For a stretch of my teaching career, I settled on one classroom reward and one classroom reward alone: the stale gummy bear.

Early in the year, I’d make a big show of the freshly purchased bag, wafting the scent dramatically through the room and sharing made-up facts about the health benefits. Other times, I’d eat one with absurd reverence, rolling my eyes back as if I’d just tasted something imported from a Parisian confectioner instead of a 2-cent lump of Red 40 and collagen.

“Unbelievable,” I’d say wistfully to myself. “I still can’t believe I got the last sack from Pierre…”

For the first few months, they were strictly for me and my (very public) private consumption—a bizarre bit of theater from an unhinged teacher. Then sometime around October, when energy began to dip, I’d offer one to a student for some small but public triumph: winning a class competition, perhaps, or answering a question in a surprising way.

Jaws would drop. A new dimension of the game had been unlocked.

Before long, the bears became the gold standard of classroom celebration. Meet your reading goal for the week and maybe you got your name on the chalkboard. Finish the book and ace the quiz? Now we were talking gummy bear territory.

Mimicking my earlier extravagance, kids made a whole production of eating their bear, taking tiny bites to “savor” the experience, giving exaggerated YUMMMMs, or putting on full-body performances while standing on their chairs.

By spring, my failure to regularly seal the bag had hardened the remaining bears into crusty little jewels.

“Dry-aged,” I’d explain, peering into the bag with eyebrows held pretentiously aloft.

Demand only soared. Kids would work frenetically for a full class period, sometimes with the only prize for making it through the final checkpoint with perfect work being a direct whiff of the bag.

“Nectar of the gods!” the lucky few would shout while packing up their things, pretending to capture a bit of sweet perfume in their hands to enjoy in the next class. And for the rest? Maybe tomorrow was their day, if they gave 1% more. And, reliably, they did.

A little weird, yes, but the bear was never really the point.

I don’t think my students were working this hard for such a foul prize. In fact, I’m pretty sure the gum stuck to the bottom of their desks would have tasted better. They were working hard because the absurdity of it all made their effort feel communal and just ridiculous enough to be safe. The gummy bear gave everyone social cover to care.

Sometimes a prize is not really a prize at all…it’s just a way of making it a little more safe to give your best.