Somewhere inside every block of marble, Michelangelo believed, was a David waiting to be uncovered. The sculptor’s job was not to create David from nothing, but to reveal what was already there.

Earlier this week, Mike Landroche offered Tilton’s faculty a similar way of thinking about their work with students.

For 45 years, Mike guided Tilton students in his English classroom. Generations learned from him, debated with him, orated and wrote for him, and, perhaps most importantly, learned to see themselves differently because of him. The wisdom with which he nurtured hundreds of Tilton students will now be gifted to our current classroom teachers and, as a result, will impact exponentially more students.

Last spring, “Landy” stepped away from the classroom—but not from Tilton. He is staying on as a faculty mentor, sharing the perspective accumulated over nearly half a century in education. 

In the days leading up to the opening of school, he reminded colleagues of something great teachers never stop learning: every student is different, and good teaching begins with seeing the person in front of you. His 30-minute talk focused on differentiation—adapting approaches to meet students where they are and helping them find a path toward growth.

“Start with strengths,” he encouraged the faculty. Ask students: What are you good at? Then adapt. If one approach doesn’t work, try something else. Give students options. And, most importantly, name the strength to help them recognize something they may not yet see in themselves.

Mike shared the story of a former student who once described himself as “not a writer.” Rather than forcing a traditional path, Mike adapted. The student began using his phone to talk through his ideas, keeping at it until his work transformed. Eventually, he shared a poem with the entire school.

The expectation never changed. The path did.

That distinction is at the heart of differentiation—and good teaching itself. Students don’t need someone to lower the bar; they need someone curious enough to help them find another way over it. This truth was reinforced in the summer of 2025 when all faculty/staff read, 10 to 25: The Science of Motivating Young People. In it, author David Yaeger champions the idea that teenagers benefit little from a “Protector”—someone who lowers standards and increases support as a path to “success”, or an “Enforcer”— someone who sets high standards, is rigid in their thinking, and offers little to no support to students as they try to meet that standard. Rather, teenagers grow and thrive when they have a “Mentor” guiding them through the challenges they encounter. A “Mentor”, as described by Yaeger, is someone who holds high standards AND offers high support as students work and even struggle at times to meet those standards.

Landroche challenged the faculty to bring that same curiosity into their classrooms:

• What are you good at?
• What do you want me to notice about your strengths?
• How can I help?

These questions require teachers to do what can easily get lost amid lesson plans, assessments, and grades: truly see their students.

Mike also challenged the faculty to reconsider feedback. “Grading is not feedback,” he said. A grade acts as a sorting system, telling students where they landed. Meaningful feedback helps them understand where they are, what they are capable of, and where they might go next.

That requires teachers to listen, pay attention, and remain curious. Mike borrowed a phrase from poet Wendell Berry that captures the idea beautifully: “listening to the hum of their dreams.”

It is a fitting philosophy for the start of a school year, when teachers meet new faces and students begin discovering new versions of themselves. It is equally fitting for Mike’s next chapter.

For 45 years, his influence was measured in the students he taught. Now, it multiplies through the teachers he mentors. That is the true value of experience: when shared, it becomes part of the collective wisdom of a community.

A beginning teacher can learn a great deal from a textbook or workshop. But some lessons come only from years spent sitting across from students—watching them struggle, listening to them find their voice, and learning the exact moment a different path might unlock something that was there all along.

Mike spent 45 years learning those lessons. Now he gets to help others learn them, too.

While his classroom may look different this fall, the work continues. The students are still there. The questions are still worth asking. And somewhere inside every student is something waiting to be uncovered.