Last week, I had one of those teacher moments that I will waffle over for years: Did I do the right thing? We had a school-wide event in which each class had to present or perform something. My students had pushed back against my attempts to prepare them. And since the event was extra-curricular, I couldn’t assign homework or give a score to “encourage” participation. So, on the day of the event, our three-minute performance lasted about fifteen second (forty-five, counting the walk to and from our seats). As we waited for our turn watching other classes perform, my students’ embarrassment grew.
“Miss Lane,” a student in my row leaned over to whisper while first-graders wowed parents by adorably existing on the stage, “do we have music to play while we’re up there?” “No,” I whispered back. “Your table was in charge of choosing a song.” Third graders trying not to get their feet tangled up in their costumes passed us as another student behind me leaned up: “Miss Lane, did you get music for us?” “No,” I replied. “It was your table’s responsibility. I don’t sit at your table.” Similar whispered inquiries about props and signs and such snaked up to me through every other class’s performance. To each inquiry, I reminded them of moments in our preparation when I had asked if they wanted me to order props or print signs, and they had assured me that they didn’t need or want them. (At the time, I had been tempted to order them anyway, but I didn’t think that would respect the students’ part in our collective decision-marking.) By the time we stood, my students were painfully aware of how their performance, or non-performance, would rank. Could I have sheltered them from the embarrassment? Yes. I could have stayed late at school for a week and cobbled together something to save face for them. I could have ignored their input in our collective planning and done what I thought was best. But I didn’t. Too often we shelter students from minor consequences trying to be nice. But Consequence and Failure are my students’ teachers, too, perhaps more than I am. In my first drama competition ever, I won. That elation at winning was wonderful and dangerous, and it was the best thing for my future in drama that I lost in the next competition. When I got home from the competition, Mom came into my room with a small gift and hug to celebrate. I burst into tears of shame. We talked, and I learned some important lessons that had nothing to do with drama and had everything to do with hard work, striving for excellence, and accepting that my best is not always The best. Failure was a good drama teacher: I won and lost again and enjoyed the experience each time. In case a squadron of lawnmower moms are outraged by my callousness at letting my students fail publicly, rest assured that after their fifteen seconds of fame, my class and I had a good talk back in the classroom. Like my mom, I helped Failure and Consequence do some teaching, discussing what they could have done differently and what other areas of life they exhibit the same potentially negative behavior so that they can avoid future shame and concluding with praise that they still have the courage to get up and perform even though they knew their performance wouldn’t shine. I’m still waffling on this moment. The funny thing about reflection is that whether something is a success or failure, I still end up asking the same questions: what worked, what didn’t work, what could I have done differently, what can I apply to future similar situations.
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After enjoying many Jordan Peterson psychology lectures on YouTube, I finally took his Big Five Personality test and signed up for his Self-Authoring Suite, which guides people through writing about their past, present, and future with the goal of learning from the past and present to plan for a better future. Since this in November (and some of us have NaNoWriMo goals to accomplish), the Self-Authoring Suite seemed the perfect birthday present to myself. (I will admit to “opening” my present before my actual birthday.)
Before writing about the present, I was prompted to examine both my faults and virtues. I wasn’t excited about either one. To quote Jo March from the movie Little Women (the line isn’t in the book), “I’m hopelessly flawed.” But instead of inwardly recoiling from a list of my flaws or ducking my head in embarrassment at a list of my virtues, I was able to clinically acknowledge them in the first steps. There was no sense of shame or embarrassment or guilt. The fact that these items were on the list meant that others have them too. And there is strength, and perhaps humility, in numbers. As I read the list of virtues associated with Extroversion and Introversion, I was supposed to select a certain number of virtues that characterize me or are important to me. From my experience with personality tests, I knew exactly where the “extrovert” characteristics ended and the “introvert” characteristics began. I cringed as I saw one of my main characteristics in the introvert section. I struggled to choose the right number of virtues since many of my main characteristics were in the “introvert” section. I read the extrovert section again and again, hoping in vain to find something resembling me up there. Then I had an Oh! moment. The instructions finally bore through the mental barrier society helped build in my mind. I was looking at the list wrong. I double-checked the instructions. Yes, it said to select from the list of virtues. Everything on the list was a virtue. All of the things at the bottom of the list that were clearly part of introversion were . . . virtues. Even though Susan Cain’s Quiet certainly helped me feel less apologetic about my introversion, even though I know that God makes extroverts and introverts alike and uses both equally, even though I’m actually very close to the middle of the extroversion/introversion scale, I still view most of my introverted characteristics as faults. I still feel wrong for not being able to accept every social invitation. I still feel guilty for needing to be home alone to rest. Excited about my breakthrough, I told a more introverted friend about my moment. She stared at me blankly before asking why I thought being the characteristics I mentioned were bad things. Not being American, she never learned that being an introvert was something that needed to be cured. |
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