True Story

One of my favorite pieces of writing, recently, is a blog post by author Sarah Bessey entitled Off Brand. In it, Bessey uses her marketing background to explore the idea of branding--the way that companies try to define their corporate identity by establishing parameters that say, "this is who we are, this is what we do, this is how we do it"--and how it also applies to individual identity. A brand, she says, is the story we are telling about ourselves to the world, and it is reflected in both the way others think about us, and the way we think about ourselves.

The concept of identity is a fluid one, and as such, it can change many times over a lifetime. As we grow and change, as our circumstances shift, or as events require, the primary way we define ourselves must naturally evolve to fit. Sometimes this process is gradual, an expected part of our life trajectory; sometimes it is desired and even highly anticipated. Sometimes, it is mandated by the advent of tragedy, the circumstances of necessity, or simply the fact that life contains surprises that even the most prescient of us cannot hope to foresee. In those cases, Bessey says, we can sometimes experience an impulse to hold to our brand--to keep telling the same story--even when it no longer reflects what is true or best for us or those we love. "Sometimes," she says, "the story we tell ourselves about our own lives can become a prison, it can keep us from the real life that is waiting for us."

This idea resonates so strongly with me. Bessey's own story of struggle with brand transition is one of mothering, of how the experience of both birth and parenting with her youngest child was so different than the story she had previously told of herself as a mother that she believed she had failed both herself and her daughter. But I have experienced some of this same struggle many times in my life, as I have gone from wife, to teacher, to mother, to homemaker, to....well, whatever it is I am right now. I remember my shock at realizing, almost a full year after the change had happened, that someone who is working full-time hours probably should no longer think of herself as a stay-at-home-mom; somehow, my brain had failed to make the transition. No wonder I felt like such a terrible stay-at-home-mom. I wasn't one. And lest you think I learned my lesson over time, don't forget how recently you have heard me speak in these pages about sitting down with my sons and concluding that maybe it was no longer a reasonable expectation for us to gather at the table around a home-cooked meal every night; being a full-time (or more) working single parent of teenagers is yet another shift in brand from being a working wife, partner, and co-parent of young children. I was trying to tell an old story, and failing--the inevitable result when the story we try to tell about our lives no longer matches the reality.

Of all the times my brand has changed, however, none was more difficult than the realization that I must close the book on the story of teaching as my lifetime calling. I was a teacher, from a family of teachers, and I had known from my earliest days that I would always be a teacher. Those of you who know me have probably heard me talk about how, when I was very young, I didn't know that a person could grow up and be anything else--I thought everyone was a teacher. This was not about a career. This is who I was. That remained true as I finished my education, as I worked odd jobs looking for my first employment, and when I finally reached that milestone, my own classroom in my own school. I loved every student, every experience, every minute. I was where I belonged. But life, as it has a way of doing, intervened. My husband got a new job out of state. We had a baby, and then another. When people asked, "What do you do?" I still kept saying, "I'm a teacher," but I fretted about how many years I was missing in the classroom, how few I'd gotten to spend there, how few would be left to me. Time passes so quickly; so soon, I wasn't young anymore. And at some point it came time to realize that I would not only take, but had already taken, a different path. I was not a teacher. I would not be a teacher. It's hard to describe the depth of my lament for this loss--I was inconsolable.

As more time has passed, I have had the opportunity to do many other things, none of which would have been possible had I held to the story I had always imagined instead of the one that presented itself. I even had the opportunity to teach again, this time in a completely different setting and a completely different way, and it is an experience so close to my heart that I would never trade it for anything else I can possibly envision. And when the possibility presented itself of returning to the classroom in the way I once dreamed of, I found that not only my life, but even myself, had changed in ways that meant I would no longer choose that path, even if I could. I work now at a job I love, for a cause I am passionate about, with incredible people, and in a way that is perfect for me and my family, the way we are right now. And I suppose I believed that my past identity was in the past.

In fact, I suppose the reason I have so often had difficulty with telling a new story to myself and to the world about who I am, is that I have believed that all my past identities are in the past--that embracing the new story means replacing the old. But this week, I've had cause to reconsider. 

On Facebook, I got a message. "Miss Sheltra, were you my fourth grade teacher?" A former student, now grown, of course. And I cannot tell you what it has been like to look at his pictures, hear about his amazing life and accomplishments, and to be told that, in his story, I am remembered. So I have been thinking about what happens when our lives change, when circumstances shift, and our story changes. Until now, without evidence to the contrary, I have felt that each new story represents a loss of the old--that all the previous people I was, stories I told, must be discarded as no longer valid, having no more value, now that there is a new and better version. But I have been wrong. A good story is always a good story.

