Don’t Be a Grizzly Bear: Why We (The Adults) Should Never Yell

I have told this story more than once: the last time I really yelled at a student was two years ago. I was in my office talking to one of my assistant principals. She had called a couple of students to her office, and I heard her directly tell them to sit quietly in the chairs in the hall. In fact, I had also heard her have to repeat herself because the students were not being compliant. While we were talking in my office, I could hear one of the students continue to talk. I stepped out to address the students, to remind them to be respectful and do as they were asked. While I was speaking one of them started to laugh.

Perhaps it was because it had been a stressful day, perhaps it was because the young man had found one of my deep seated pet peeves, but the laugh just set me off. I began yelling at the student, whose face initially showed defiance. As I continued to rant about whatever point I felt had to be made (my high expectations for respect, that a child should never disrespect an adult, etc.) his expression began to break down revealing fear, uncertainty, anxiety, and who knows what else. When I was done, he sat down struggling to hold back tears, and did not speak again. I guess I had won whatever battle that was. Good for me.

A few days later as I walked through the hall saying good morning to everyone I passed as I typically do, the same young man was walking toward me on his way to class. I said good morning and smiled. He did not reply. Instead he cast his gaze down and away. He seemed to shrink into himself and try to get closer to the wall, as if he could escape notice. When he was past me and on his way, I stopped in the hall struck by a powerful realization … for that young man, I would forever be someone to be feared. His memory of me would always be of a full grown man who had beaten him down with volume and tone. That one student was lost to me, perhaps forever. Turns out I had actually lost that battle, primarily because I had chosen to fight the wrong one, and in the wrong way.

While this sounds like a confession, I am fully aware I am not the only well-intentioned adult who has yelled at a child. I have witnessed it often, from teachers, coaches, parents, strangers, etc. There’s a lot of yelling going on in the process of raising children. And I recognize that it is most often an emotional response to a child who has found a way to break down our self-discipline. The problem is that the kind of yelling we do in those moments really only has one or both of two effects. It either models for a child how to handle stress and emotion, or it causes the child to withdraw in shame and fear. Neither of these is tolerable. And there is no research anywhere that supports yelling as a productive method of correcting or guiding children.

A few things shape how I think about yelling, and reminding myself of these things helps me to measure my response when a child makes me angry enough to become emotionally unstable, which happens rarely, and when it does it is most often with my own children.

First, yelling is basically an adult temper tantrum. It’s easy to recognize with a child, who after becoming overwrought with emotion or frustration will just lose it and begin kicking and screaming and shaking fists and shedding tears. When adults lose it, we yell. But it’s really the same thing. We have lost control of ourselves, and that’s a line that, once crossed, will not lead to anything good.

Second, I am 6’3” and 240 pounds. I can remember yelling at one of my daughters, who at the time was four feet tall and 60 pounds. In her eyes, I was just a giant who had lost control and was directing just unfiltered anger at her. In that moment she was nothing but fearful, so while I may have shouted compliance into her, she certainly didn’t learn anything or process the lesson I was trying to teach. If the roles were reversed, it would be the same as if someone 9’8” and 960 pounds (I did the math!), the size of a large grizzly bear, was directing his anger at me. It’s really just not fair.

Third, my primary role as both a parent and as an educator is to provide a safe place for a child. When I yell, I am (see above) creating an unsafe environment, at least in a child’s eyes. Imagine the confusion for a child when the trusted adult is behaving in a way that makes him/her both the provider of safety and the imminent danger.

It has been two years now since I have yelled at a student, and I’ve been doing a lot better with my own children as well. I am resolved not to do it again. I may not be 100% successful, but I am sure going to try. My first strategy is to take a breath and try to see through the eyes of the child. My resolve was tested just recently.

I was home with my two youngest daughters (10 and 8) last Sunday. After fixing them lunch (nothing fancy; some microwave shells and cheese with grapes and cantaloupe on the side), I told them I was going to go take a shower to get cleaned up after the morning yardwork.

A quick detail about my 10 year old. She is very independent minded. One of her first words in life was “myself” which she would repeat over and over when she wanted us to stop trying to do something for her. It often serves her well, sometimes not so much.

I was upstairs mid-shower covered in soap and shampoo when I began to smell something burning. At first I thought maybe the heat had cut on (which seemed unlikely), but it got stronger. I stepped out of the shower to see if something had been left plugged in (my wife forever worries that she will leave her straightening iron plugged in one morning and end up burning down the house … perhaps this was the morning). Nothing was plugged in. I got back in the shower, but the smell was getting stronger. I was convinced something was on fire, and I went into panic mode. I got out of the shower, still covered in soap, grabbed a towel, and walked to the landing. I called down to the girls. They said everything was fine.

At that point, I was reviewing escape routes, considering calling 911, and determined to find the source of the smell. I rushed from bedroom to bedroom, I pulled the ceiling access to the attic open and checked up there. Still nothing. But the smell was so strong!

Then I heard my girls’ voices calling. My youngest said, “Daddy, come here.” I walked to the landing and looked down to see both girls standing in the foyer. My 10 year old looked stricken with worry. My 8 year old announced, “Charlotte burned the mac and cheese!” I looked at her and demanded, “How?” In a rush, she said, “I followed the directions! I put it in for 3 ½ minutes just like it said!” I said, “Did you put water in it?” Her face just fell.

So imagine the scene: I’m upstairs, wrapped in a towel, covered in soap and shampoo, worried for the house and the lives of the people in it, heart rate and blood pressure elevated, and it turns out my 10 year old do-it-myself daughter had put mac and cheese in the microwave with no water in it. I could feel the heat rushing to my face as I looked down at her.

And in that moment, as I looked at her face, I suddenly saw through her eyes. She was scared. Of what I might do or say, of what she had almost caused. She was embarrassed. She who wanted so badly to be independent had made an independent choice, and it had almost literally blown up in her face. She was mad at herself for messing up the directions. She was filled with emotion and anxiety. I don’t know how long the moment lasted, but suddenly whatever anger was rising in me began to dissipate.

I did not yell. There was a time that I would have, but not this time. “It’s o.k.,” I said. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

When I got downstairs she was sitting at the kitchen island, a blob of melted plastic and blackened pasta shells wrapped in a towel sitting pathetically in front of her. She still looked worried. The room smelled awful. I fought the urge to say, “What were you thinking?” I already knew the answer. There would have been no point. I just gave her a hug, and after a few minutes helped her clean up. Then I taught her how to do it the right way.

I honestly don’t think she’ll ever repeat that mistake. I think she learned a tough lesson. And I didn’t have to yell for it to happen.

That was an important moment for me. At 46, I’m still learning. In this case, that there’s never a time when it’s right to be a grizzly bear to help a child learn.