Four Pillars of Classroom Management (2012 Edition)

This is the email I send to new teachers who are struggling with classroom management. Although I wrote this in 2012, I still stand by these principles. I hope this helps new teachers find their way.

Mar 08, 2024

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This week's Torah content has been sponsored by the Fischbeins (who enjoy reading the sponsorship messages every week) in honor of Chen and Max's wedding and with a tefilah for lasting peace in Israel.

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Artwork: *Rabbi Schneeweiss and the Four Pillars*, generated by Adobe Firefly 2.0. An alternative version of the art showed a triumphant teacher facing the four pillars, framed symmetrically, but I opted for this version (a) because it alludes to the fact that when classroom management is done properly, it takes a back seat to the REAL role of teaching, which is to facilitate curiosity and wonder, and (b) that is CLEARLY me depicted in the art.

Four Pillars of Classroom Management (2012 Edition)

Preface

Serving as a “new teacher mentor” has long been a part of my job description. This began informally at Midreshet Shalhevet (a”h). For each new hire, I helped them navigate their daunting first year, guiding them through regular class observations, debriefings, and strategic consultations while providing a sympathetic ear to their challenges. This mentorship not only supported my peers during their lonely and frustrating early years but also enhanced my teaching skills and encouraged reflection on my own practices.

In the past two years, ten of my former and current students embarked on their own teaching journeys. Many of them reached out for guidance, which has reinvigorated my passion for active mentoring. This led me to dig up my old “classroom management email” which I wrote for those new teachers I couldn’t mentor directly who sought advice on managing their classrooms effectively. While classroom management isn't the sole marker of good pedagogy, it's undeniable that mastery of this skill tends to determine a teacher's success or failure in those crucial first years.

I was torn about whether to publish this email in its original form. Although the principles it outlines remain central to my classroom management approach, the document — written in 2012, just three years into my teaching career — reflects my inexperience. Moreover, this was written as an off-the-cuff email rather than as an authoritative article. Were I to write something like this today, it would look and sound quite different. Suffice it to say, over the past 12 years, I have grown and matured as an educator, and my mentoring style has developed with me. Nevertheless, I have opted to share it here with the content intact, edited only for style. I believe there is value in the informal words of 2012 Matt Schneeweiss — someone who had only recently transitioned from a “new” to a “novice” teacher and lived to tell the tale.

The email focuses on the four pillars of my classroom management philosophy:

The Kung Fu Insight, which first enabled me to gain control of my chaotic class,
Respect Your Students, which is the foundation of how I relate to my students,
The Storm Insight, which resulted from my study of Mishlei and Stoicism, and
Become Yourself, which is what enabled me to cultivate my own style

The pillars I've outlined are deeply rooted in my own experiences and worldview and might not hold universal applicability. Nevertheless, they were instrumental for my development at that time, and continue to form the foundation of my approach.

There’s one essential point I’d like to add that was absent from the original email. It should not be seen as a fifth pillar but rather as the bedrock upon which the four pillars stand. I once inquired of Rabbi Bernie Fox, my principal at Northwest Yeshiva High School, about his secret to successful classroom management. He seemed to effortlessly foster an environment where misbehavior was virtually nonexistent and students were deeply engaged. I asked: “How do you keep all your students on task?” He answered: “The first step is to ensure that the task is worth doing. If your students don’t see the value in the lesson, no classroom management techniques will make them learn.” While this email doesn’t delve into curriculum design or lesson planning, it’s important to acknowledge that both are critical to classroom management. Neither can truly succeed without the thoughtful integration of the other.

Without further ado, here is my 2012 “classroom management email.”

Introduction: My First Year of Teaching

My first year of teaching is what you would call a “trial by fire.” I was assigned the worst-behaved group of boys in the entire school. They had zero interest in learning, zero fluency in Hebrew (not to mention other basic skills and knowledge), and they routinely terrorized all of their teachers, causing at least one of them to quit. There I was: a new, inexperienced, and very young-looking teacher. There was blood in the water. The sharks smelled it, and they were poised for the kill.