My student's voice has been, for me, like a marker that proves the ongoing existence of that other, former me. It testifies to the continued reality of a story I am no longer living. "You were the best; I always remember you." I am someone else now; but I was there, and I am still a player in that story. All is not lost or forgotten. I was there, and all the stories are still true.

Life is unpredictable, and time and circumstances may create of us a different parent, spouse, friend, or simply a different person. In our lifetimes, the story of who we are will change, and change, and change again.  But all the stories remain true; all still hold value; there is room for all to be beloved. No matter how many times you may find yourself re-invented, you are still all the people you have been. You have not lost yourself. The work you have done, the lives you have touched, the time you have invested--their worth has not diminished. You have made a difference. You matter. Not just the you in the story you are telling now, but the you in all the stories you have told or will tell. Everything good that has come out of each of them remains, and you carry it with you. You were there, and all the stories are you--they are still you.

Top 7 Reasons Why I Completely Trust the Government With My Life, My Future, and the Education of My Children (Not)

 
1.  The multiple postcards I've received about my health care coverage that read, "We are about to mail you information regarding some very important upcoming changes to your medical card. If this is not your correct address, please notify us immediately, as it is very important that you receive this information."

2.  This nonsense right here.

3.  Which is the logical equivalent of this further nonsense.  (Livin' the dream!)

4.  The fact that free, government-issued cell phones are the only phones that won't work with 211, a service of the United Way that provides information about community resources to low-income families.  You know.  The families with the free government-issued cell phones.

5.  No Child Left Behind, and all its crack-smoking cousins.  (Don't think it belongs on this list?  I beg to differ.)

6.  Current presidential candidate (Insert name here--it doesn't matter which one.)

7.

Failure: Why It Matters

Quite a few months back, I saw a headline that caught my attention.  Maybe you noticed it.  It was right around Easter time, and the text read, "Aggressive Parents Force Egg Hunt Cancellation."  If, like me, you stopped to read it, you may remember that it was about a long-running annual Easter egg hunt in Old Colorado City, Colorado, that last year was discontinued for good.  The reason?  Too many parents, unwilling to risk letting their children return egg-less, refused to obey the children-only rules of the event, and swarmed the hunting ground, emptying it of hidden eggs in mere seconds, and leaving the remaining children of rule-following parents standing forlorn and empty-handed on the field.  The hunt's master of ceremonies lamented that having even one parent break the rules makes it impossible to keep all the others from doing so-- "If one parent gets in there, other parents say, 'If one can get in, we all can get in,' and everybody goes."  Seeming confirmation of this comes from a parent quoted in the article.  "You have all these eggs just lying around, and parents helping out. You better believe I'm going to help my kid get one of those eggs."

Like me, you may at this point be asking yourself the obvious question--what is wrong with these people?  At any rate, I hope that is at least among your first reactions.  If not, and you are instead wondering what's wrong with the rest of those suckers who left their kids standing out there with no eggs, I strongly recommend that you not read the rest of this blog post.  Or no, actually, maybe read it, and I hope you find something in it that's food for thought, but I also hope you don't know where I live, or have my email address.

The point at issue here is fairly simple.  All these parents want is to shield their children from the experience of failure.  That's easy to understand, because, as we all know, failure can feel pretty bad.  It can be sad, disappointing, painful, and frustrating.  And none of us, not one, enjoys it when our kids feel bad.  So it actually isn't that difficult to identify with those folks who took their kids to an Easter egg hunt, and didn't want to see them come home with no eggs, no candy, no prizes, and probably crying.  Maybe when they leaped over the rope and left other small children weeping on the ground, it became a bit harder.  But still, I think we all get the basic impulse behind the behavior.  The problem is, though, that failure actually matters.  Failure, with all its accompanying trauma and drama, is a vital part of making our children happy, healthy, successful adults.

You see, every person, of every age, must go through the same four stages in order to learn anything.  I'm not just talking about learning facts and information, like the dates of the American Revolution, or pre-algebra.  I'm talking about learning, or learning how to do, anything at all in life.  Want to learn to build an airplane?  Work in a group?  Be a great boyfriend?  A responsible employee?  You'll have to do it in these four stages.  Stage 1 is called "unconscious incompetence."  This simply means that you can't do whatever it is (or don't know whatever it is), and you don't know that you can't do it or don't know it.  You may not even be aware that such a thing exists.  So obviously, in this stage, you are quite bad at it.  Stage 2 is "conscious incompetence."  This means, you still can't do whatever it is, but you have now realized it.  This is my least favorite stage, the stage where you become aware of just how bad at this you really are.  But don't worry--with instruction and effort, you'll soon be in Stage 3, "conscious competence."  Here, you can do the thing right, but you really have to think about it.  You're making a conscious effort to do it correctly all the time.  It's hard, but if you keep it up, eventually you will move to Stage 4, "unconscious competence."  This is what we're hoping for.  In this stage, you know (or know how to do) whatever it is, without even having to stop and think about it.  It's second nature to you, it just comes naturally.  You can do it without even being aware of it.

