Archive for April, 2010
#43) Closer than they Appear
This blog marks the one-year anniversary of blogging for Measurable Advancement. While our Forbes feature story lies somewhere in our future, during this past year we have chartered a course of steady progress and exceptional foundation building.
Whether it is called launching a business, building a brand, or transitioning your dreams into reality, these tasks are not for the faint-hearted. To peer into the unknown and fashion something tangible and successful requires blessings and courage. Yet, the most complicated, intimidating object blocking your success is looking back at you in the mirror.
Have you ever noticed the small message that appears on the bottom of the mirror of most cars?
OBJECTS IN THE MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR.
Well, that message doesn’t singularly ring true for drivers. It is applicable to dreamers, would-be risk-takers, and others standing on the brink of possibility. When looking in the mirrors of life, the objects or obstacles in your view are closer than they appear. The object blocking your growth, the obstacle to your success, the object obstructing your eventual happiness is you.
Micah was tyrannical. His mother warned me but I didn’t take heed. However, once he came bursting into our class on the first day of school, I knew it – he was the one. The one for whom I would renew my subscription to Grey Hair Gradually. The one of whom my dentist would warn, “you have to stop gritting your teeth.” The one of whom veteran teachers would say, “He helped you earn your stripes.”
That first day was a half-day of which while explaining classroom procedures, I had the fortune of introducing the time-out chair to the class with Micah in it. In fact, in the absence of students, I began to refer to him as that Darn Micah. Micah was only five. He was the baby boy of a hard-working mother who doubled as a full-time graduate student. It was her hope that I could be a positive role model for Micah. It was my hope that our district would temporarily re-instate corporal punishment.
Yet for all the anxiety he induced, Micah was not the problem. The problem, the obstacle, the object that was closer than it appeared was me, or more specifically, my perception of Micah. My perception of Micah was that he was a disruption, a spoiled anarchist whose purpose was to cause chaos and mayhem within my class. My perception is what prompted the shortness of breath each morning after his arrival. My perception is what led me to believe it was entirely his fault. My perception was erroneous and ironically shortsighted.
Simone was one of my favorites. In Simone, I saw attributes of a daughter I then hoped to one day have. It was also Simone who brought me face to face with the fallacy of my perception. Simone inquired, “Why hasn’t Micah been the Mastermind of the Day?”
I called my class, Masterminds, so that they could feel positively encouraged. The Mastermind of the Day was my strategy for awarding and reinforcing positive behaviors and was an opportunity for students to feel good about themselves. In my eyes / perception, Micah hadn’t earned the right to be the Mastermind of the Day. But in response to Simone’s inquiry, I improvised a blueprint for the transformation of my perception. I verbalized three things that Micah could do to become Mastermind of the Day.
In a true case of the students providing the lessons, Micah’s classmates rallied behind him the next day. At every instance of the day, they encouraged, prodded, and reminded Micah of what he must do to be the Mastermind of the Day. With each encouragement, I could feel a sledgehammer to my misperception. By the end of the day, with the full support of his classmates, Micah had earned the distinction of being Mastermind of the Day. His teacher learned that misperception distorts the ability to reach, to love, and to teach a child. When I looked in the mirror of my instruction, the object that was closer than it appeared, the obstacle to my success, the obstruction to my effectiveness was my own misperception of a student.
On a humorous note – a few weeks later after my perception had changed, Micah’s transformation was not as monumental. After allegedly taking one of his classmate’s materials, I said, “Micah the two worst things you could be is a liar or a thief.” To which Micah responded, “I ain’t no thief!!” Hilarity ensued.
#42) Apparently Insignificant
Being the youngest grandchild had its advantages, one of which was riding in the front seat with my grandparents. Years before booster seats, seat-belt regulations, and air-bag technology – the best seat in Granddad’s Oldsmobile Delta 88 was on the front bench with Granddad on the left and Grandma on the right. With every turn of the corner, I would slide a few inches up against the pillars of my extended family. Then later along those drives, my grandmother would wrap her arm around me, pull me closer to her, and affectionately speak a stretched-out cooing of my family nickname while rubbing my head. Shortly thereafter, my head would rest in her lap as Granddad navigated the Oldsmobile toward our destination.
A grandchild along for a ride with his grandparents seems an apparently insignificant occurrence, until one realizes that what was once apparently insignificant, what was once taken for granted, what was once a rather mundane function is gone forever.
