Written by MSTA President Lana Moore
Previously published in the Greenfield Vedette, Pierce City Leader Journal, and Dudenville Gazette
Remember the days of having to write 100 times, “I will not talk in class. I will not talk in class. I will not talk in class.”
I have to admit that I had to write a few hundred of those in my career as a student. I am unsure if it really helped or not. I am, by nature, a talker. I love to socialize with others, but throughout my lifetime, I have found that listening is so much better.
Our one-room schoolhouse teacher mother was so diplomatic when we “socialized” too long or too loudly growing up. One of two phrases were heard more frequently than others when that happened.
Never did our mother, nor our father, tell us to “shut up.” Daddy may have used “’pipe down” a few times, but mother would tell us, “You have a nice, strong voice. Learn how to use it quietly.”
We also heard the well-loved phrase, “We have two ears to listen and one mouth to speak. That means we need to listen twice as much as we talk.”
As an adult, I’ve realized just how wise those gentle nudges truly were. Mama wasn’t simply trying to create silence; she was trying to create space. Space for other voices, other thoughts, and other perspectives to be heard. She understood something that took me decades to appreciate: conversation is not a competition, it is a shared exchange, and it can’t be shared if one person is determined to fill all the air in the room. Her reminders weren’t about punishment or control; they were her way of helping us grow into people who considered others, who learned to pause, and who paid attention to more than just our own thoughts.
Listening, I’ve come to learn, is a skill that shapes relationships, builds trust, and opens doors we never knew were closed. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve spoken too soon, only to realize later that if I had waited, just a moment more, I would have understood something far more meaningful. The quiet moments often hold the biggest truths. There is wisdom in silence, and learning to value it has helped me become a more thoughtful friend, colleague, wife, parent, and grandparent.
Now, when I work with students, I find myself echoing our mother’s words. I empower them to know that their voices matter, but so do everyone else’s. I help my students understand that listening is not a sign of weakness or passivity; it is a sign of respect. And more than that, it is a way to grow. When we listen—really listen—we learn not only what others are saying, but who they are. We discover new ideas, deepen our relationships, and strengthen our communities.
So, while writing “I will not talk in class” a hundred times may not have cured my chatty tendencies, the lessons from our mother certainly left their mark. I still love to talk and share, and I probably always will, but I also love the richness that comes from listening—the stories, the insights, the moments you would miss if you were too busy filling the silence. And in that way, we learned what she was trying to teach us all along: that a strong voice is a blessing, but knowing when to use it—and when not to—is the real gift.