You may already have pinpointed the part of this process where failure comes in.  That least favorite part of mine, "conscious incompetence," depends completely on failure.  In order to move successfully through Stage 2 and get on to "conscious competence," you first have to know that you can't do it!  Failure to allow failure is failure to develop competence.  That was really important.  In fact, I think I'll say it again.  Failure to allow failure is failure to develop competence.  I won't say it a third time, but read it again if you think you need to.  And if you only take one thing away from this post, make that the thing.


The problem is, when parents keep their children from experiencing failure, they are short-circuiting the learning process.  The message that kids need to receive, when they are in this critical second stage of learning, is, "You can't do it...yet."  Instead, when parents step in and prevent kids from trying, failing, and trying again until they succeed, the message that's being sent is simply, "You can't do it."  After all, our kids conclude, if their success was possible, why would our intervention be necessary?  And, most importantly--parents, PLEASE hear me here--both of these messages are self-fulfilling.  If your child gets the message from you that failure is OK, that it just means he can't do it yet, that if he keeps trying he will master it on his own, then your child will weather failure, keep trying, and master it on his own.  If your child gets the message from you that he cannot do this, and that failure is to be avoided at all costs, he will not risk it--he will not try--and he will not learn it.

There is plenty of research to support this assertion.  You can find a lot of it in an excellent book by Po Bronson and Ashley Merriman called Nurture Shock.  Many of the conclusions about praise, self-esteem, and the way we groom our children for the expectation of success and positive outcomes may surprise you.  And more confirmation is forthcoming all the time.  Another study just last year showed that a correct perspective on failure is an important component of school success.  News articles reported that "children who were told learning can be difficult, and that failing is a natural part of the learning process, actually performed better on tests than kids not given such reassurances."  One of the French researchers summed it up simply--when kids get the message that failing means you are a failure, it "creates feelings of incompetence that in turn disrupt learning."

So then what are we parents to do?  How can we use failure to help our kids succeed?  I would never claim to have all the answers to those questions, but I do think I have a couple, so you are free to take them for what they're worth. 

First, I think it's terribly important that we let our children experience failure while they are small.  Don't wait until they are almost grown, and instead of having no Easter candy, the stakes are a night in jail, or the loss of a diploma, or something worse.  Don't be one of the parents who have caused some New York companies to institute "Take Your Parents to Work Day," for new hires whose lives require so much parental involvement that even as young adults they must take Mom to the new job to straighten everything out for them there.  When they are little, the stakes are so low, and the window for learning is so wide.  These are the days when they are saying to themselves, "So this is what life is about."  Those are the times we want to help them understand it, from the very beginning, to lay the foundation with the most important truths about their own identity, their own fallibility and power and competence.  And if your kids are not really that little any more, that's OK--it's not too late.  Start today.

Second, we need to focus more on the process and think less about the end result.  Our children need to hear our praise, our admiration, our respect, for their efforts, not just their successful outcomes.  The same French researcher in the study above, when asked how he would apply the results to children's education, said, "Learning takes time and each step in the process should be rewarded, especially at early stages when students most likely will experience failure."  Everyone begins from where they are, and we all make progress from there.  The progress is what matters.  So if they don't manage to find an Easter egg, compliment their perseverance, their hard work, their creative thinking, their innovative technique--ANYTHING.  Just don't jump over the rope and get it for them.  And maybe next year, they'll get it for themselves.

It Takes One To Know One

I recently had the opportunity to attend an excellent conference for early childhood educators, along with several of my co-teachers.  During the course of the day, in addition to attending some of the conference offerings together, we also made plans to split up for several of the sessions, so that we could bring as much new information as possible back with us.  On one of these breaks, I was walking alone across the university campus where the conference was held, and (like lots of other people) I was talking on the phone as I went.  I am actually not great at finding my way around new places, and I had been depending on the rest of my group to get me where I was going up until that point in the day, but now I was by myself, and I expressed some reservations to my friend on the phone as to whether I was going in the right direction.  I said that I was planning to get to the right building by following the rest of the crowd walking across campus with me.  My friend said jokingly, "Unless you're following the wrong group of people."  This was a valid concern, since there were several other groups and events on campus that day, but I replied without thinking, "Oh, no.  You can recognize a group of teachers when you see one."  When pressed for an explanation of this remark, I couldn't come up with one on the spot, but I've been thinking about it, and I think I know why.

