Why Being Called On in Class Is a Top High School Fear
It’s fifth period, and I’ve just asked a question about the reading. Most hands are up. A few are half-raised, hesitant. But then there’s Marcus. He’s looking down at his notebook, drawing something, his shoulders slightly hunched. I know that posture. I call his name, gently. He freezes, looks up, and says, “Uh, I wasn’t ready.” The class gets quiet. A couple of kids exchange glances. He fumbles, guesses, and I nod and move on, but his face stays red for the next ten minutes.
I’ve taught high school for over a decade, and I can honestly say that being called on unexpectedly is probably in the top three fears kids have in school. Not tests, not public speaking in front of the whole school, not even the lunchroom drama. Just a teacher asking a question and then waiting. That silence. The feeling of every eye turning to you while your brain suddenly forgets everything it knew ten seconds ago.
I used to be the kind of teacher who cold-called all the time. I thought it kept kids alert, made sure nobody could hide. I told myself it was good for them, that they needed to get used to speaking on the spot. And maybe there’s some truth to that. But I also didn’t fully realize what was happening in those moments. For many students, being called on feels less like being invited to participate and more like being pulled onto a stage with no rehearsal. And in high school, where social standing feels everything, the risk of saying something wrong feels enormous.
What I’ve learned is that this fear isn’t about laziness or not knowing the answer. It’s about embarrassment. Students are imagining the worst: classmates whispering, a subtle laugh, a teacher who says “Close, but not quite” and moves on, leaving them feeling exposed. That’s not just shyness. That’s a real social threat, and the body responds to it. Heart rate spikes, palms get sweaty, and the brain’s focus shifts from the question to self-defense. No wonder they blank out.
I remember a student named Elena a few years ago. She wrote beautiful essays, thoughtful and detailed, but she never spoke in class. If I asked her something directly, she’d give a one-word answer and then look at her desk. I assumed she was shy, but one day she stayed after to ask about her grade. We talked, and she admitted, “When you call on me, I just want to disappear. I can’t think.” She told me she spent most of class preparing what she might say if I called on her, which meant she wasn’t really listening to the discussion. She was just waiting for the danger to pass.
That conversation changed how I approached participation. It’s not that I stopped asking students to speak. But I stopped pretending that cold-calling was somehow building resilience. For every kid it helped, I suspect ten others were just learning how to avoid being noticed.
So I started adjusting the way I run discussions. Nothing dramatic, just small changes that took the flash panic out of being asked a question. The first thing I did was stop calling on a student right after I asked the question. That instant “You there, answer this” is the most terrifying version. Instead, I give everyone a few seconds to think. I’ll say, “Take twenty seconds to write a quick answer,” or “Talk to your neighbor first.” By the time I ask someone to share, they’ve already rehearsed their answer in their head or out loud. It’s still scary, but it’s manageable.
I also became more careful about the way I phrase the invitation. Instead of “Marcus, what do you think?” I try to say things like “Let’s hear from someone we haven’t heard from yet.” That takes the target off a specific person and makes it feel more like a group effort. And importantly, I give students an out. I tell them at the start of the year: “If I call on you and you’re not ready, it is completely fine to say ‘I need a moment.’ You can pass and I’ll come back to you.” That might sound risky—like they’ll all just pass—but what it really does is remove the sense of being trapped. When students know they have an exit, it’s easier to enter.
There’s also the simple but powerful effect of allowing uncertainty. I try to say things like “I’m not sure either, but let’s figure it out together,” so the expectation isn’t that every answer has to be a perfect, confident, final verdict. For a lot of kids, the fear isn’t just being wrong. It’s the moment of being wrong in front of everyone. When I make it clear that wrong answers are just starting points, the stakes drop.
Parents can help with this too, even if they’re not in the classroom. A few nights ago, I was talking to a friend whose son is a sophomore. He’s a smart kid but he’s terrified of speaking up, and she asked me what to do. I suggested something simple: practice “thinking out loud” at the dinner table. Not as a formal exercise, but just making it normal to say “I don’t know” and then talk through a thought. Another concrete thing is to teach kids one or two stock phrases they can use when they’re caught off guard. Something like “Can I take a second to think?” or “I’m not sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say…” These don’t make the student sound weak. They give the brain a second of breathing room. That’s usually all it takes to remember the answer.
I’m not saying the fear ever fully goes away. Even now, I see kids who still flinch when I ask a question. But it’s less often, and it’s less intense. The ones who used to stare at their shoes are starting to raise their hands—hesitantly, sometimes with a shaky voice, but they’re doing it. And that’s a win. It didn’t happen because I told them to “just be confident.” It happened because we stopped setting up a moment where they had to defend themselves and started setting up a moment where they could think.
The other day, Marcus actually volunteered. He didn’t have a perfect answer, but he gave it a try, and the conversation moved on. After class, he caught me in the hall and said, “That was okay.” I just nodded. There’s still a long way to go for him, and for plenty of others. But this particular fear doesn’t need to be a daily battle. It just needs a classroom where being uncertain isn’t a performance. And that’s something teachers and parents can work on together, one question at a time.
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