narrative: from reel to real

"Mr. Spencer, you're not talking much today," a student points out as we line up for class.

"I'm losing my voice," I explain.

"Just because you can't speak doesn't mean you lost your voice.  There are lots of people out there who have a voice, but aren't able to speak.  And there are lots of people who talk all the time and never find their voice."

I smile, realizing that on some level, she has internalized our conversations about developing a social voice and an individual.  Oddly enough, I didn’t try and change her. I never developed a plan for this student to internalize my own ideas about the importance of voice. It just sort-of happened mysteriously.

*     *     *

When I share stories it can feel like a highlight film.  I want people to see that "this generation" is not a bunch of lazy screw-offs and sometimes I overstate my case in the process. The truth is that teaching is much more banal.  I spend hours walking around asking clarifying questions, reminding students to use words more creative than "stuff" and "thing," using my body language to suggest that a discussion of schoolyard crushes should stay in the schoolyard and attempting to manage the administrative side of teaching. Not exactly Freedom Writers.

It's not that teaching is a boring job (at least not in the sense that bagging groceries was boring).  It's just that it's more like the real game than an episode of Sports Center.  My classroom includes the usual missteps, false starts and occasionally an intentional grounding or two.  It can get as lethargic as a full count in the fifth inning and on my worst days I'm just trying to handle the hecklers in the bleachers.

And yet . . . it's real - which means it also includes the subtle drama, the serendipity of story and the moments of glory that inevitably make it to the highlight reel. For what it's worth, I'd rather have real than reel, because it is the unpredictability of the narrative that makes it exciting.

*     *     *
Javi meets up with me to have a microbrewed pint.

“How was the conference?” I ask.

“It was good. The speakers were great. So were the workshops.” Educators always call them workshops despite the fact that no one really does any work. I guess it sounds fancier than, “sit and watch someone give a passionate Power Point presentation.” Still, I wish for once I would go to a workshop and there would be elves building toys for children or perhaps a guy from This Old House telling me how to build a cabinet.

Javi is careful to avoid criticizing people and so he mentions key things he “gleans” from it. Not being a farmer, I have to ask him to define the word "glean" and he says, “I think it's about taking the leftovers after everyone is finished. So, I guess it's the other way around. I picked what I liked best and dropped the rest.”

After awhile, though, he tells me, “I just wish people had been a little more vulnerable, that's all.
Teaching is messy and confusing and, if we're honest, really hard.”

“What would you ave wanted a speaker to do?”

“Everyone shows us exemplars or they hand out the best possible work from all of their classes. I would have pointed to some mediocre work and asked people what we, as teachers, could have done to prevent the mediocrity. We would have talked about it together and shared our own expertise. I mean, it's crazy to think that I'd be the only expert in a room.”

“I know what you mean. After awhile, it feels like Sports Center, where no drops a ground ball. You start thinking through this lens of perfection and if you're not careful you end up leaving a conference either dejected or with this false notion that you can create perfection in your classroom."

"Even the terminology starts to grate on your nerves. Everything is 'cutting edge.' Wow, so it's a program that can show you visually how many words are being used.” Javi's right. A flying car that shoots lasers is cutting edge. Splitting an atom is cutting edge. A stop-animation program is probably not cutting edge. Novel, but not revolutionary.

“Everyone wants something great and revolutionary,” I add. “Revolutions are bloody ordeals. I just want my students to read better.”

Javi is a humble teacher. He's never written a how-to book of the Essential Fifty-Five. (If there are really fifty-five, can they all be essential?) However, he knows his students well and despite the language barrier his ELL students have deep classroom discussions that often surpass the expectations of an honors class. Javi does service projects and documentaries and holds debates with his students. Yet, if you ask him what he's doing to make a difference, he'll speak honestly about his mistakes.

Javi makes a difference because he is humble. It's counterintuitive, I admit, but he's a phenomenal teacher because he doesn't have seven steps and eight keys and forty essentials. He offers himself and as a result, the students love him and learn from him.

