One of my new best friends is Robert Reich.

I’ve never met the man.

He doesn’t know me.

Yes, I do have an email from him, probably generated by his staff, saying, “Thank you for your support.”

I was somewhat aware of him way back when, when his name surfaced periodically with other major names.

Now I’m reading his daily blogs, I saw his movie, and I just finished reading his new book.

You, dear reader, may already know him, maybe even better than I do. If you don’t, you should.

I’ve said for years, “There are more of us than there are of them.”

There are more of me than I know. There are more of him than he knows.

His movie, The Last Class, is touring the country, shepherded by Heather Lofthouse, his young colleague we see every week on his Coffee Klatch.

His new book, Coming Up Short: A Memoir of My America, ends with a tribute to teaching, his beloved profession, as it is mine.

I’m about five years older than he is. I don’t have his influence, though I do modestly remark that I have been in touch with the high and mighty, have influenced elections, the leaders in art and education, and have caused countries to change their national policy.

Since you’re reading my blog, you’ll notice immediately the kindred spirit. Some quotes from his book:

p.342: “I’ve been a teacher for most of the last forty-two years. I’ve done lots of other things, but I’ve always come back to teaching. That’s been my home. My calling. I couldn’t imagine not teaching.”

I also knew I wanted to be a teacher from the first day I walked into my first class…

p.343: “I felt I had a lot to teach but also a lot to learn, and I learned a great deal from my students – from their questions, their insights, their excitement, their intense interest in every aspect…”

The moment I began teaching, I felt as if I was eating a wonderful meal for the first time. I instantly fell in love with teaching. I loved the liveness of it — the energy in the classroom, the electricity that would spark when I said something that students hadn’t thought about or provided a framework that made sense of what they previously had considered random phenomena….Almost every time, the students were enthralled. Almost every time, I learned something new.

Teaching is about getting students to reexamine the assumptions they entered the classroom with, getting them to see all the moving parts…

p.344: “Teaching is not about conveying facts or thoughts or even theories. It’s about conveying energy and excitement…What I could give them in the classroom was my enthusiasm, curiosity, and enjoyment about the subject we were learning about…I wanted to grab their interest, stir their own excitement. I had to figuratively grab them by the shoulders and shake them, laugh with them, run up and down the aisles of the classroom, asking them questions, keeping them surprised and engaged.”

If I couldn’t touch their emotions, I couldn’t get them to think hard. Touching their emotions meant connecting with them. Telling stories that illustrated the points I wanted them to understand. Having them tell their own stories. Using humor – not telling jokes but punctuating our lessons with self-deprecating stories drawn from my life (some of which I’ve shared with you in these pages) and with gentle digs at conventional wisdom. When they laughed, they opened themselves up to being receptive to the more serious things we talked about. Laughter made even the largest classes intimate. We were all sharing in the joy of being together. Every class was different. Each had its own personality. Every semester was like meeting a new person, gradually getting to know them, coming to understand what made them tick, how they thought, what they considered interesting or alarming or amazing or funny.

How was it possible to teach [so many] students and talk about their personal stories? By walking up and down the aisle, asking them questions, and then repeating their answers to the entire classroom. And using those answers to launch a discussion of whatever it was they experienced, knowing that their stories would be shared by others and knowing that some of the more privileged in the class would learn something new and powerful and possibly painful.

p.345: I also used silence. Silence punctuated our role-playing. Silence encased my questions and their answers after I repeated them. It followed my stories and their stories. Silence allowed the class to think about what they saw and heard. Silence focused their attention. Many young people today have very little silence in their lives. Maybe that’s why they have difficulty focusing. The silences I brought to teaching were a critical part of connecting with my students.

Often these days…someone comes up to me. Some are middle-aged…. They tell me they were in the class of so-and-so. And they are kind enough to tell me that they still remember our class together, how much it meant to them, still means to them even today…I’m pleased they remember. I ask them what they’re doing now. A large number are working in nonprofits or in the public sector or are helping community groups – in housing, public health, education, labor organizing. Some are serving in government. I like to think I’ve played a small part in motivating them to do what they’re doing.

p.345: “…Teaching was the most generative thing I’ve done in my life, apart from being a father…”

I won’t lie. Retiring from teaching – from the calling I love – has been painful.

p.346: “I am no longer teaching courses, but I haven’t quit…”

p.350: “The responsibility to…restore genuine opportunity, strengthen democracy, and contain the bullies – now falls to those who come after us. They include my wonderful, brilliant students.”