Stick everyone who could make education reform happen, who is blocking education reform, or who isn’t interested in improving education in a classroom with 30 or more eighth graders. It would make waves. Of course this idea came to me as I started teaching again this school year. I have two classes with more than 30 students, and one happens to be eighth grade.

I’ve been thinking a lot about learning environments recently, and specifically how learning is significantly imperiled by each additional student you add to a class after 15. In my experience, 15 students is a golden number. Fifteen students is just enough to create some diversity of opinion, but not so big that students can easily hide from participating.

Before I started teaching in Paraguay, I was aware of the class-size discussion. Student to teacher ratio was something my parents sometimes discussed. It was something I was told to look at when picking a university. A low ratio of students to faculty members was something I touted when I helped recruit for my college. But, now that I’ve taught myself, I have a better understanding of why it is important to keep a balance between teachers and students.

Here are some of the differences between my classes that have around 15 students and my classes of around 30 students:

There are a lot of elements that go into making an environment optimal for learning. There are a lot of factors that make a teacher effective or ineffective. But, the short and long of it is that if the structure of the classroom itself is set up to falter, even the greatest teachers and the most studious students are at a disadvantage. I’m not saying that all students who are part of a large class aren’t learning. I’m saying that they deserve better. Ensuring that classes are an optimal size shouldn’t be debated. It should be an integral part of education infrastructure no matter where a kid goes to school.

Recently the volunteers in my region organized a career/college fair for high school students. During the event we had activities to help youth think about their future and set goals. We also had a wonderful group of Paraguayan professionals join us to share how they got to their current positions of success.

The Paraguayans that spoke with us had amazing stories.

• The youngest woman on the panel, an accountant, talked about how difficult it was to leave the home of her parents to study. In Paraguay, it’s common for children to live with their parents until (or even after) they are married and leaving one’s community is uncommon. She talked about how hard it was to live with people who weren’t her family for the first time. She worked all day, attended class at night, and studied from evening until early in the morning.
• One woman is the director of a university, has a doctorate, and is earning another degree. She’s achieved this despite losing her mother at 9-years-old and navigating a childhood with a less-than-loving stepmother.
• The one man on the panel is the owner of a hostel in Asuncion that is popular among Peace Corps volunteers. He talked about how he’s always wanted to be his own boss. His love for travel inspired him to open a hostel. Before he was able to open the hostel he used to work 12-hour, sometimes 14-hour, days at other businesses. He is now successful enough to hire people to help him run the hostel, but when he started he was on call 24-hours, 7 days a week.
• Another woman left her family, the countryside, and everything she knew to study to become a professor at what many call the best university in Paraguay. She worked from early morning to afternoon, went to class in the afternoon, and studied in the evening. She was forced to go against her beliefs and sham support for the dictator as part of her admittance into the university—she noted how this was one of the most difficult parts of her studies for her.

These Paraguayans had inspiring stories and they also had good advice. They all recommended that youth find work about which they are passionate because, “work doesn’t seem like work when you love it.” They talked about making goals and sticking with them—even if it takes years to finally achieve them. They talked about finding inner motivation and strength to push through any obstacle.

One thing struck me, however, as I listened to them. They talked a lot about sacrifice and hardship. The warning of sacrifice and hardship is a familiar yarn to me because that’s what first my high school teachers, then my college professors, and then my bosses talked about when giving me advice.

It’s not bitterness that made these Paraguayans and all of my mentors focus on the sacrifice and hardship that got them to where they are. They forewarned that the path to personal success is bumpy and hazardous because they wanted to help prepare youngsters for the journey. Listening to the tale of challenge being told to the next wave of aspiring youth I had doubts.

We all must make sacrifices and face hardship in life. As someone in my childhood used to say, “If life were easy, it would be pointless.” But now being the listener, not just the sapling trying to soak in every drop of wisdom, our emphasis on hardship gives me pause. I don’t think youth need warnings or cautionary tales. They already know life is perilous. They need inspiration and encouragement to find their strength. We can tell our stories without giving them a tragic edge.

The matter-of-fact stories of my great-grandmother come to mind. She was born in 1907 to parents only several years settled in the US, having come from Germany. She lived into her 90s—almost 100 years of history that spanned 2 world wars, the Great Depression, and countless other moments that made history. Her stories never talked about sacrifice or hardship, they talked about life. Things happened and she survived them, and by telling her stories she implied that us (the listeners) would survive life too. She suggested, with her smile, that we would probably not just survive, but we might also give life a good run for its money.

Life is sacrifice and hardship. Even the happiest children know about challenge and disappointment. But, what we (adults) know that maybe youth don’t know yet is how to survive, even when the hurdle is more than dropping your ice cream cone. We’ve had more years of trouble and yet we haven’t lost sight of happiness.

When we tell our stories we can’t just focus on the events. We should share our thoughts and emotions. We should tell the greens what we learned and what made us smile and laugh despite everything. Youth want to know how we found the light because they’re still in the tunnel. They don’t want to just hear our take on the tunnel.

When I say I’m teaching in the school here’s what it means. The class is filled with 20-30 students. There aren’t desks for everyone, and if it’s the first class of the day some students inevitably have to wonder off in search of a chair. The chairs have seen better days—they’re covered in graffiti, their desk arm is broken, they’re a little crooked.

The classroom door won’t stay closed, so if I want to reduce distractions I have to prop a chair against it. All classrooms have chalkboards—they don’t always have erasers, so sometimes I use a broom. My school has a projector, but I haven’t worked up the courage to try it yet, mostly because I worry its setup will take half the class period. Between transitions in the school and holidays and any number of activities that get in the way of learning time I don’t want to lose time—it’s a useless obsession of mine to attempt to have no wasted time in my class, but it’s one of those unachievable goals I strive for anyway.

There’s always a group of students in the back who hardly (or won’t) participate. In the younger grades those students do their homework for the next class, and in the older grades those students listen to music, send texts, and crack jokes. There’s usually one student who wants to help, one students who simply disappears, one student who looks utterly confused, one student who looks on the verge of sleeping, and one student who looks vaguely interested. The rest of the class falls into those categories too.

Before Paraguay, I’ve heard it argued that teaching is a gift or that teaching is something you learn. From my time in the classroom I’ve come to a hybrid conclusion. The mechanics of teaching well is something you learn—through a somewhat painful process—and the ability to find the nugget that makes any subject interesting is a gift.

Each class I teach I think is better than the last. I haven’t got the teaching thing down flawlessly, but I have plenty of time to get there. I’m getting better because I’m seeing first hand what my students like and dislike. I’m also uncovering my own limitations. Language is a problem, so I’m learning what kinds of things I can explain and which ones are just beyond me right now. Not a class passes without me wondering if and how much better the class would be if I was fluent in the language.

I don’t see any value in fighting my students. My desire is to find a way where my interest in the topic of the class is contagious. I’m getting closer. The students are starting to get used to me—I wouldn’t say that familiarity is translating to greater respect but it is crumbling some of the barriers they put up between us when I first entered their classes. I keep telling myself that I have next year. I focus on listening to them. I want to know what makes them tick. I want to know what drives them. I reflect on every class and think about what worked and what didn’t work. I’m reading about classroom management. I ask other volunteers about their teaching experiences.

Looking back, I’m mystified how my high school teachers were motivated to enter their classrooms day-in and day-out for years. There is a wonderful energy that emanates from the youth in my school, but it doesn’t always make up for the hours of preparation and grading. I keep telling myself that I never know how I’m impacting my students. I like to think that something I talk about will stick, will make a lasting impression, will have a positive impact. But, I’ll never know.