If I wasn't an actor, I'd be a teacher, a history teacher. After

Richard Dreyfuss, in his reflection, speaks of the kinship between two noble callings: acting and teaching. He declares: “If I wasn’t an actor, I’d be a teacher, a history teacher. After all, teaching is very much like performing. A teacher is an actor, in a way. It takes a great deal to get, and hold, a class.” In these words lies the recognition that the human spirit is moved not only by information but by presence, energy, and passion. Just as an actor must capture the attention of an audience, so too must a teacher capture the attention of young minds, drawing them into the story of truth and memory.

The origin of this truth comes from the essence of performance itself. For acting is not mere recitation of words—it is the art of embodying them, of breathing life into them so that they leap from the stage into the hearts of those who listen. Likewise, the teacher must not merely recite facts, but must animate them, shaping them into living lessons that spark curiosity, wonder, and understanding. In this way, the classroom becomes a stage, and the teacher becomes both guide and performer.

History offers us powerful examples of this truth. Socrates, though never on a stage, was one of the greatest performers in the theatre of the mind. His dialogues, his questions, his ironic humor—all held his students spellbound, not because he dictated, but because he engaged. His method was a drama of inquiry, a performance of wisdom. Likewise, Confucius, wandering through the ancient states of China, taught not only with words but with rhythm, tone, and example, holding the hearts of his disciples much as an actor holds an audience.

The emotional weight of Dreyfuss’ words lies in his recognition that teaching requires courage and craft. It is no easy thing to stand before a restless class and win their attention. To teach history, or any subject, is not merely to speak of dates and names, but to weave a story so compelling that the students see themselves within it. Like an actor, the teacher must read the mood of the room, adjust their energy, and summon the strength to keep the flame of interest alive. Without this, knowledge becomes dull and lifeless, quickly forgotten.

We may also see in this reflection a reverence for history itself. Dreyfuss does not casually choose history as the subject he would teach. For history is the great stage of human destiny, filled with triumphs, tragedies, and lessons written in blood and stone. To teach history well is to perform the greatest drama ever told—the story of humanity itself. And only a teacher who embraces both knowledge and performance can awaken students to its power.

The lesson, then, is clear: teaching is an art, no less than acting. To those who teach, remember that your task is not only to instruct, but to inspire. To those who act, remember that your task is not only to entertain, but to reveal truth. Both callings share the same root: the power of presence, the courage to stand before others, and the desire to awaken hearts and minds.

Practically, this means cultivating energy, passion, and empathy in every act of teaching or leading. If you stand before others—whether in a classroom, a stage, or a gathering—do not merely deliver words. Deliver them with life. Use your voice, your gestures, your spirit. Recognize that attention is not given freely; it must be earned, held, and rewarded. And in doing so, you transform your message into something unforgettable.

Thus, Richard Dreyfuss reminds us of the sacred kinship between teacher and actor. Both stand before an audience. Both must command attention. Both must breathe life into words. And both, when they succeed, shape not only the moment, but the future. Carry this teaching with you, O listener, and when your time comes to stand before others, do not merely speak—perform truth, and watch as hearts are stirred and minds are awakened.