic felt like giving in, allowing wrong to have the final say. Yelling at the class, or punishing them with extra homework, might have regained my rightful control that afternoon. 

But healing often takes more time.

My justice nerve aches to retaliate—to set things right in the moment. But my larger goal is to treat the microbes that spoil classroom dynamics, like self-centeredness and disrespect, while cultivating more flourishing dispositions, such as compassion and a desire to learn.

So I pushed down the urge to give the students what they deserved and focused instead on providing what they needed—a glimpse of the bigger picture, an opportunity to experience regret, a desire to act with care.

Certainly, the noises, the silliness, and the discourteous remark called for a response. I would address those wrongs, but not immediately.

In the next piece, I’ll describe how I returned to this moment and what a healing response required. 

Names and identifying details have been changed to protect student privacy.

This essay begins a three-part exploration of classroom conflict and healing.