Reflections on Teaching Prototyping: Lessons, Laughs, and Learning

This week, as I gathered my teaching evaluations to send across to a professor, I found myself reflecting. Now, I’m not here to boast (well, maybe just a little, but I'm not being cocky— I swear), but my teaching evaluations are immaculate. All good reviews. The three bad ones? Well, let’s call them ‘charmingly irrelevant.’ One was about group sizes, another from a student who had somehow managed to attend zero classes but still expected slides for personal study sessions (oh, how I wish for a magic wand), and the last lamented the temperature of the room (because comfort is clearly the most important form of education).

I scrutinized the second bad review, the one about slides. I do make slides—minimalist masterpieces, mind you. If you weren’t present, those slides would be more abstract art than a guide to learning. But that’s the point. If we’re just reading slides to you, we might as well record them on a loop and let you take a nap. Where’s the magic in that?

But I digress. A colleague once asked me why I consistently get great feedback. My answer was simple: The way I teach, is quite frankly, the sum of the teachers I adored and the ones I wished had existed for me.

Teaching is my sanctuary. It’s where I feel most alive. Even in college, I would study subjects just to teach them to my friends before exams. It was how I internalized the material; if I could explain it, I knew I understood it. As I entered my master's program, I taught my classmates—and somehow managed to get stellar evaluations (it was a pleasant surprise, really).

Now, a colleague who was pursuing his PhD alongside me thought I was gatekeeping, assuming that my approach was reserved for a chosen few. Trust me, I don’t gatekeep. For me, it was intuitive, but the accusation stung. So, over the weekend, I dove deep into my teaching style and explored its roots.

Observation 1: I don’t focus on slides. I grew up on a mix of blackboard and smart board teaching. I learned best when the chalk hit the board and the professor's pants also hit the dust. In college, I hated sitting through lectures where professors just read off their slides. It was mind-numbingly boring. It made me want to scroll through Instagram until my thumbs hurt. Cold calls during such lectures only made me want to learn less. I focused on clarity of concept rather than just knowledge transfer. So I made examples, I dumbed it down (proudly), and I made sure students took home more than just pretty slides. Slides were the background singers, not the rockstars.

Observation 2: Now, I’m young, so don’t come for me—but I focused on interaction. I wanted a semester experience for my students. I planned my weeks ahead of time, I played games (no, not Hunger Games), I made sure they networked, laughed, asked questions. If I didn’t know an answer, I admitted it without spontaneously combusting. I made sure messaging channels were open. I also started classes with something simple like, "I love the weather today" or "Ugh, it’s disgusting," just to humanize the space. These tiny cracks broke down the big wall between "professor" and "students." We don't want yes-men; we want thinkers! We want students to know it's okay not to know stuff—and then learn it.

Observation 3: I wasn’t afraid of complimenting and mentoring. I’d go 15 minutes early, stay 15 minutes late, and engage with students. If they gave great answers, I told them so like a proud aunt. For introverts, I'd quietly pull them aside and compliment them without putting them in a spotlight (because nothing says "nightmare" to an introvert like public praise). I even told students things like, "You’d be amazing at this." They came back with questions, and some kept in touch—probably because they realized I wasn’t an alien in a blazer.

Observation 4: Even in a class of 190, I learned their names. I asked them to use placards all semester and made an effort to pronounce every name correctly. If I messed up, I'd offer an apologetic smile so guilty it could get me out of a parking ticket. But this tiny effort made students feel seen. And the quiet ones? They made extra efforts in their own quiet, beautiful way.

Observation 5: I was lenient with time. One rule: Email me if you’re not coming. If you’re late, sneak in from the back like a cat burglar. Need to leave early? Fine, just don't announce it like a flight departure. My colleague thought I was nuts. But this freedom made them respect time more. Students showed up. Some were late—but they showed up and participated without the "late walk of shame" guilt-tripping them into silence. Life happens. No one’s dying.

I also made sure to tell them which lectures were fundamental. Not every lecture can be "life-changing," and pretending otherwise is a delusion. They respected this honesty and prioritized it accordingly.

Observation 6: I changed the way I gave assignments. AI exists. ChatGPT can write your essays while you nap. So I wanted them to think. Most learning happened in class. Assignments were small but meaningful. Group work was a priority—not because I’m cruel, but because working with the genius, the slacker, the bossy one, and the sweet silent type teaches you about life faster than any textbook.

Observation 7: I had boundaries. I'm young. Sometimes younger than my students. My boundaries were clear. I want to mentor and guide, but I set expectations on how and when I would respond. No 3 AM existential essay drafts, please.

Observation 8: I brought chocolates or treats. And yes, I incentivized competition. Welcome to life, kids! Not everyone gets a participation medal. The treats weren't fancy—they were the cheapest chocolates—but you would’ve thought they were gold bars based on how hard students worked. Competition ensured quality learning without me turning into a drill sergeant.

Observation 9: My goal wasn’t to "teach the best students." My goal was for even the weakest students to find their strength. I emailed students who were struggling. If they weren’t readers, I'd tell them to buddy up with someone who was. I'd check in before finals. I didn't want to "weed them out" to show how "tough" I was. I wanted to defend their growth.

Observation 10: It’s more than just teaching evaluations. It’s about whether a student has learned. A teacher has failed if their student hasn’t learned. I’m deeply grateful to the teachers who made an effort with me.

But hey, I’m no guru. I teach a different kind of class. Still, when I hear all the panic about AI and education, I think—maybe we can change the way we teach. Maybe it's time to get a little dusty with some chalk again.

In a world that often feels like it’s rushing toward AI, I find myself holding on to the little, human things that make learning personal. It's the chalk on the board, the awkward smiles when I mispronounce a name, the chocolates that become tokens of hard work, and the conversations where we’re not afraid to admit what we don’t know.

Education is about more than memorizing facts. It’s about shaping minds that question, that think, that reach beyond what’s expected. It’s about preparing students not just for tests, but for a world that requires empathy, creativity, and adaptability. If we’re going to face the future with all its uncertainties, we’ll need more than algorithms. We’ll need people who can think—and who aren’t afraid to fail, try again, and learn from it.

So, while I’m not out here claiming to have all the answers (I mean, if I did, I’d probably be in a different profession), I believe we can start with small changes. If we let go of the “one-size-fits-all” approach, embrace imperfection, and remember that teaching is about human connection, we’ll make a real impact. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll show our students that learning isn’t just something you do for a grade—it’s something you do for life.

(And maybe, just maybe, always carry a spare chocolate.)

Disclaimer: I know nothing. I'm Jon Snow.

P.S. Teachers and Professors are heavily underpaid and unappreciated — up your game world.