At the beginning of the year, I stood in front of each of my classes and offered them a deal: If they met my behavioral and academic expectations for the year, I would rescue and release a live lobster. If they didn’t, I’d cook myself a lobster dinner instead. This proposition was met with laughter, gasps, and cries of genuine outrage. One of my students even attempted to cover the “ears” of our own plastic classroom crustacean, Larry the Literacy Lobster.
What drove me to lobster-based betting as a means to motivate my students? The short answer: burnout.
This past year marks my third year of teaching, and like many young teachers, I found myself wondering if I really wanted to spend the rest of my adulthood in a high school classroom. I had survived the rocky seas of first-year teaching by clinging to the life raft of structure, and not without reason: My teaching courses in college had taught me time and time again that when expectations and routines are clear, students experience less cognitive strain and are more likely to complete their work.
By my second year of teaching, I had found this to be true in practice. My procedures functioned as promised. I introduced them early on in the year and reinforced them as necessary to ensure that my students did not rock the boat. They sat in their seats. They raised their hands. They completed their work. They even passed their tests! The seas had calmed, and I was now cruising. However, as the year went on, something began to bother me: Gradually, my passengers were falling asleep.
For the most part, they did me the courtesy of keeping their eyes open during class time. But I saw no urgency, no curiosity, no enthusiasm in those eyes at all, just an aching sort of boredom. And if I was honest with myself, it was a feeling I shared. I was not excited to teach, and they were not excited to learn. Was this burnout? Sure, the risk of shipwreck had passed, but easy sailing had made my class and its content the one thing I vowed it would never become: forgettable. So, to give them something worth remembering and revive my own passion for teaching, I dropped anchor, plunged my hand into the waters, and pulled out … well, a lobster.
I originally introduced Larry the Literacy Lobster as a test-day talisman. On exam days, I would hold him in the hallway, and students would rub his carapace for good luck as they entered the room. I anticipated a battle to gain buy-in from my freshmen, who so often claim to want nothing to do with anything childish, or as they would call it, “cringe.” However, to my surprise, Larry was accepted almost immediately, leading me to conclude that as much as they pretend otherwise, students really don’t want to be treated like “adults.” They don’t want classes that mimic a standard 9-to-5 job full of paperwork, task lists, and meetings. They want to play along, to joke and to laugh, to have a story to tell at the lunch table. Like all of us, really, they secretly crave the “cringe,” the goofy, and even the downright absurd. And when you can mix that sense of unexpected fun with the boring but necessary tasks of learning, it makes the entire process more digestible for students.
Once I recognized that, I began intentionally weaving moments of playful surprise into otherwise ordinary school days. When attention dipped, I would dramatically search “lobster recipes” on the projector to remind students of our ongoing bargain. I challenged students to invent spontaneous haikus. I greeted classes in different languages each day for a week. At one point, I blew a vuvuzela from an old soccer match to regain students’ attention.
As silly and insignificant as these bits sound, they led to real results: By interrupting (not abandoning) the existing structure of my classroom, energy and interest had returned, not just to my students but to me.
Of course, it’s easy to take this too far. The goal of adding absurdity to the classroom is not constant entertainment, nor is it to turn teachers into performers competing for students’ attention every second of the day. Rather, it is to make memories and connections that strengthen student learning.
Research shows that positive academic emotions such as curiosity, enjoyment, and surprise can improve learning and memory retention. Those emotional experiences create texture around the learning experience, distinguishing the lesson from the endless stream of forgettable interactions students have each day. By crafting unique experiences, I transformed my classroom from a space where my students and I were merely checking off tasks together to a place with its own culture and humor where everyone actually looks forward to learning.
I am pleased to announce that by the end of the year, my students had upheld their side of the bargain: They had improved their overall averages, corrected behavioral problems, and demonstrated mastery of class material through various projects and presentations. On our final day of regular classes, students cheered in triumph as I played a video of myself releasing a lobster into the ocean. After the release, I took the opportunity to remind them of the deeper message behind our running joke: that our actions and words have an impact, not just on lobsters, but on human beings.
As students left my room for the last time, many stopped to tap Larry for one final dose of good luck. One student, in particular, paused at the door, turned back toward me, and said, “I’ll never forget this class.”
All year, that had been my real objective: not simply to teach content, but to create a classroom experience memorable enough to matter long after the final exam. Long after specific literary terms and grammar rules have faded from memory, I hope my students remember that learning can be strange, joyful, and deeply human.
And if I can achieve all that for the price of a lobster dinner? It’s a done deal!
