On that fateful morning, I found myself standing over a boy with a pencil-sized bullet hole in his head… 

I was on yard duty at a middle school in California during morning recess. On a typical day, I would teach six periods of seventh-grade life science after recess. But on that day, I found myself thrust into an unexpected role—the first responder to a horrible act of violence. 

It happened in the street just outside the fence that encircled our school. The five gunshots that pierced the air right next to me compounded by the subsequent rush of students running past me to see who was lying in the street left me in shock. Since I was the closest teacher to the scene and had a key to the nearby gate, I hurried to the mound of clothing crumpled on the street to see if I could help. 

I will never forget that moment…the blood, the way his eyes rolled back in his head, and how he struggled for each breath. Minutes later, another teacher showed up with a cloth of some kind, pressing it on his wounds and speaking reassuring words as she cradled his head in her lap. Sirens soon descended upon us from every direction and paramedics and police took over the scene. 

I don’t recall how much time passed, but I gave my statement to the police and eventually ended up back in my empty classroom. The teacher next door had whisked my students into her room while they waited for my return. When they came back and settled into their seats, I remember standing at my podium looking out at thirty pairs of eyes. They could tell I was shaken, and I imagine they were wondering, What now? 

If given a choice, I would have preferred to go home, sit down for a while, and attempt to process all that had just happened. But that wasn’t an option. Making sense of the trauma outside in the street would have to wait because there were thirty students inside my room watching me. I needed to put my questions, concerns, and heightened emotions aside and teach a science lesson. I had a job to do. 

So, I looked down at my neatly typed lesson plan and said the only thing I could think of: “Open your books to page 37.” 

That evening at home and in the days and weeks that followed, I had the opportunity to process the horrific act of violence I had witnessed. 

I asked God, “Why did you allow me to experience that traumatic episode? Is there anything good that can come from something so horrible?” 

He revealed some of the answers to these gut-wrenching questions right away. Other answers didn’t come until years later when I was teaching high school biology in another district… 

We were nearing the end of what had been a really long school year when the principal of my high school pulled me aside and asked if I would consider a different teaching assignment in the fall. 

“Mike, we want you to keep teaching biology three periods a day, but we also want to give you three periods of juniors and seniors who are behind in credits and in danger of not graduating.” 

I thought, Yikes! These are the most difficult students in our school—the unmotivated ones in danger of not graduating. 

Without really processing the unexpected request, I asked, “What curriculum would I teach in these classes?” 

His answer surprised me. 

“We don’t have anything. Just work your magic.” 

At the time, I couldn’t think of a strategy in my toolbag that could turn apathy into effort. I had never taken a class in my credential program, nor had I ever seen a professional development training that offered even one magical cure for the proverbial “I don’t care attitude” so prevalent in these unmotivated students. 

Nevertheless, for some unexplainable reason, I agreed to teach this class…And I am so glad I did!

Over the summer, I prayed a lot about this new assignment. I asked God, “How can I reach these students? How can I connect with them and get them to believe in themselves again? How can I inspire them, get them working, and help them see a way forward to a bright future?” 

During those days of seeking and praying, the Holy Spirit stirred a new thought within me. It came in the form of several questions: What were the roots of their apathy? When did they give up on school? Why did they give up on school? 

With these questions in mind, I began to consider the trauma that some of these students may have experienced. God reminded me that I had been an adult and seasoned professional when my world was rocked after seeing that boy shot down in the street that day while on yard duty.  

I thought, Maybe these students have experienced trauma too, but are not mature enough yet to process their questions, concerns, and heightened emotions. Maybe they can’t set their problems aside long enough to focus on what needs to be done in school.

In the aftermath of my traumatic experience, I was able to hold it together on the outside pretty well at work. But on the inside, I found myself struggling for many weeks to get past the memories of that horrific day. At night when I tried to sleep, I couldn’t control the wave of emotions that started in my belly and swelled up through my chest. Sometimes the wave would push so hard it would leak out through my eyes. It was raw and real—a kind of grief and sadness mixed together that I couldn’t explain to anyone. I covered it well. But in the quiet moments, I struggled. Repeatedly.

