"They Called Me Soft. I Made a Cartoon."

After the first morning of state testing — what we call the Pennsylvania System of School Assessment, or PSSAs — the air in my classroom was heavy. Part test fatigue, part teenage restlessness. The instructions are always the same when kids finish early: read a book, rest your head, chill. But there are always a few who decide it’s showtime. This time, it got loud. Disruptive. Disrespectful.

I’d had enough.

I stopped everything and told them flat out: “I don’t call home often — you know I don’t — but we’re in testing mode, and this behavior? It’s not just affecting you; it’s affecting the whole room.” I even name-dropped their parents — first names and all. “You think [Mom’s Name] would be okay with this right now?”

That’s when one student came up to me after class — not to apologize, not to reflect, but to double down.

She said, “You’re always picking and choosing. You didn’t say anything about what they were doing. That’s why people think you’re soft. You let people walk all over you.”

Oof.

In the moment, I brushed it off. But later that night, it hit me.

Everything I give. Everything I do. Every ounce of patience, structure, and love I pour into this classroom — for it to be written off as soft? I couldn’t let that sit. I had to unpack it.

That night, I stewed. Not because I was mad — but because I cared. I care so much it hurts sometimes. I started thinking: maybe she didn’t mean “soft” as weak. Maybe she meant it as kind. But in middle school, kind doesn’t always earn you cool points.

Still, I couldn’t let it go. Not because she insulted me, but because I realized something bigger: I hadn’t found a way to reach them in that moment. My words felt… flat. Like they were trying to land but couldn’t stick.

That’s when the idea hit me: what if I didn’t speak? Not live, anyway.

Because here’s the truth: I suck at public speaking. I can write the speech. I can draft the message. But when I try to say it out loud — especially to a room full of hormonal pre-teens watching for every crack in the armor — I flail. I falter. The message gets lost.

So I leaned into what does work: creativity.

I made a script. I recorded the voiceover. I used Animaker to create a simple, animated video — nothing flashy, just something real. I played it on the SmartBoard the next day. No speeches. No drama. Just me, animated, telling the truth.

Because sometimes, when your voice won’t work… your story still can.

And here’s the wild part — they listened.

More than that… they got it.

The room went quiet in a different kind of way. Not because they were stunned or scared, but because something clicked. That little animated character on the screen — not flashy, not trying to be cool, just simple and real — said what I couldn’t say out loud: “I care about you. I’m not here to punish. I’m here to help you grow.”

And for maybe the first time all year, they saw that “soft” didn’t mean weak. It meant showing up every day, even when I was exhausted. It meant resetting the room, again and again, even when they pushed boundaries. It meant knowing that sometimes kids act out not because they’re bad, but because they’re kids. It meant giving grace while holding the line.

That’s not softness.

That’s discipline with empathy. That’s structure with soul. That’s soft like steel.

Final Thought:

If you’re a teacher, a parent, or just someone trying to lead with kindness — and the world tells you you’re being too soft — let them talk.

Because being soft doesn’t mean you’re a doormat. It means you’ve got enough courage to hold space for others. It means you’re strong enough to not always need to yell. And sometimes, it means making a cartoon of yourself to say the hard things.

If that’s soft, I’ll wear it like armor.

VOICE OVER BELOW

About the Author:  Brian Meerbott is a 6th and 7th grade math teacher, Navy veteran, chef, and creative educator based in Philadelphia. With a background in hospitality and a passion for storytelling, he uses humor, real talk, and unexpected tools (like cartoons) to connect with his students and build community in his classroom. He’s also the founder of Meerbott Hospitality and is currently working toward his certification in secondary education. Follow along for more reflections on teaching, leadership, and life.

The Speech

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