In Praise of ‘Difficult’ Kids

In 1996, I was a freshly minted high-school history teacher offering a lesson about the presidential election. Ned, who sat in the back row, was doing what Ned always did: making his classmates laugh. He had a gift for the well-timed quip. His comebacks flew so quickly, it was as if he’d prepared them in advance. Generally, he seemed to invest more energy in entertaining the room than in whatever we were studying.

A few years ago, Ned reached out to me on Facebook. He is now a high-school English teacher. In his message, he recalled in great detail the debates we’d had about the Civil War, the play our class had performed about Vietnam, the days I had assigned students to bring in a newspaper article and explain it to the class—which is when he had started reading the paper. And all this time, I’d assumed Ned hadn’t been paying attention.

Truth be told, in my 30 years in schools, I’ve met a lot of kids like Ned: the ones who won’t stop with the commentary; the ones who raise a hand not to answer a question but to challenge its premise; the contrarians and antagonists who make some teachers quietly miserable. These students can be exhausting. They are also among the most important in any school, and the ones whom educational institutions tend to be the most at risk of failing.

Schools are, among other things, reward systems. The adults dispense grades, awards, and leadership positions, and the students who most often accumulate these tend to be the ones who make teachers’ lives relatively painless: They do what they’re told and give the adults what they want. To be clear, teachers aren’t intentionally cultivating blind obedience; they simply have a roomful of students and not enough time, which may lead them, understandably, to reward compliance.

But I’ve seen a lot of children grow up—and I’ve come to believe that many of the adults whom we ultimately admire most were not easy teenagers. They were the ones who sometimes seemed irritated at their teachers or alienated from the classroom. These “difficult” kids aren’t necessarily trying to be difficult. Many possess a sort of moral fire, a quality that drives them to ask questions or push teachers’ buttons because they believe that the adults around them can, and should, do better.

[Read: The wrong way to motivate your kid]

I think, for instance, of the many students who have written for our high-school newspaper and used the platform to criticize school leadership. They have eviscerated us for falling short of stated commitments, for not allowing more student participation in decision making, and for not making the paper 100 percent independent (though I would argue that it’s 99 percent independent, with 1 percent reserved for rare cases in which student safety, for example, could be at risk). Various student articles have made administrators uncomfortable; some have wanted to block their publication. But it’s tough to teach kids about the value of a free press if we don’t model support for press freedom ourselves. (Many of these students have gone on to professional journalism careers—graduating from holding school leadership to account to holding national leaders to account.)

Then there are the kids who come into my office, sometimes agitated and angry, to talk politics. At times, students have wanted me to be more outspoken about issues of national import. They have argued that anything less than a full-throated critique of certain policies is an abdication of responsibility and a failure to live up to our school’s mission of fostering “concern for others.” I could, in these instances, react defensively. But generally, I’m glad to be confronted—because these students are displaying the kind of moral engagement that our school encourages. It also gives me a chance to show that adults don’t always have everything figured out: I’ve told kids that I’ve struggled with calibrating when to use my own voice versus when to allow space for students to find theirs.

Teachers may find lots of ways to celebrate their “easy” students. But in doing so, they can risk subtly muting other students’ voices, or chipping away at their sense of self. In an English class, for example, some teachers might look for “right answers,” praising interpretations of texts that mirror their own viewpoint; I’ve heard students cynically advise classmates that getting an A from some teachers requires a specific ideological slant. A student who argues an alternative position isn’t inevitably wrong, however; they may instead be practicing the independent thinking that schools claim to value. And if that student keeps getting B’s while others, who agree with the teacher, get A’s, they might conclude that they’re being penalized for holding an unpopular opinion.

The way awards are distributed or withheld can send a similar message. In a number of schools, I’ve noticed that the students who win prizes for character or citizenship tend to be those who make adults comfortable. The kids who challenge teachers—who make the adults’ jobs harder by calling out what they view as inauthentic or hypocritical—rarely get plaques, and might even be denied privileges, such as leading a student group or serving in student government. (I’ll admit that I have actively had to resist the temptation to reward conformity over pushback.)

Schools are, of course, not the only places that sand down a child’s edges. It happens at home, too, even when parents and other caregivers have the best intentions. Consider a scene that plays out in countless households: A child, hearing that the family will be visiting a relative, says, I don’t want to go. Last time, I was bored; no one talked to me. The child isn’t trying to be difficult. She is simply being honest, in the way that many kids are before they learn that honesty isn’t always welcome. But let’s say the father cuts her off: We’re going. It’s not open for discussion. He may be correct in naming the visit as nonnegotiable. But what he has unintentionally communicated is that his daughter’s experience of feeling invisible is unimportant—an inconvenience that doesn’t merit exploring.

A child who does what she’s told and doesn’t turn dinner into a debate makes family life smoother. But there’s a difference between teaching children to be kind and respectful, and teaching them to be quiet and deferential. With my own kids, when I remember to slow down long enough to listen, I typically learn something. My son has a gentle habit of calling me out when I say something that doesn’t land right, or when I make an easy joke at someone else’s expense. He won’t laugh. He’ll say, with pointed sarcasm: “Ha ha.” It stings. But he is also quietly teaching me, making me the better person I’m trying to be.

[Read: Lighthouse parents have more confident kids]

Schools and parents shouldn’t try to produce contrarians just for contrarianism’s sake. But if we want to nurture children’s critical thinking and moral courage, here are four things adults can do:

Take kids seriously. When a child pushes back on a rule or decision, resist responding with authority alone. If you instead ask them to explain their reasoning and engage them in conversation, you’ll signal that their thinking matters. You may not end up changing your mind. But sometimes you may indeed be convinced—which will help demonstrate to the child that persuasion can be more effective than anger or rebellion.

Let them be right sometimes. When a child asserts that you said something unfair or that you didn’t follow through on a promise—and they’re correct—say so. Kids who learn that honest pushback can change things will keep doing it. We should want kids to grow into the type of adult who will call out injustice, and who will work to set things right. Those who learn that speaking up changes nothing will stop.

Distinguish between disagreement and disrespect. A child who says, I don’t think that’s fair, and here’s why is doing something categorically different from one who says, I hate you, and this is the worst family, or You’re on a power trip. The former deserves a conversation. The latter probably needs a consequence (and a conversation). If you don’t make the distinction, you’re teaching the child that the problem was the disagreement itself, not how it was expressed.

Notice what you reward. Do you praise a child when they show integrity? When they refuse to go along with something they think is wrong, even at social cost? When they ask the question in class that no one else will? These moments are worth celebrating. Principled dissent, expressed with respect, can be hard and uncomfortable to communicate. So children need to know when you see it—and that you value it.

There’s no guarantee that so-called difficult kids will turn out to be great adults. Educators and parents shouldn’t commend the child who argues at every turn or disrupts just to elicit a reaction. The goal is to raise and educate young people who have internalized the difference between stubborn, reactive defiance and thoughtful disagreement. Properly guided, a child doesn’t just push back. They push forward.