I had read The First Days of School, by Harry and Rosemary Wong, and successfully implemented their techniques with my 11th grade girls. However, these same strategies only offered fleeting control over the 10th-grade boys, and the situation quickly unraveled after the first week. My own mentor, Rabbi Dr. Chaim Feuerman (z”l), came to evaluate me in September of that first year, and I could only describe my performance as pathetic. I couldn’t teach because I couldn’t control the class, and I couldn’t control the class because I couldn’t control myself. I felt defeated and hopeless. I feared that I had doomed myself for the remainder of the year … or so I thought.

It was in this pit of despair that I stumbled upon the first pillar of my approach to classroom management, which became the foundation of my approach to teaching.

Pillar #1: The Kung Fu Insight

I cannot pinpoint exactly what triggered The Kung Fu Insight, but this “awakening” in November marked a turning point in my approach to classroom management. It may have stemmed from inspiration or possibly Divine intervention, but it was most likely the result of sheer desperation, compounded by days filled with frustration, losing my temper, and a persistent feeling of failure.

The eureka moment came to me in the form of a childhood memory. When I was in 6th grade, I spent a year learning Tai Chi from a practitioner of Kung Fu. While the specific moves have faded from memory, the core principle my teacher instilled within me remained: the essence of Kung Fu lies not in meeting force with force, but in yielding to and redirecting an opponent’s energy towards your own objectives.

One day, in the middle of class, I decided to set aside all the techniques I had relied upon during the initial months of school, opting instead to embrace the Kung Fu principle without knowing where it might lead. Distilling this approach into a succinct, transferable method is difficult, as its essence lies more in the mindset than in the particulars. Nevertheless, I’ll attempt to illustrate what this looks like in practice by way of example.

In the past, disruptions in class would prompt me to reprimand the offenders and threaten them with consequences. However, on the day of the Kung Fu Insight, I observed that such disruptions naturally concentrated the students’ attention and energy on the source of the disturbance, especially when instigated by the class ringleaders. I also noticed that yelling at the students created a rift in the classroom — a “me vs. them” mentality — thrusting me and my students into “battle/survival mode” where we felt the need to stand our ground at all costs or be defeated. Such scenarios resulted in a lose-lose situation: if I “won” and managed to enforce silence with my threats, I would have already kindled too much hostility and resistance and impaired their ability to learn; and if I “lost,” then all hope of learning would be lost for the remainder of the lesson. In either case, I would emerge from the altercation emotionally and mentally unsettled, which is not a state of mind conducive to teaching.

Instead of attempting to quash these disruptions, I decided to leverage the focused attention generated by the outburst and redirect it towards educational ends, even if these ends deviated from my original plan. This strategy took various forms: if a student cracked a joke, I’d come back with a better one; if a student mentioned an off-topic subject, I’d engage them with questions to steer us back towards learning; if a student interrupted with misbehavior, I’d pose an analytical question or make an insightful remark that could invite constructive contributions from the whole class; if a student tried to get a rise out of me by making an anti-religious comment or voicing a “heretical question,” I took his question seriously and initiated a meaningful discussion.

This technique solved my problems. It preserved the inherent unity of the class, preventing further division and divisiveness that typically resulted from scolding. By avoiding the escalation into “battle/survival mode,” we could maintain a cooperative atmosphere in which nobody felt threatened. It enabled me to capitalize on the natural momentum generated by disruptions, harnessing it to facilitate smooth transitions back into learning. Most importantly, this technique enabled me to remain calm on the inside AND on the outside, which in turn, enabled me to focus my energy on teaching.

Here’s another, more unconventional example. One of the students consistently disrupted class by farting. (Remember: these were 10th grade boys.) This talented lad could fart on demand, doing so multiple times each class. I don’t know what was worse: his audible farts, which provoked exaggerated uproars from his classmates, or his SBDs (silent but deadly farts), which sent invisible tendrils of putridity undulating through the air, leading to a rolling wave of distraction )and nausea).

As you can imagine, this frustrated me to no end. I tried all the obvious interventions: kicking the “windbreaker” out, taking off points, forcing him to sit at the back of the classroom near the window – but to no avail. To complicate matters, a few other students started copying the chief flatulator. It became a competition and enabled them to play the “It wasn't me, it was him!” game whenever possible.

But shortly after I started implementing the Kung Fu approach, I had a radical idea. Since the farting was a regular occurrence, I knew I could count on it happening. One weekend, I decided to research the halachic topic of flatulence. There are several laws about farting during prayer and what to do if you smell someone else’s flatulence in a communal prayer or learning situation. I decided to prepare an “emergency lesson plan” to teach the students about farting as seen through the eyes of halacha. I even planned out what I would draw on the board: a stick figure representation of the farter (resembling the student offender), an illustration of “the blast zone,” and labels indicating the various distances with which halacha was concerned.

