There is a particular kind of silence that settles over a classroom when unfairness becomes routine—an almost invisible heaviness that presses on the students who try, who push, and who care. It is the silence of swallowed frustration, the quiet disappointment of realizing that effort does not always guarantee recognition. I learned this lesson the hard way.

In one of my classes, favoritism wasn't merely an isolated incident; it was a pattern. Our teacher, someone entrusted with the responsibility of shaping our academic growth, seemed to see only a select few. What made it worse was that the students who basked in the favoritism were not the ones who showed dedication or consistency. Some rarely attended class, slipping in only on the days of exams like comets passing briefly through a sky they never cared to belong to. Yet somehow, almost magically, they emerged with high grades—grades that those of us who worked tirelessly could only hope to earn.

I would sit there, watching our teacher hand out scores as though they were not reflections of real effort, but favors in a quiet game of preference. It wasn’t the grades themselves that stung the most; it was the realization that professionalism—something fundamental to teaching—seemed absent. The classroom began to feel less like a space for growth and more like a stage where fairness was optional, and recognition depended on the teacher’s arbitrary choices.

I remember staying up late on nights before exams, sacrificing rest, rewriting notes, rereading lessons, and preparing myself with the earnest belief that diligence would speak for itself. But it never quite did—not in that room. It was as if my effort was invisible, swallowed by the shadow of favoritism. Each time grades were returned, I could feel the sharp contrast between what was objectively done and what was subjectively given. And every time those who barely showed up received marks that surpassed the work of those who gave everything, a quiet ache settled in my chest.

But the most striking part of it all was not the imbalance of grades; it was the erosion of trust. Teachers hold an immense influence over their students. Their words, actions, and decisions shape not only our understanding of the subjects they teach, but also our perception of fairness, justice, and professionalism. When a teacher fails to uphold these values, the damage goes beyond academic scores—it reaches into a student’s sense of worth.

In that class, I learned that favoritism doesn’t just distort grades; it distorts the entire educational experience. It diminishes motivation and makes students question whether integrity still matters in a world where effort can be overshadowed by bias. It made me realize how vital it is for educators to demonstrate professionalism—not just in delivering lessons, but in treating every student with respect and impartiality.

Looking back, I understand now that classrooms should be spaces where fairness thrives, where every student is seen, and where grades reflect not personal preference but genuine merit. My experience, painful as it was, taught me the importance of advocating for a learning environment guided by integrity. Educators hold the power to uplift or to discourage, and the choices they make can echo far beyond the walls of their classrooms.

And so I write this not out of bitterness, but out of hope—hope that raising these observations can spark reflection, perhaps even change. Students deserve educators who embody fairness. They deserve a classroom where professionalism is the rule, not the exception. Because when fairness lives in a classroom, learning becomes not just an academic process, but a meaningful and empowering journey for everyone.

The Frontman