Working With "Lazy" Students

Laziness is next to Godlessness

Teachers and administrators who work in higher education are likely to embody values antithetical to “laziness.” We may be so-called Type “A” personalities or have perfectionist tendencies. In fact--and I am talking about myself here--we were probably trained rigorously for an unreasonably competitive job market. Even after having been promoted and granted tenure, I still find it hard to say “no” to requests to sit on numerous committees, serve as an advisor to the LGBTQ+ organization, and help coordinate mental health and wellbeing efforts on my campus.

Ah, and these activities are in addition to being a single co-parent and teaching an overload.

So for years, “lazy” students got under my skin. I never stopped to think deeply about contextualizing their “laziness.” Honestly, I was extra inflexible with  students who failed to meet my demanding standards. I would pepper my students with paternalistic phrases like, “someday, someone like me will be your boss, and if you turn in work like this to them, they will probably fire you on the spot!” I would regale my students with unsolicited stories about how cruel graduate school was. I must have sounded like someone with a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome when I ended the sad tales with, “but ultimately the cruelty made me a better student!”

The word lazy is said to be etymologically connected to the concept of tiredness (from the French word lassé, German lassigi (“Lazy,” Online Etymology Dictionary). As my understanding of trauma, ACEs, and PTSD deepened, I started noticing a pattern in my “lazy” students’ behaviors.

I became curious that “lazy” students often warned me, unprompted, of their laziness, i.e., “I’m a lazy student.” These students would consistently underperform despite their apparent intellectual aptitude. Then some claimed to be lazy and yet actually worked two jobs or cared for brothers, sisters, parents, or children.

None of these behaviors struck me as being lazy in the slothful, “sinful” sense of the word; no student purposefully acted in ways that chafed against my valuation of Protestant work ethics.

So then why was I so damn irritated by the so-called “lazy” student?

Imagine my surprise when I realized that the answer was that I was unconsciously focused on my own internalized workaholism instead of my student's needs. Mine may be an unpopular opinion, but I am nearly certain the mantra of “student-centeredness” is merely a very public disavowal of the egoism at the heart of academia. I will address teaching and narcissism in a future post.

My lazy epiphany came when I realized that my “high standards” and work habits made me freaking tired and depressed. And if I was tired and depressed, chances were my students were, too. Throw in all the everyday mental bandwidth-depleting things and a mass-trauma event (COVID-19) on top of the demands of a challenging course, and it is no wonder students confessed their “laziness” to me unprompted.

When I am tired and depressed, I cannot hear what someone else is saying--even if that something is supposedly brilliant and a gift from the knowledge goddesses. Why should I expect my students to be any different? What really stuck in my craw about lazy students was that they ignored me. In their exhaustion, they failed to validate me, the exigency of the course, and ultimately their academic future. They reminded me of myself--the brilliant student who flunked out of college twice because I had to take care of a mentally-ill parent and young sibling. Instead of telling my professors what was going on at home, I internalized a narrative that I was a lazy student.

This is one of the ways trauma responses manifest in your classroom--students buy into what our society demands of workers in a capitalist society and internalize these messages as “laziness” rather than depression, anxiety, or exhaustion.

Reframing the “Lazy” Student

In my last post, I wrote about what a trauma-informed classroom is not:

• A therapy session
• A treatment plan
• A clinical space (unless it is!)
• An open invitation for students or teachers to cross socioemotional boundaries with each other

I’ll frequently refer to these four “don’ts” when discussing strategies aligned with trauma-informed practices. Teachers must understand that they are not responsible for “fixing” students or treating mental health needs.

Here is what has worked for me. This practice aligns with three of the six principles of a trauma-informed approach:

• Safety
• Trustworthiness and Transparency
• Empowerment, Voice, and Choice

Try These

• Keep track of your students’ confessions of laziness. This can be very casual and private. For example, I give students a survey at the beginning of the semester that asks them to self-identify their gender pronouns, chosen name, labor obligations, caretaking duties, and pre-existing concerns about their literacy levels. I also ask them if there is anything they would like me to know, in confidence, which is where and when I receive a lot of information about their mental health and wellbeing.
• Address laziness at the beginning of the semester. Here is what I say:
  • I want to let you know that I have a different opinion of laziness. I’ve noticed that many folks consider themselves to be lazy. I have never met a lazy college student; being in college is demanding, and so it isn’t a place where there is a lot of true laziness. I think “laziness” is often code for depression, overwhelm, or anxiety. What are your thoughts on that?
  • Open up the floor for a discussion about this take on “laziness,” and let the students mull this over and debate the point for themselves.
  • Conclude the conversation by pointing to the mental health resources you have in your syllabus (or on your institution's web page).
• Interrogate your definition of rigor.
  • Examine your attendance policy. If you have control over it, ask: why am I holding students to this policy? Can you find room for more flexibility?
  • Take a hard look at the pacing of your semester. Be as honest as possible when separating your valuation of academic rigor from what students might really need (spoiler: it is always more flexibility and empathy).
  • If you use pop quizzes or “high-stakes” assessments, challenge yourself to develop gentler metrics. I have recently realized how much of my pedagogical behaviors came from educational models that were not healthy; I just took them up because I thought that is how teaching was supposed to look and feel!                                   

• How are these strategies effective?
  • Talking openly with your students about laziness destigmatizes conversations about mental health without you crossing any boundaries.
  • Pointing them to resources on campus signals to students that mental health concerns are on your radar and helps establish trust.
  • Reframing laziness empowers them to reframe their experiences in a more positive, empathetic light.
  • Identifying and interrogating your pedagogical values and behaviors raises your consciousness about when you are enacting inherited (but perhaps toxic) teaching practices.
  • Tracking and addressing laziness with empathy has directly impacted student retention and performance in my classes. Many students feel seen when I openly discuss mental health issues in class. So many students with underlying mental health needs internalize narratives that include failure, laziness, and not belonging in college. Part of trauma-informed teaching empowers teachers to help students reframe their experiences to achieve their educational goals.

Did you try any of these recommendations? Please let me know your thoughts. Send me a message and tell me what your experiences of student laziness have been.