Classroom Moments: Learning, Trust, and Human Connection

This section gathers small moments, quiet realizations, and stories from my classroom. Sometimes teaching feels less like giving knowledge and more like sharing life. Through these reflections, I hope to capture not only how my students learn, but also how I learn from them. These are moments shaped by curiosity, empathy, and the small human connections that make language come alive across cultures.

1. When “bruh” meets “天呐”

One of my students quietly went, “bruh...” after hearing that there will be a quiz next week. I couldn’t help laughing and said, “In Chinese, we’d probably say ‘天呐.’ It’s basically the same vibe!” The class cracked up.  Little moments like this remind me that teaching a language is really about building bridges between feelings, not just words.

天呐（tiān na）

A common Chinese exclamation used when you feel surprised, shocked, or speechless, kind of like saying “Oh my god,” “Wow,” or in this case, “bruh.” It doesn’t literally mean “heaven,” even though “天” means “sky” or “heaven.” It’s more about expressing emotion than meaning words literally.

2. When “Ohio” meets “来了”

Before starting the class, I had a wonderful conversation with the students that really set the tone. We talked about how different generations express themselves. College boys often greet each other with their own special routine: they start with a firm handshake, and finish with a quick snap or a playful shoulder tap and say, “What’s up, bro?” Older adults also shake hands, but theirs usually feels more formal and contained. 

Meanwhile, college girls throw out phrases like “slay,” or “you ate,” using words that carry encouragement and humor. Gen Alpha often uses slang terms like “Ohio,” “rizz,” and “sus,” which often reference popular internet memes. One student taught me their word “twin," which they use for close friendship. It was such an interesting moment, seeing how language and gestures evolve across time and culture.

The whole class was so engaged, and there was this light, relaxing atmosphere. It reminded me of how in China, older generations might greet each other by saying “吃了吗?” (have you eaten?) or “散步啊?” (going for a walk?), while younger people might just say “嗨”（hi）or “来了啊”（you came). It’s beautiful how these small expressions can connect us. That moment really made me feel how much we all enjoyed learning from each other, even before the class officially started.

3. When students’ questions meet politics

Many language teachers have probably experienced awkward or unexpected moments in classes. I have too. How we respond in those moments really matters.

Once I was suddenly asked by one student, “台湾是中国的吗？” which means “Is Taiwan part of China?” The grammar is correct, and the student used what we learned perfectly. No kidding, for a second, I froze. The whole class laughed. I knew the student wasn't trying to be political, just curious. But still, it was one of those delicate moments.

I took a deep breath. I said gently in Chinese, “这个不太好，我们说别的,” meaning "This is not a good topic, let’s talk about something else.” Since it was a beginning-level class, I couldn’t say much more in Chinese anyway, so I quickly changed the topic. 

After class, I talked to them in English (we only use Chinese in class). I told them, “I really love that you ask questions in class, and I appreciate your curiosity. It’s just that we try not to discuss politics here, because it’s sensitive and might make some people uncomfortable. Different people, different perspectives. If you are interested, you can read more and explore why people think differently.” The student smiled and said, “这很有意思。” meaning “That’s really interesting.”

It’s never easy to balance students’ curiosity with avoiding sensitive topics. What I learned is to stay calm and focus on the learning moment itself. As teachers, we can always look for better ways to handle such situations with patience, reflection, and care.

4. When trust becomes a chorus

There is a small moment in my classroom that happens at the end of every class. As soon as I say “下课了” (The class is dismissed), all students look up, pause for half a second, and then almost magically say in perfect unison: “谢谢王老师！王老师再见！” (Thank you, Teacher Wang. Goodbye.) 

Every. Single. Time.

It is such a synchronized, cheerful chorus that I always have to stop myself from laughing. Not because it is funny in a silly way, but because it feels so unexpectedly warm. Like a little ritual we never planned but somehow created together. From a pedagogical perspective, moments like this matter deeply. They signal emotional safety, trust, and the sense of belonging that makes language learning possible. When a whole class speaks to you together—not out of obligation, but out of comfort—you will know the relationship has become part of the learning itself.

