The first day of class, especially if it’s the first day of college for freshmen, is a day of opportunity overshadowed by fear. Every professor knows this. Students are excited but nervous. They barely speak to each other—more often they’re lost in their own thoughts through earbuds and smartphones. Some are hoping for a day when the syllabus is announced; others are dreading a day when the syllabus is announced, already daunted by the amount of work and guidelines laid out in this mighty tome.

Every professor knows how important that first day is and how it sets the tone for the entire semester. But finding a way to engage students in a way that is both calming and intellectually stimulating is a constant challenge. For nearly 15 years, I’ve had a lot of success with an activity that’s doomed to fail: a flying candy activity. I throw M&Ms at students, or more specifically, at little paper cups that are on their desks. They beam, pay attention, and laugh as I hurl candy-coated chocolates across the room, missing the little cups every time.

The activity is fun and relieves tension, but it does so much more. At the end of the first barrage, I tell them that their goal is to get as many M&Ms as possible into their individual cups. Everyone agrees that my approach of throwing candy from across the room into stationary cups is not a winning strategy. I ask for suggestions for a better approach.

Someone always suggests holding the cup and trying to catch the candy. We try. It rarely works. The candy pops out even when we manage to connect the cup to the candy. Someone else always suggests that I walk around the room and hand out the candy. I reply that it’s a good idea, but too much practice for me. Then someone asks, sometimes confidently and with a raised hand, Hermione Granger-style, sometimes shyly and with a half-raised hand, embarrassed, “Can I come over here and take the M&Ms myself?”

I smile and ask the students if this would be an effective way to get M&Ms. Everyone agrees. I encourage the student to come forward and take what is due to them. After the student returns to their seat with a cup of calories, I ask them the purpose of this exercise, other than having a fun and memorable first day of school.

Sometimes there is silence. Sometimes a few hands in the air. Most of the time, students are not prepared to consider the deeper meaning of candy whizzing past their heads, completely missing its intended target. They don’t expect figurative language in an introductory biology course, but they are subconsciously prepared for an analogy to learning.

I explain that the M&Ms represent discrete units of information called facts. The cup is their brain. I might throw a fact at them: “Carbon dioxide has a low energy potential.” It misses their brain. I throw another fact at them: “Oxygen has a high electronegativity.” It sails passively and empty past their cup. Again and again, the metaphorical fact misses their metaphorical brain. They must realize that learning is an active process. All the information in the world is available to them; they just have to get up and accept it. They cannot expect to learn if they see themselves as empty vessels waiting to be filled by the sage on the stage. It requires work on their part.

Conversely, I can’t expect them to learn anything if I treat them like empty vessels, all the same size and shape – yes, a subtle nod to inclusivity – waiting passively to be filled. It takes work on my part to help them fill their metaphorical cup. It’s an important lesson for them, but it’s also a reminder for me to engage, not lecture.

I take the analogy further. If M&Ms represent facts, what is the use of collecting them? What can they do with that tub of M&Ms? Someone says, “Eat them.” I agree, but then ask how they might be eaten. Plain, in cookie dough, spread as a topping on ice cream, chopped up and sprinkled on brownies. Or not eat them at all, but use them as raw material for an art project. Each of us could think of different ways to use the M&Ms to make something new, something wonderful out of these otherwise individual candies.

Then I suggest—no, I ask them—to think of their education not as simply gathering information, but as thinking about how that information can be used and how it relates to other topics. This conversation then leads to an introduction to Bloom’s Taxonomy, which is new to most students. I ask them to think about our fact that “carbon dioxide has low energy potential.” This fact is not particularly useful in itself. It is meaningless without an understanding of energy potential and bonding between carbon and oxygen. And then we can consider the importance of this fact for biological processes and climate change. I conclude by noting that each of them could make a fortune if they could develop a new method for effectively capturing and storing carbon dioxide. They are prepared to learn that every fact is linked to a universe of other information and that making these connections is the essence of learning.

Towards the end of the course, we as students and professor explicitly agree not to see ourselves and each other as empty vessels waiting to be filled. We will engage with each other and actively learn. And when the course is indeed over, I invite each student to come forward and take an M&M – or a Skittles for those who prefer or need a chocolate and dairy-free alternative. Yes, another sign of inclusivity.

I hope that students leave class feeling a little less nervous and maybe even excited about what awaits them. I hope that they are inspired to be actively involved in their education and do more than just collect or memorize facts.

And my hope is usually rewarded. I love it when seniors, often reaching for their diplomas with one hand, tell me how they vividly remember the first day of school, of college, of the flying candy lesson. Or when I hear alumni visiting for homecoming reminisce with their spouse or significant other about that first lesson and how, as they dodged the candy, they realized that learning is more than collecting, and that they are more than a vessel to be filled.

On such occasions, I wish I had a supply of candy I could hand out to reward them for a job well done. But their long-term reward is far greater than anything I could give them, even with perfect chocolate coating. Starting a semester or a college career with a lesson hidden in thrown candy that misses its target is a meaningful way to connect with nervous students in any course. And all it takes is a bag of M&Ms, a couple of cheap paper cups, a little courage to perform, a disciplined fact, and a willingness to mop a floor littered with dirty-but-certainly-not-wasted candy.