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Where Are You?

Wednesday 4 September 2013

Dear Terrence,

Where are you? We’ve been in school over two weeks now, and you’ve yet to show yourself. Usually, by the end of the first class I know which student (or students) will be this year’s Terrences, this years Teresas. But this year, you’re keeping it together much longer than usual. Your attitude hasn’t really come out yet. You haven’t really been disrespectful. You haven’t caused a major disruption.

Understand, I’m certainly not complaining. When you show up, often productivity in the classroom drops a bit because I’m taking more time than I know I should to deal with your behavior issues. So your ability to keep yourself under wraps this year is really a blessing in many ways.

Still, by now, you’ve usually made your appearance and I’ve already begun trying to coach and to encourage you, to give you a few new tools for your sorely-lacking social skills toolbox. But I don’t know who you are yet.

Yours,
A. Teacher

Goodbye, Nelia

Tuesday 3 September 2013

“Mr. Scott, today is my last day.” Nelia looked at me matter-of-factly when she said it one Friday morning, but the news was anything but matter-of-fact. There are students who, though it pains a teacher to admit, could say those words and the teacher would find it difficult to suppress the resulting smile. Few are their numbers, thankfully, but every year almost every teacher has at least one or two students about whom he thinks, “If only this kid wasn’t in my classroom–I could get so much more done with these other children.”

Nelia was not such a student. Indeed, she was the polar opposite: a quiet child who applied herself diligently each and every day, who turned in model work as a result, and who seemed to draw my attention in class like no one else. I knew she was trying; I knew she was paying attention; I knew she wanted to learn the things I had to teach. When explaining things, I found that I glanced at her more than almost any other student. Hard workers get that kind of attention.

I’d had my eye out for her from the first day. Mrs. Wilson, a teacher from a lower grade, had seen her name on my roster and exclaimed, “Oh, Nelia! You’ll love her!” She’d gone on to explain that Nelia had had a difficult life and had brought a lot of issues into the classroom. “But by the second semester, she’d worked a lot of them out–anger management, patience, things like that–and just became a sweet, wonderful student.” We teachers all like to hear that about rising students, so I was ready and very eager to meet her.

Because of her last name and the fact that I arrange my students alphabetically the first few days, Nelia sat in the back. She seemed quiet, not really talking to anyone and certainly not talking out of turn, but she always appeared sad. Tired. When students did group work, I found that she quietly participated but didn’t really take the lead. At the same time, the other students immediately realized that she had a quick mind and grasped things before most others in the classroom, so she became the de facto advisor to the group. She often finished before anyone else and then helped the other members of her group: not exactly the ideal for group work, for among other things, group work is intended to give students and opportunity to practice the real-world skill of cooperation in pursuit of a common goal. Still, her willingness to help had its own positive effects, and not just in the subject matter.

Her work was impressive. Always neatly organized in clear, looping handwriting, her work demonstrated from the beginning her impressive intellect and her pursuit of virtual perfection. Yet when praised for the quality of her work, she often smiled only a bit, the edges of her mouth just turning up and a sparkle temporarily flashing in her eyes.

All of this I noticed in just over a week.

When she told me she was leaving, the news hurt immediately, though initially for admittedly selfish reasons. It’s always a little sad to see a productive student who has a positive impact on the classroom environment leave, but it’s even more upsetting when it’s a student known to struggle, known to have overcome some bad habits and replaced them with some positive behaviors. When I found out why she was leaving, though, I sat silently for a few moments, wondering just how I should respond, considering how I could wrestle the wild and wildly depressing thoughts that surged into my mind when she began her explanation, “You see, I’m in foster care, and the lady that is taking care of me right now has decided she’s too old to do it anymore.”

Suddenly it all made sense, all the things the other teacher had mentioned, all the little implications. The changes Nelia had made, breaking habits built up from years of disappointment, rejection, and loneliness, were all the more impressive. I found myself suddenly grateful that I and my children knew where we would wake up tomorrow, the next week, the next year. I found myself unexpectedly thankful for the little habits that we take for granted, habits that sometimes even annoy, but habits that can only form in a secure environment where there are no surprises like, “Guess what!? You’re moving next week and that means changing everything in your life!”