And maybe that’s my favorite part of teaching: the human chemistry that forms quietly, spontaneously, and sometimes even a little adorably. These are the moments that stay with me.

5. When learning is hard to measure (2/4/2026)

In my teaching practice, I often observe that some of the most meaningful learning moments occur outside formal evaluation metrics, even when they take place in regular class sessions. Much of this work is difficult to quantify and often remains invisible in standard assessment frameworks. Recognizing this has shaped how I think about teaching, not as short-term performance, but as a sustainable, long-term practice. I strive to create learning environments that are both academically rigorous and emotionally sustainable for my students and for myself.

For example, when teaching the Chinese Zodiac, I introduce a short song during class, without taking much instructional time, to help students internalize both sequence and cultural meaning. The song, performed by Leehom Wang, includes lyrics such as:

子鼠丑牛寅虎卯兔 Zi Rat, Chou Ox, Yin Tiger, Mao Rabbit;

辰龙巳蛇午马未羊 Chen Dragon, Si Snake, Wu Horse, Wei Goat;

申猴酉鸡戌狗亥猪 Shen Monkey, You Rooster, Xu Dog, Hai Pig.

这就是十二个生肖 These are the twelve Chinese zodiac animals.

These lyrics combine the twelve Chinese zodiac animals with the Earthly Branches (zi, chou, yin, mao, etc.), an essential part of the Heavenly Stems and Earthly Branches system that structures time, years, and cosmology in Chinese culture.

At first, students often feel shy and hesitant. When I sing the opening lines, the room is quiet. Gradually, as they feel more comfortable and supported, they begin to join in. By the end, they are able to write down the zodiac sequence with confidence. This blend of music, rhythm, and repetition makes learning enjoyable, but more importantly, it helps students internalize knowledge in a way that feels safe and memorable.

Experiences like this remind me that emotional support and meaningful engagement are integral parts of teaching. These moments are hard to quantify, but they are often the most meaningful learning moments of all, vital for student growth, confidence, and connection.

Here, emotional support does not mean encouragement in a superficial sense. Rather, it refers to the deliberate creation of a sense of security in the classroom—one that allows hesitation, silence, and even shame to exist without judgment. It involves acknowledging students’ discomfort, normalizing uncertainty, and gradually transforming the belief of “I cannot do this” into “I might be able to try.” This kind of emotional labor is subtle, relational, and deeply human. It is difficult to quantify, cannot be automated, and does not scale easily through technological solutions.

In an era of rapid AI development, this dimension of teaching becomes not less relevant, but more precious. As efficiency, speed, and automation increasingly shape educational practices, the ability to hold space for vulnerability, risk, and transformation remains something that cannot be replaced. These moments, though invisible to most evaluation metrics, are central to learning, and essential to what it means to teach.

6. When teaching meets Dream of the Red Chamber (2/10/2026)

In one class, I draw a love triangle on the board: Jia Baoyu, Lin Daiyu, and Xue Baochai.

I ask my students to tell me a story. Who loves whom? What happens between them? When do things change? And why does the ending turn out the way it does?

Then I ask a question that brings the story closer to their own lives:

When choosing a partner, do you care more about appearance, shared interests and values, or family background and money? As students take turns telling one part of the story, three explanations for the ending emerge.

Some students argue that Xue Baochai represents financial stability and family interest, and that marriage in the Jia family is ultimately a decision about money and resources rather than love.

Others focus on upbringing and personality. They observe that Lin Daiyu grew up deeply loved by her parents and never needed to please authority, while Xue Baochai, growing up more dependent on others, learned to be obedient, careful, and socially appropriate — qualities valued in a large household.

One student names the structure directly: a feudal society. In such a system, marriage is not about emotional truth, but about order, obedience, and stability.

By the end of the class, the love triangle is no longer just a plot device. It becomes a complete story the students have built together — one sentence, one voice, one perspective at a time.