This year I’m trying to be more conscious about student names — remembering them, pronouncing them, appreciating the subtleties. And does it ever get subtle: I have one class with three students whose names are similar enough to easily confuse. It doesn’t help that they are sitting close together. Nearby sit two students with names that are also very easy to interchange. My goal is to get them right, not out of any sort of perfectionist tendency, but because I’ve learned that this is one important area to create a fast rapport.  

This might seem like an obvious lesson, but it wasn’t for me. I always assumed students were easy-going about teachers botching their names at the beginning of the year. In the past, I did my best, and even prided myself on knowing my students’ names by the end of the first week. I made a few slip ups, but that’s life, right? 

Then, on the last day of school this past June, one of my best students reflected with me about one thing I did that annoyed her. It happened on the very first day of class. 

“You were calling role and you got to my name on the roster. You paused and said, ‘I’m sorry if I butcher this.’” 

I did indeed butcher her name, which she then corrected, and which I proceeded to pronounce properly the rest of the year. 

I had no memory of ever messing up her name. For me, calling role at the beginning of our first class was just part of the stressful first days of school. For her, though, it was one of the defining moments in the class.   

The story stuck with me. Over the summer I pondered why our students can’t empathize a bit with teachers in that area. Everyone is trying their best, and sometimes mistakes happen. Give someone a hundred and twenty names to read and they’re going to make some mistakes. What’s hard to understand about that? The student I offended on the first day had one of the most thoughtful and perceptive minds I taught all year. Why did that one incident mean so much to her? 

Eventually I reached the conclusion that no student wants to hear a butchered version of his/her name — even if it’s a name the student claims to hate. I reached this conclusion partly by way of an experience with my own name.  

Recently I encountered a man. The only important thing to know about him is that we had met and interacted a few times prior. I was not a stranger. He looked me up and down, pointed at me skeptically. 

“Jason?” he asked. 

I shook my head. 

“I called you Jason last time, didn’t I?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” I said. Which was a lie. I did know: he had called me Jason. And I had corrected him then.     

Was I annoyed? Deeply. I discarded any opportunity for empathy (I do have a…generic name) and instead glared at this man as he tried to make amends. How dare he disgrace me? 

We assign value to our names. To show attention to student names is to recognize their value.

This year, before calling role for the first time, I have students complete an online survey. As they work, I mover around the room, quietly say each student’s name to them, and make any pronunciation corrections on my roster as needed.  

I attended a training a few years ago where the session leader said that a teacher should always seek as much as possible to make a student look good in front of his/her peers. Mangling her name did not make my student look good. I didn’t remember that one beginning-of-the-year mispronunciation because I wasn’t the one being embarrassed. 

At my old job, where I taught much smaller classes in an alternative school setting, I was ending class one day and talking with my students about the upcoming week. There was a lot to discuss, as I was planning to be gone for a few weeks for my son’s birth. 

There was a student sitting at the front of the class. She had long dirty-blonde dreadlocks, thick glasses, and always wore tie dye shirts. She never spoke in class, and it was always a struggle to keep her head up. 

As I was talking with my other students about who the sub might be and how long I would be out, this student sat up in her desk, parted her dreads, and glared at me for a minute. 

“Do you have a name?” she muttered.  

All the other students stopped talking, stared at her for a moment, then looked at me. It was the first time she’d shown any interest in interacting with me. I felt a sudden existential crisis. How do you respond to such an elemental, downright obvious question. I tried to empathize with her, but boy was it difficult. After all, I was wearing a work ID with my name right there! 

I took a deep breath.     

“My name,” I said very slowly. “My name…is Mr. Scott.”  

She rolled her eyes. “No! For your kid.” She’d been listening the whole time. 

I don’t remember how the rest of that conversation went, and ironically enough, I don’t even remember her name. For as much as I try to value them while they’re in my class, I have a tough time hanging onto names once the student is gone.