My grandfather passed in 2001 and last week, our family experienced the loss of our matriarch, Betty Jane Quince.
With the loss of my grandmother, no longer can I slide into the safety of her arms during the turns of life. No longer can I lay my head in her lap, obliviously confident that Granddad will get us there. No longer does anyone coo my nickname with fond deliberation. The Oldsmobile has long faded into the recesses of our family memories. We have become accustomed to the void in our lives without Granddad. But today, the emotionally abysmal chasm that has intruded our lives reminds us of the value of those apparently insignificant moments. We have now learned to cherish that which prior to last week was just so familiar.
In recent years, dementia began to rob Grandma of her memories, save those of Granddad. And while it was quite obvious her joy of seeing her “grands and great-grands”; each of us knew that cloud of empty despondency from missing Granddad shrouded her every action. Thanksgiving on Earlmoor Street has long ceased and had been replaced by sporadic visits from children and grandchildren seeking the doting comfort of Grandma. Partaking in her limited engagement was both discomforting and heart-warming. Seeing this shell of the joyous sparkplug we knew as kids reminded us of the fragile temporariness of life. Lately, Grandma just didn’t seem like Grandma at all.
Now, that bittersweet discomfort has been replaced by something much deeper and much more painful – an emptiness that can never be filled.
But that won’t stop me from trying. I’m going to stand at the cliff overlooking that emptiness and cast-down, one-by-one, my memories of the apparently insignificant. With the conjuring of each memory, I’m going to reflect on the lessons learned and cherish more greatly the woman who shared them. Moreover, the next time I’m on a journey somewhere and the path presents turns that toss me side to side – I’m going to remember the comfort of Grandma’s lap, the assurance of Granddad’s direction, and I am going to feel the safety of our family pillars beside me as I proceed through these turns called life.
Mom & Grandma
With prayers for the uniting of the spirits of W.J. & Betty Jane Quince, the family is equipped to live forward – rest in peace Grandma.
#41) Losing Sight of Your Purpose
Nearly all of my most challenging and discouraging professional experiences are rooted in one phenomenon: Losing sight of my purpose.
When I was frustrated because students called upon me incessantly despite my obvious fatigue – I had lost sight of my purpose as a teacher.
When I was overwhelmed with reviewing weekly lesson plans for dozens of teachers – I had lost sight of my purpose as an instructional leader.
When I was convinced that the last few parents on the call list would probably have gotten the message from another source – I had lost sight of my purpose as a representative of the school.
Does losing sight of purpose make one a bad person? Not at all, it simply reaffirms our humanity. The tedious demands of our jobs can provide a multitude of slight tugs or minute distractions upon our attention. Meeting those demands are necessary to perform our roles; however, we cannot allow those demands to become the role. We cannot lose sight of our purpose of service due to the inconvenience of a particular task.
That bears repeating:
We cannot lose sight of our purpose of service due to the inconvenience of a particular task.
During one of our professional development days, a first grade teacher complained about the reading levels of her students. In my perception (emphasis on perception) she was taking a veiled swipe at our kindergarten team. In her diatribe, she lamented about what parents were not doing, how last year’s class was better prepared and so on.
I understand that state benchmarks have been pushing curricular objectives down – meaning that what was a second grade learning objective in the 1980s is now a late kindergarten or early first grade learning objective. Playtime in kindergarten was once a part of their day, but now administering sight-vocabulary test is becoming more acceptable for that same age group.
Nevertheless, our first grade teacher had a predicament. She had lost sight of the purpose of first grade. Students build upon, gain and further develop a foundation for reading in first grade. If they enter first grade already reading – that’s beautiful! However, that is not a fair expectation or as we used to call it – a developmentally appropriate expectation. What is a fair expectation is that they leave first grade with reading fundamentals, an expanded sight vocabulary, and an understanding that they can acquire information through reading.
Her frustrations about what her students did not know clouded her ability to see that what they did not know was exactly what she was suppose to teach. She had lost sight of her purpose and fortified her lack of focus by blaming others and pointing fingers.
Pointing fingers …
My mom used to say for the one finger that you are pointing with, there are three others pointing back at you. Signifying that perhaps you are more the blame that the person you accuse. It also supports the notion that losing sight of purpose is our own fault. However, losing sight is not the crime – refusing to work toward regaining focus of our purpose is the crime.
Are you guilty?