The next time a student farted in class, I immediately launched into the emergency lesson plan. I told the students to put away their notes, I pulled out the source sheets I had prepared, and I began drawing the diagram on the board while giving them an introductory overview of the area. We spent the entire rest of the period on that lesson, and continued it into the next day. The students were fascinated, they learned halacha, and I had succeeded in converting the inappropriate disruption into an opportunity for learning.

But that wasn’t the best part. The best part is that from that day on, the students no longer used farting as a way to disrupt class. I had unwittingly put a stop to that particular form of misbehavior — not by opposing it, but by yielding to it and redirecting it in accordance with my own objectives.

Kung Fu works.

Pillar #2: Respect Your Students

At around the same time, I discovered another secret of classroom management: if you genuinely respect your students and treat them as human beings — dare I say, as equals — then they will respect you in return. If this becomes the predominant way you relate to them, they will be willing to cooperate and listen to what you have to say.

Few things disgust me more than when an “adult” speaks in a patronizing, condescending manner to (or at) a teenager or child. I want to ask such adults, “Would you ever talk to a peer that way? How do you expect this youth to value what you have to say if you don’t even talk to him or her like a human being?” When I first started teaching, I vowed to do everything in my power not to fall into that trap.

This commitment manifests itself in several ways. First and foremost, I strive never to command, order, scold, or reprimand students (unless they’re engaged in behavior which is harmful or dangerous to themselves or others). Instead, I approach them respectfully, in a genuine, NON-condescending manner. For instance, if a student starts talking to their friend during a lesson, creating a distraction, many teachers might scold the offender or abruptly shush him. Others might adopt a condescendingly cloying tone, saying, “Jimmy, we don’t talk out of turn in our class” or “Jimmy, what have we said about chatting with our neighbors?”

Instead, I would address the student in a sincere and polite tone and give him an out, saying something like: “Hey Jimmy. If you want to talk to Bobby, I really don’t mind. But just do me a favor: step outside with him, have the conversation, then come back when you’re ready.” Typically, this would have a disarming effect, causing Jimmy to give me a wide-eyed look of confusion. I’d then reassure him, saying, “I’m serious. Go ahead and finish your conversation outside of class, take as long as you need, and then come back when you’re done. It’s just that I have a hard time concentrating when you’re talking in the back of the class and so do the other students.” Ninety-nine percent of the time, Jimmy will stop talking of his own free will. And if he really does need to finish the conversation, he’ll do it without feeling antagonized.

When implementing such interventions, it is crucial to remember that students can detect insincerity, so the only way to show respect is by actually respecting them. If you’re really NOT okay with him leaving class, then you’d be way better off telling him your true feelings than pretending you’re okay with something you’re not. My intervention only worked because they could tell that I meant what I said. They saw I wasn’t trying to trap or trick them, and that I didn’t hold it against them afterwards.

Another way I show respect is by treating every question as worthy of serious exploration and discussion, regardless of how ignorant, inappropriate, heretical, or stupid that question may be (and yes, there IS such a thing as a stupid question, but such questions should still be asked and answered). This, too, must be approached with sincerity. If a student boldly asks, “How do you know that the Oral Torah isn't made up?” or declares “Rambam was an idiot!” and sees you flinch, don’t attempt to conceal your true feelings. Ideally, you’ll be secure enough in your own beliefs not to flinch, but if you do, acknowledge it, own it, and engage in discussion from that place of authenticity and vulnerability. Being open about your thoughts and reactions can encourage students to reciprocate with openness.

I’d like to share another anecdote that exemplifies this principle and the Kung Fu principle. I was asked to give a shiur for high school students on Shavuos night at one of the big local shuls. Expecting only a few of my own students, I was surprised to find a room filled with 40-50 teenagers from various schools. To complicate matters, some of the boys were clearly inebriated. And it was at midnight.

Partway through my prepared shiur, a highly intoxicated boy entered, sat in the front row, and began “heckling” me – not with inappropriate comments but with provocative questions. As soon as I realized what was going on, I implemented the Kung Fu approach, backed by the principle of respect. How so? By taking his questions seriously and answering them.