As I continued to pray about how to help these “at risk” students, I found myself wondering, What do they struggle with in their quiet moments? What traumas are they facing that no one understands, or even knows about? 

Praying and listening to the Holy Spirit’s guidance for this new teaching assignment led me to develop a new strategy, one I had never considered: Ask them to share their stories!  

On the first day of this new teaching assignment that fall, I told them about the boy who was shot in the street and how I struggled through the trauma of that experience. I shared how I (as an adult) was able to stay in control of my emotions, gather my thoughts, and focus on what needed to be done.

With their full attention, I continued, “I wonder if some of you are struggling with school right now because you aren’t able to do what I did just yet.” 

Some of them seemed a little skeptical that I could understand what they were going through, so I got a little more vulnerable with them and told them a little more of my story. I told them how things were rough at home when I was their age. I told them about the rebellious six months when I dabbled in drugs, got high at school, punched a kid in shop class, and mastered the art of lying. I shared how my parents went through some ugly times as they struggled to hold their marriage together and how confused and traumatized I was during those episodes. 

My purpose was to let them know I was no stranger to storms or to the reality that sometimes school doesn’t seem very important. Sometimes, when a dark cloud settles over your life, it can overshadow everything else. 

After sharing all of this, I gave them a writing assignment. I asked, “Will you tell me your story? When did you start falling behind in school and why?” 

Some students were understandably reluctant and guarded about writing their personal stories, sharing only the bare minimum. Others opened up and wrote page, after page, after page. Their stories were incredible! I read about abuse, divorce, adoption, fathers or mothers deployed overseas, drugs, bad friends, juvenile hall, fighting, expulsions, complete lack of supervision, dysfunctional parents, and more. Some students had attended as many as ten different schools in eleven years and had given up on trying to make friends…again. 

One young man said his parents were “back East somewhere” and he hadn’t seen them in years. I asked how he had gotten to the West Coast, and he said he and his brother came by train. 

“Amtrak?”  I asked.

“No. Boxcars.” 

I had hitchhiked home from college a few times against my parents’ wishes. But hearing about this teenager’s trip across the country in boxcars rendered me momentarily speechless.

As I read their stories and then talked with them privately at my desk while others worked on assignments, I realized being frustrated and impatient with these unmotivated students, though understandable, would not help them find their way out of the dark cloud of apathy. What they needed most was love and a reason to try again. 

I’m guessing that when we entered this profession, most of us did not expect “lighting the way for our struggling students out of the dark cloud of apathy” to be a part of our job description. But for many of these struggling students, we may be their last and best chance. 

Jesus said to His disciples, “You did not choose me, but I have chosen you and appointed you so that you might go and bear fruit—fruit that will last” (John 15:16, NIV). 

What if this verse was not just meant for the twelve disciples closest to Him? What if it’s meant for you and me as well? 

Do you find yourself smack dab in the middle of difficult, apathetic, and unmotivated students? And do you ever find yourself desiring an easier assignment? I think we have all felt that way at one time or another. 

But what if we are exactly where God wants us to be? What if we have been chosen and appointed to be at this very place on an assignment to make a lasting difference?

I used to think, These kids need tough love. And while at times this is true, God revealed something as I was learning how to teach these struggling students: before I addressed their academic challenges, I needed to show them love. And for the most challenging students in our schools, hearing their stories is often how loving them begins. Taking the time to listen to them creates a connection and a feeling that someone finally gets them. Then, we can begin to ask more challenging questions like: Do you want to graduate? Are you ready to make some changes? If I give you some help, are you ready to pick up your pencil and try again? 

In my experience, the answer we hear more often than not at this point is: Yes!

When we discover the roots of our students’ apathy by listening to their stories, we learn something simple, yet magically profound: The most important thing we may ever teach them is how to take a deep breath, steady themselves, and open their books to page 37.

Why don’t my students care?

In his book Roots of Apathy, Mike uncovers the roots of the proverbial "I don't care attitude" that is so prevalent in our schools today. Using true stories from his classroom, he reveals truths about student apathy that educators can use to better understand and motivate students.

Mike Hicks taught high school in California for 24 years. He is now the Director of LIFT America, an outreach ministry of Christian Educators that helps organize gatherings of Christian educators in cities across America.  your story here…