An elderly teacher, now enjoying the well-earned oblivion of retirement, is approached by a bright-eyed young man.
“Do you remember me?” the young man inquires, expectantly.
The old man, who has long since abandoned the futile task of remembering former students who have grown indistinguishable in their adulthood, simply replies, “No.”
Undeterred, the young man eagerly explains, “I was your student once.”
The old man sighs, resigned to the conversation. “And what do you do now?”
“I became a teacher,” the young man announces proudly.
“Ah,” the old man muses, “so the cycle continues.”
The young man nods with enthusiasm. “In fact, I became a teacher because of you.”
The old man, now mildly intrigued, raises an eyebrow. “Oh? And what stroke of pedagogical genius inspired you?”
The young man launches into his tale:
“Once, a classmate of mine came in flaunting a rather nice watch. Naturally, my budding sense of entitlement dictated that I should have it instead. So, I took it.
“Unfortunately, my friend noticed the loss and, in a fit of completely reasonable distress, reported it to you. You, being the all-knowing authority figure, addressed the class with a diplomatic decree: ‘Someone has stolen this student’s watch. Return it.’
“As you can imagine, I was not about to self-incriminate. So, you devised a solution—one that was nothing short of a masterstroke in both justice and subtle psychological warfare.
“You asked us all to stand, close our eyes, and remain blissfully ignorant while you searched our pockets, ensuring that no one—least of all me—would suffer public disgrace.
“When you found the watch in my pocket, you did not announce my crime to the class. You simply continued the search, theatrically completing the process before declaring, ‘We have found the watch.’
“No moral sermon followed. No public execution of my dignity. No triumphant lecture on ethics. You left me alone with my conscience, and in doing so, you taught me more than words ever could. That day, I decided never to be a thief again.”
The old teacher listens, nodding along with the polite patience of someone who has heard one too many heartfelt revelations over the years.
“And do you remember this moment?” the young man asks eagerly.
The old man chuckles. “I remember the stolen watch. But I don’t remember you, because, you see, I closed my eyes too.”
A pause. A realization. A lesson in its purest form.
Because, after all, if correcting someone requires public humiliation, then one is not teaching—one is simply indulging in performative punishment.
And that, dear reader, is the difference between an educator and a mere dispenser of discipline.
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