I remember one of these questions clearly. While discussing the purpose of mitzvos, he blurted out, “Why can’t I touch girls?” to which I shouted back, “To make sex more enjoyable!” I proceeded to explain the concept of kedushah (sanctity), the Torah’s philosophy of moderation, and one of the rationales offered by the Sages for niddah, and I tied all these ideas together to explain the halacha colloquially known as “shomer negiah.” He listened attentively and ceased his heckling.

Two years later, while ordering food at a local restaurant, I noticed the server as the same young man. I didn’t think he’d remember me, but his eyes lit up and he exclaimed, “You’re that rabbi!” He recalled our Shavuos night discussion, admitting his embarrassment over his behavior, but acknowledging that he remembered my explanation of shomer negiah! My guess is that nobody had taken this kid seriously before, but his questions were legitimate and he simply needed someone to treat them — and him — with respect.

If you genuinely respect your students and communicate honestly with them, they’ll return the gesture. If you really listen to their questions and their ideas like you would a peer, then they will listen to you in the same way.

Pillar #3: The Storm Insight

(Note: In the original email, I listed this as Pillar #2.5 because, in a way, it’s the counterpart to Pillar #2. However, since this insight emerged as a distinct realization and necessitates a different mindset, I designated it as the third pillar.)

In my view, the most difficult aspect of respecting your students as human beings is to accept them for who they are: the good AND the bad. Acceptance does not entail “encouragement,” “approval,” or even “tolerance.” It means having realistic expectations. I once heard a psychologist state, “Expectations are premeditated resentments” – and it’s true. If you harbor unrealistic expectations of your students, you are setting yourself up for resentment and frustration.

This insight dawned on me shortly after my “Kung Fu awakening.” Entering my classroom one morning, I was immediately faced with the usual task of getting my rowdy 10th-grade boys to settle down. Their failure to automatically take their assigned seats at the start of class really irked me, and I could feel my frustration mounting. (Thinking back, this might have been one of the days that they were LITERALLY jumping off the walls and windowsills.)

Suddenly, I was struck by a profound thought. It felt as if everything around me froze, the stage lights dimmed, and I stood there alone in the spotlight of insight. The following imagery came to mind:

I am standing outside, at night, in the midst of a raging hurricane. The wind and rain whip through the trees around me with wild ferocity.

And as I stand there, exposed to the wild forces of nature, I ask myself: “Can I control the storm?” The unequivocal answer is: no.

And if I stubbornly insist that I CAN control the storm, I will only meet with frustration. The storm is what it is and will follow its own course, regardless of my desires and expectations.

It was then that I experienced a paradigm-shifting realization: these boys are the same as the storm. It is in the nature of these 10th grade boys to be inattentive, insensitive, and wild. It is in their nature to be interested in other things, and to resist any efforts to be controlled. It is in their nature to rebel, to push the buttons of authority figures, and to try to wriggle out of responsibilities. And just as it is folly not to accept the nature of the storm, so it is folly not to accept the nature of these boys. The storm is what it is, and these boys are who they are.

This acceptance coupled with my “Kung Fu” approach is what finally ushered peace and success into my classroom. Truthfully, it was the inner change that made the greatest difference. Once I accepted that these boys were wild – truly accepted it as a reality, as I would accept the reality of the storm – I no longer took their actions personally. I was able to be present in the room as an observer of human action, rather than feeling like a victim of untamed savages. My mind then became like a still pond, reflecting its surroundings without being perturbed.

This newfound sense of tranquility enabled me to make better decisions in my classroom management interventions and my teaching. In the past, students’ misbehavior would make me angry, which would then put them in defensive mode, which caused them to provoke me even more. But after The Storm Insight, this type of chain reaction didn’t even get started.

There’s a famous quotation attributed to Socrates that says: “Let him who would move the world first move himself.” The Storm Insight posits the inverse truth: If you cannot master your own behavior, how can you expect others to master theirs?

