Over the past six years, I’ve had the joy (and occasional chaos) of working closely with middle school students in Chennai. This city, with its blend of tradition and traffic, has been the backdrop for some of the most memorable chapters of my teaching journey. And middle school? It’s a phase like no other – full of changes, drama, emotions, and unexpected wisdom. As a teacher, I’ve often found myself reflecting on how deeply relationships shape their self-esteem, choices, and sense of belonging. So, I thought I’d share my journey of understanding what healthy relationships mean to Chennai’s tweens – and how we adults can support them through this wild and wonderful stage.
Children, no matter where they are, carry a built-in need to feel connected. But here in Chennai, where the word Akka or Anna carries so much more than just respect – it’s often affection, trust, even a lifeline – those connections have a unique depth. The relationships they form at this stage influence how they see themselves, how they treat others, and how they bounce back from challenges. When I first started teaching, I knew relationships mattered – but I had no idea how much.
In those early days, working in a school tucked away in a quiet Chennai neighbourhood filled with coconut trees, the scent of sambhar wafting from the canteen, and kolam-s decorating the school entrance – I made a deliberate effort to be approachable and open. I wanted students to know they could talk to me about anything, whether it was about missing homework or a missing sharpener. I relied on small gestures: smiling, making eye contact, and truly listening. I still remember something a senior teacher told me: “When a child speaks – about anything, even a lost eraser – give them your full attention.” Her advice stuck with me. I learned quickly that with middle schoolers, body language says far more than words, and fairness is sacred. Treating every student with respect, even when they’ve just launched a paper plane in the middle of a serious lesson on the water cycle, became my mantra.
Ah, and then there was the name game. Let’s just say, I’ve never been great with names – but in a class where there were five Krithikas and three Aarav-s, it became critical. I invented all sorts of tricks – rhyming names with local landmarks, using stickers, even turning names into songs. It helped build bonds and gave me some authority. Of course, there were still awkward moments: like confidently calling out “Vignesh!” and hearing, “Akka, I’m Vishal.” Close, but no idli.
As I got to know my students better, I made it a point to learn about their interests during one-on-one chats or while walking around during group activities. I found out who trained for silambam after school, who sang bhajans at the temple, and who had memorised every single line from the Tamil-dubbed Harry Potter movies. These little details became bridges – openings for connection and trust. I even overheard one group argue passionately about whether Messi could beat up Ronaldo. The debate got so intense, I nearly turned it into a courtroom drama titled The Case of the Century, with me as judge, gavel and all.
Somewhere along the way, storytelling became my secret weapon. I began sharing funny tales about my dog, my daughter, and even my auto rides to school. One day, I told them how my daughter chewed up my science lesson plan. A student, very seriously, asked if I’d tried positive reinforcement. Out-teachered by a twelve-year-old from Madambakkam.
Modelling behaviour became a quiet but powerful practice. I showed them how to pass the box of crayons or share the single working geometry compass without starting a war. I set boundaries too – not just classroom rules like “no phones” or “don’t eat murukku during group work,” but emotional boundaries. I introduced classroom norms and reinforced them gently. But nothing – and I mean nothing – prepared me for their innocent faces when asking for extra free time. I’m convinced some of them could lead peace negotiations at the UN.
But boundaries also meant helping students understand their own limits – and the limits of others. During circle time (often under the whirring fan and a soundtrack of distant street vendors yelling “sundal!”), we explored big questions:
“How does it affect me when I let someone speak to me however they want?”
“What happens if I never stand up for myself?”
“When friends fight, should I take sides?”
These conversations sparked laughter, reflection, and unexpected maturity. One student firmly said, “If two people fight, call them for tiffin at your table. Idli and chutney fix everything.” Honestly, not the worst advice I’ve heard.
What I’ve come to realise – what Chennai’s spirited, sensitive, sharp middle schoolers have taught me – is that we adults don’t need to have all the answers. Their relationships are dynamic and messy and unpredictable. The best thing we can do is to keep listening, keep asking gentle questions, and most of all – keep growing with them.
I remind my students – and myself – that relationships take work. But they’re always worth it. The conversations we have today, the respect we show, and the empathy we model – they shape the adults these children will become. Whether we’re 12 or 37, in school or on an MRTS train, it’s those connections that carry us through.