First, we are women.  Overwhelmingly, any group of teachers will be made up mostly of women.  In all the hundreds of participants on campus that day, I counted about a dozen or so who were men, and a high percentage of those are on staff at the college and were organizers or sponsors of the conference.  This is actually unfortunate.  Children, especially small children, in our current culture, are badly in need of the influence of strong male role models.  As cliche and well-worn as that statement has become, it has not lost its urgency or its truth for those who spend time serving, shaping, and supporting children in almost any capacity.  The role of men in our society is so uncertain, and the presence of men in our children's homes is either nonexistent or sporadic in so many cases, and all these children are badly in need of someone to take up this position of leadership in their lives.  Most often you hear talk of the plight of boys, and I understand why, but it's my contention that the need for the care, support, and leadership of men is just as crucial for girls.  So, although work with children, particularly those who are very young, has traditionally been a woman's role, and will most likely remain primarily so, it would be great to see a few more men among our ranks.

Second, we've got bags.  And that's because we've got stuff.  Lots and lots of stuff.  At most business conferences, you'll see people walking around with folders, laptop cases, maybe some bags they picked up at a vendor's booth and have filled with giveaways and workshop handouts.  And we might have some of these, it's true.  But we will have so. Much. More.  We will have umbrellas, coffee cups, extra sweaters, and snacks.  We'll be carrying math manipulatives we bought in the exhibit hall, flower pots we painted in one of the workshops, and all the water bottles that everyone in our group has emptied during the day so we can use them for a project we're doing.  All this stuff will be transported around in bags.  Every teacher has a school bag, usually several, in fact, and they are the repository for all the treasures required to serve our students well.  They may be plain canvas bags, or sturdy J. Crew bags, or cute Thirty-One bags.  Many of them--and I mean many--will have our names embroidered on them.  But what they all have in common is that they will be filled with items that speak to two important ideas.  One is our intense commitment to caretaking.  After all, how could we go somewhere for a whole day without tissues, band-aids, antibacterial wipes?  Someone might need them!  And another is our strong belief that everything in the world is fascinating, educational, and an object of wonder.  We can use it, whatever it is.  It's valuable, beautiful, cool, or gross, and we know the children in our care will think so too, because they have not yet lost this view of the world, and we hope they never do.  The stuff in the bag speaks to the very nature of who we are and what we do.  The school bag matters.

Third, we look really comfortable.  Now, don't get me wrong, we are as cute as can be.  I'm not saying we look sloppy.  But we will be dressed in a way that reflects our intention to get down to the business at hand, and not worry about getting our hands dirty while we do it.  We won't be wearing high heels; you can't run to someone's aid or do the Hokey-Pokey in high heels.  We won't have on designer clothes;  paint, glitter, and blood is not good for designer clothes.  We believe, wholeheartedly, as a group, that life is meant to be experienced and that learning is a hands-on business.  When you hold someone on your lap as they cry, snot might get on your shirt.  When, for the hundredth time, you dig a marble out of the toy toaster so that breakfast can continue, you might break a fingernail.  When you love someone, and you are living life with them, you've got to get down and dirty.  So while we are fashionable, maybe, in varying degrees, the exterior is not where our priorities lie.  It's not about how you look, it's about what you do.  Life is messy, both physically and relationally--we dress for it. 

And finally, most importantly, we are happy.  No kidding.  We're a happy bunch of people.  We will not be walking along looking all worried, or busy, or distracted.  We'll be talking and laughing.  Probably to people we don't know, and just happened to bump into on the way to the exhibit hall, or ended up making a newspaper wedding dress with in the last session.  And there is a very, very good reason for this.  Are you ready?  Here it is.  We love what we do.  All of us.  No teacher goes into the job for the money or the prestige.  We are there because we know, in our heart of hearts, that what we are doing is a vitally important, hugely valuable, immensely significant work.  We are passionate about kids, excited about learning, and just happy to be somewhere together, with others who share our passion and excitement--learning, sharing, telling stories, and oh, so much laughing.  And when you encounter a group of people who know so clearly how lucky they are, spending every day doing something they feel this way about, believe me--you will recognize them.

Academic Rigor Every Day

This afternoon I was in the grocery store, and I saw a mom there with a couple small kids, wearing what was clearly a school T-shirt.  The back of it said "ACADEMIC RIGOR EVERYDAY."

Here's what I think about academic rigor every day:  it does not sound good to me at all.