Pillar #4: Become Yourself

In my valedictory speech at the Azrieli Graduate School of Jewish Education and Administration, I expressed my gratitude towards two influential mentors: Dr. Feuerman and Bruce Lee. My approach to teaching and mentoring deeply incorporates the principles found in Bruce Lee’s writings on becoming a master craftsman. Here are three passages from these writings. Although his focus was martial arts, his words apply equally to the art of teaching:

‎(1) The wheel revolves when it is not too tightly attached to the axle. When the mind is tied up, it feels inhibited in every move it makes and nothing is accomplished with spontaneity. Its work will be of poor quality or it may never be finished at all.
(2) The second-hand artist, in blindly following the teacher, accepts his pattern and, as a result, his action and, above all, his thinking becomes mechanical, his responses automatic according to the pattern — and thereby he ceases to expand or to grow. He is a mechanical robot, a product of thousands of years of propaganda and conditioning. The second-hand artist seldom learns to depend upon himself for expression; instead, he faithfully follows an imposed pattern. So what is nurtured is the dependent mind rather than independent inquiry.
(3) Instead of facing combat in its suchness, then, most systems of martial art accumulate a “fancy mess” that distorts and cramps their practitioners and distracts them from the actual reality of combat, which is simple and direct. Instead of going immediately to the heart of things, flowery forms (organized despair) and artificial techniques are ritualistically practiced to simulate actual combat. Thus, instead of “being” in combat these practitioners are “doing” something “about” combat . . .
Is he a living, expressive human being or merely a patternized mechanical robot? Is he an entity capable of flowing with external circumstances, or is he resisting with his set of chosen patterns? Is his chosen pattern forming a screen between him and the opponent and preventing a “total” and “fresh” relationship? . . .
When one is not expressing himself, he is not free. Thus, he begins to struggle and the struggle breeds methodical routine. Soon, he is doing his methodical routine as response rather than responding to what is . . .
If any style teaches you a method of fighting, then you might be able to fight according to the limit of that method, but that is not actually fighting . . .
When, in a split second, your life is threatened, do you say, “Let me make sure my hand is on my hip, and my style is ‘the’ style”? When your life is in danger, do you argue about the method you will adhere to while saving yourself? Why the duality? …
Because one does not want to be disturbed, to be made uncertain, he establishes a pattern of conduct, of thought, a pattern of relationships to man. He then becomes a slave to the pattern and takes the pattern to be the real thing.

Bruce Lee’s critique of rigid martial arts styles is equally applicable to the craft of education. In the first year of teaching it is natural to seek out fixed “forms” and “techniques” of teaching and classroom management. There’s a temptation to believe that by emulating the “moves” of the Master Teachers, one can tap into their power and replicate their success. However, this approach is fundamentally flawed.

Bruce Lee opposed the notion of fixed martial arts “styles,” as highlighted in the passages above. He observed that adherence to rigid patterns caused individuals to lose touch with the spontaneity required to address real-life situations effectively. Furthermore, this slavish adherence often led to the suppression of one’s innate “self” in an effort to conform to the “correct” methods prescribed by experts, inevitably leading to stilted and unnatural practices.

Bruce Lee’s advice to his students was clear: “Always be yourself, express yourself, have faith in yourself, do not go out and look for a successful personality and duplicate it.”

My advice echoes this sentiment: become a master teacher by embracing and cultivating your natural approach. Instead of trying to mimic the techniques of so-called experts, forge your own style of teaching based on who you are. This will be difficult, since there is no guide or roadmap for this kind of development. Nevertheless, I think that in the long run, this is the key to success.

Think back to all the impactful teachers in your life and you’ll likely recognize that each of them possessed a unique and inimitable style. This is not a coincidence. Each of them taught in a manner true to their personality, beliefs, values, and intuition, which is precisely what made them master teachers.

What about the myriad techniques recommended by experts? The secret lies in adapting and personalizing these methods to align with your strengths and proclivities, transforming these techniques into something uniquely “yours.”

The same principle applies to the strategies I’ve detailed in this email. Just because they were effective for me does not guarantee they will yield the same results for you. My aim in outlining these principles and recounting my experiences is not to prescribe specific tactics, but rather to offer insight into my personal journey, illustrating how I carved out my path.

I recognize that this advice may come across as abstract. Indeed, truly grasping your teaching identity is something that largely unfolds through the practice of teaching itself. It is my hope that by sharing my journey, you will be inspired to discover and embrace the teacher that only you can be.

I am particularly interested to hear from teachers. What were YOUR first years like? What are YOUR pillars for classroom management?

The Rabbi Schneeweiss Substack

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