In his famous—and often misunderstood—essay “Self-Reliance,” Ralph Waldo Emerson writes, “There is a time in every man’s education when he arrives at the conviction that envy is ignorance; that imitation is suicide; that he must take himself for better, for worse, as his portion; that though the wider universe is full of good, no kernel of nourishing corn can come to him but through his toil bestowed on that plot of ground which is given to him to till.” As always, Emerson is very idealistic in this statement. To arrive at such a point of confidence and embrace such a staunch work ethic is a lofty goal indeed. But I believe it to be a worthy one, in fact the most important one I seek to help my students—and myself—achieve. After all, Emerson’s statement noticeably omits the word “teacher,” for our most important role is always as students of the universe, what we in modern educational vernacular might call “lifelong learners.” I am on a journey with my students, and I am ever reminded that I have as much to learn from them as they do from me. As soon as I see myself solely in the role of expert, I am depriving both them and myself of important opportunities.

When I recall my own most productive and interesting experiences as a student I realize that my success stemmed from my own level of engagement with the material at hand. Often a good teacher’s enthusiasm helped to spark or further my interest, but ultimately my success depended on how much I did to satisfy my own curiosity. Reflecting on my most successful endeavors as a teacher I see that my students’ success depends more on their level of engagement than on my own. When I stand in front of the classroom and only play the role of the expert, the key to all knowledge on the subject, my students become complacent and dependent. I can inspire them with my interest in and knowledge of a subject, but if I just give them all the answers, where is their incentive to ask better questions? Why will they want to grow their own corn if I’ve already fed them?

The challenge, then, becomes how to execute such a plan responsibly, how to create and foster the environment I find most conducive to learning. The extreme Emersonian response—to answer every question with a simple “Go find out for yourself”—is obviously an irresponsible one. What, then, is my role in this exchange? First, whenever possible, I want a classroom in which I do less of the talking than my students do. From the beginning of the semester, I seek not only to tell but also to show them that education is an active experience, one that will only have meaning if they take responsibility for their own learning. My classes are based on discussion, whether in small groups and whole classes, with only occasional lectures. I encourage them to ask questions not only of me but also of themselves, and most importantly I try to teach them always to look for more than one possible answer; there are not right and wrong answers in my classroom.

Secondly, I see myself as a model who can help engender enthusiasm in my subject of interest. By showing my love of literature and language I hope I can arouse the intellectual curiosity that I know resides within them. I believe that many of our students have learned to be passive; after all, entertainment is much easier than education, and they are bombarded with opportunities to be “entertained” in our culture. But, at the same time, I believe there is a basic human curiosity that can inspired by seeing the possibilities of a more carefully examined life. They have learned to be passive; they can also learn to be active. When one of my students asks a question that I don’t know the answer to, I go find the answer and bring it back to class—with an explanation of how and where I found it and what that knowledge adds to the discussion at hand. I encourage them always to do the same, and often when they see the product of even such small endeavors, they will begin to find ways to satisfy their intellectual curiosity on their own.

Ultimately, my job as a teacher is rather ironic—it is to make myself unnecessary. I want my students to reach an intellectual place where they can become the self-reliant thinkers that Emerson imagined. Yes, I want them to succeed in my class, but more importantly, I want them to succeed beyond it. The education of which Emerson speaks, after all, is not that of a “student,” but of a human being.