*     *     *

I'm not against practical advice. I've bought books with seven steps or nine keys and sometimes they work. Sometimes. I'm not against conference speakers, either. I've known humble speakers who provide honest insights about teaching.

My issue is more with myself. See, if I start reading too many of practical guides, I turn toward the Sports Center mentality. I get arrogant. I start believing I have the secret formula, the best ideas, the perfect classroom. I tell myself that I'm thinking outside the box when, in fact, that very phrase is so cliché it fits well within a box. What happens is an ugly spiral of self-competition and goal-driven directives to try and validate my existence as a teacher.  I teach out of shame.

It can get worse. I once gave a presentation called Social Studies 2.0, where I provided insights about all the paradigm shifts that we need to make in history classes. People seemed interested and I fed off their excitement. When it was over, a friend offered his critique. “It was interesting. Parts were actually pretty funny. It was missing one element, though.”

“What's that?”

“Humility. What are people supposed to do with this presentation? Either they write you off as deceptive or crazy or perfect. That doesn't motivate them to embrace new ideas.” It was painful to hear, but he was right. I was the emperor refusing to recognize that I'd been exposed.

My friend Quinn once told me that he read Three Cups of Tea and it was more depressing to him than a book about genocide. “I was supposed to feel inspired, but it made my life feel worthless. I kept thinking, 'Man, what am I supposed to do with this?' I'm sitting in an office cubical writing procedures right now and I'm not inspired.”

“Those books make me feel tired. I read a few pages and I have to fight back a sense of jealousy or defeat. For me, those are the only two options. I know that I should feel happy for the guy, but I don't.”

I don't need more stories of great achievements or more steps to a perfect classroom. Instead, I have found that I am stronger when I am vulnerable. It is when I am humble that I can lead. It's when I focus less on behavior that students change and when I focus less on making a difference that I actually make a difference. It's not a new idea. Jesus taught the same concept twenty centuries ago.  Fortunately for me, his thoughts are now in public domain.

So, the bad news is that I don't have seven steps or three keys or the magical formula for education. I'm still figuring out this whole teacher gig . . . and my place in this universe. This is a story, a philosophical journey of the reality that teaching is a paradox of humility.

*     *     *

I say a lame joke in the morning before school and a boy interrupts me with, “that's not funny.” It's not that he's offended. He just feels that he has the go-ahead to be the conversational comic critic. It's the type of comment that brings back a narrative I don't want to relive – one of being the outcast, the Strike-out King, the Teacher's Pet and the kid who can't stay in sync with the my classmates whose humor revolves around quoting movie lines from Chris Farley.

At one time, I would have kicked him out of the room. Or perhaps I would have turned his humor upside-down and left him feeling wounded and ashamed. It's awful that I consider going to those places, but it's easy if I play the “I'm the Ever-Important Teacher” card.

This time, though, I see him as he is: a scared, broken, insecure thirteen year old. I see a part of myself in him. Too often, I am the critic, the cynic, the one who uses words as weaponry to try and conquer others in hope of becoming important. Too often, I stand up arrogantly and lob insults with the hope that people will believe the lie I'm trying to portray.

“Hey, what you said kind-of hurt. I know your motives were probably mixed, but I need the freedom to be myself and that includes lame jokes. What happens is if I don't feel safe being myself I lose my smile and my sense of humor and it's not as fun both for me and for everyone else.”

It's a vulnerable moment that moves both of us into a humble place of transparency. It's nothing spectacular. Nothing that would make a teacher's highlight film. But it's real and it's honest and as he musters up an awkward apology, I am reminded of the reality that I am more of a teacher when I am less of a teacher.

1 comment:

  1. Excellent post. It takes tremendous courage to be vulnerable. I see myself sometimes compromising between vulnerable and All Mighty Teacher by saying, "Wow. Imagine how it must feel to be sitting here telling a corny joke, just for fun, and to be told it's not funny. Would you like it? Neither do I." Dramatic and less than vulnerable. I appreciate your example.