Now, before I go any further, I want to be very clear.  I know that parents usually choose their child's school very carefully, and they have a lot invested there.  If the school on this T-shirt is your school, I'm not trying to say your choice is wrong.  I don't know anything about this school.  I don't even know what school it is.  I'm sure it has great teachers, involved parents, and bright, talented students, and I have no desire to criticize it.  I'm not even going to mention that the official school shirt proclaiming academic excellence incorrectly uses "everyday" as a single word--that's another post entirely.  (Actually, I should probably stop what I'm doing right now and write that post instead, as it would probably be funnier to read and less likely to offend.)  Anyway, let me say one more time, I'm not criticizing your school.

However, having given that disclaimer, let me just ask you one question.  What does the word "rigor" remind you of?  If, like me, it immediately makes you think of death, I want to suggest there might be a reason for that.  Let me explain what I mean.

Education--true education, the kind that has actual value for living--is about more than just the acquisition of information.  Kids who can be regarded as well-educated possess more than a head full of facts.  They possess an intrinsic love of learning, an insatiable intellectual curiosity.  They are eager to find out how what they're learning can be applied in real life, and excited about exploring new possibilities that haven't been tried before.  They are unafraid to take the risks involved in innovating.  They actively seek for ways to integrate all kinds of seemingly unrelated information into the scheme of what they already know.  And unfortunately, none of these qualities can be acquired by means of what usually passes for "academic rigor."

I was raised in a family that highly valued education, and I learned all these qualities from my parents.  In my entire life I've yet to encounter anyone as excited about learning, anyone who approaches even the most seemingly trivial pieces of information with as much wonder and appreciation, as my mom and dad.  They are voracious learners.  (I once had the following actual conversation with my mother.  Mom:  "Do you know anything about Normandy?"  Me:  "No, not really."  Mom:  "I have to find out something about it."  Me:  "Why?"  Mom, indignantly:  "Well you shouldn't just be ignorant!")  This attitude was contagious--they passed it on to us.  But they didn't do it by forcing us to spend 45 minutes each day after school doing language and math exercises.  They did it by communicating--by believing--that learning is fun and exciting, that it's relevant to life, that ideas are valuable and that information is the vehicle for those ideas.

I'm not suggesting that school or learning should always be entertaining and fun, like video games except with multiplication facts.  In fact, I've written quite clearly in an earlier post about the idea that some things we need to learn are boring, tedious, difficult, or not inherently meaningful.  And I'm not against expecting kids to meet high standards in terms of both knowledge and skills.  My quarrel is with methodology.  Attempting to implement rigorous academic standards too often means simply the transmission of factual information, presented in the absence of context, reinforced by repetition and testing.  But learning, in order to lead to true academic excellence, cannot be based on rote memory and repetition--the style of teaching we used to affectionately refer to as "drill and kill."  Instead, it needs to be based on wonder, discovery, passion; it must be demonstrated to be meaningful in a larger context; the skills required to accomplish it need to be valued and celebrated.  All of which, unfortunately, the drill often does, in fact, kill.  And that lends a whole new meaning to "academic rigor" that I can frankly do without.

Top 10 Things I Hope School is Teaching My Kid

1.  Learn to think.  You might have the wrong answer now, but high-level critical thinking will get you to the right answer in the end.

2.  Learn to learn.  It's not just automatic--among other things, it requires intellectual curiosity, tolerance for risk-taking, and perseverance.

3.  What you know, or know how to do, is not as important as who you are.  Approach your education with that guiding principle in mind.

4.  Your brain, like every other muscle in your body, will grow stronger, faster, and better with regular exercise--the more strenuous the effort, the greater the result.  In other words, smart is what you make it.

5.  The person ultimately responsible for you is you.

6.  Failing at a difficult task means you're an ambitious, confident risk-taker who's willing to accept a challenge on your way to the top.  Not an apathetic, incompetent loser who's willing to do nothing on your way to the bottom.

7.  The people surrounding you here will no doubt have and express their own opinions about who you are.  These judgements say more about the other people than they do about you.  You are not required to accept these opinions or adopt them as your own.  You will not be surrounded by these people forever.

8.  Not everything you have to learn or do will be fun.  Some things will be difficult, frustrating, boring, or have no immediately obvious benefit.  This does not necessarily mean they won't prove valuable to you in the future.

9.  Not everything you have to learn or do will have value on its own, either now or in the future, but it may be the cost of reaching some other worthwhile goal.  Sometimes, if you want to ride the bus, you have to buy a ticket.  Even if the ticket just seems like a worthless piece of paper.

10.  You can do it.  We're behind you all the way.