And then the wild thoughts, the unrealistic thoughts that I just couldn’t beat down: “How quickly can someone get to be certified to be a foster family? Could we do that fast enough?” Thoughts that I knew the answer to.

As she left class that day, I pulled her aside and told her that I was very sad that she was leaving us. “I was really, really looking forward to working with you this year. I can see already that you would be one of those students that make me think, ‘This is what I got into teaching for.’” She smiled and thanked me, then started down the hall. I called after her and told her, “Make sure you head up to the seventh grade hall and say goodbye to Mrs. Wilson.” She smiled and assured me she would.

On the drive home that day, I began wondering if I should have said more, if it would have been helpful or even appropriate to say what I truly wanted to tell her: “If I had it in my power, I would take you into my family’s house and gladly try to provide a stable environment for you until you graduate high school, or even longer if necessary.” Unwarranted hope? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Maybe hearing those words, essentially telling her, “You’re not unwanted. You can have a secure place in this world” would have been an incredibly positive thing; perhaps hearing those words would have had the opposite effect. Possibly she would have thought I was just being a little weird. I don’t regret not saying it, and yet I’m thinking and writing about it still.

I did say something though, something to hint that she’s wanted, that she’s appreciated. Enough to make up for any of the sadness in her life? Certainly not: that’s a hole impossible to fill with only a few minutes of chatting. But she smiled when I said those things, and it made the day a success.

When Monday rolled around, I was still hopeful she would walk into my classroom. “Perhaps there’s been a change. Perhaps she got the dates mixed up,” I thought. No mistake. No change. Simply no Nelia. She was always so quiet that I really didn’t notice her absence until five or so minutes into the class, the students working on their bell-ringer and I checking roll.

“Michael,” I said, glancing up, checking his name with I saw his tuft of blond hair.

“Nelia.” And then I remembered. A voice from the back of the classroom: “I think she moved.” I stood silent for a moment, wondering where Nelia was, wondering what family had taken her in, wondering what school she’d landed in, wondering if she would settle in quickly, wondering how long it would take for her teachers to notice what I and others had seen, wondering if old habits might return as defensive mechanisms, wondering, wondering, wondering.

“Yes, she moved,” I finally confirmed, hoping the students wouldn’t notice the crack in my voice.

Welcome Back, Terrence

Monday 19 August 2013

hoodie.psd

Dear Terrence,

Every year — every single year — I make the same promise to myself around the end of third quarter: “Next year I will start the year as an authoritarian jerk. I will rule my classroom with an iron cliche and only later loosen my grip.” It’s easier, after all, to loosen things than to tighten them up. And then by the beginning of the year, I begin second guessing myself. “Nobody likes a jerk,” I say, “and that would essentially would be acting like a jerk.”

It’s a delicate balance to achieve when you have a classroom filled with students of varying interest levels, social skills, intellectual abilities, cultures, races, economic realities, and a thousand other variables, and my job is to focus them all on one goal: improving their ability to read and to write. Some of them love school and are inherently interested in this common goal; some of them hate school and don’t care about anything I have to say; some of them love school but, being more mathematically inclined, are not inherently interested in what I have to teach; some of them don’t even seem to know what they’re doing in school; some of them have only one goal: attract as much attention as possible. And they’re all in my classroom.

This dilemma about how to open the year boils down to how to deal with one group of students: the disengaged, interest-lacking student who wants to pass most of the class period chatting. In other words, students like you, Terrence. Indeed, in every class — that is, in every on-level class — there is at least one Terrence who simply says what he thinks when he thinks it without any thought to the approriateness of the moment. I’ve literally had a student say, “If I think it, I say it.” If in that classroom, there are a few more students who, with that initial proding, will join into a conversation (in other words, they remain generally quiet until someone speaks to them), then we’re going to have little pockets of chaos throughout the classroom that add up to a disrupted and disruptive class. As the year develops and relationships grow, it seems like this might be easier to control, but the reality is often frustratingly the opposite. When you and your friends behave like this, Terrence, you rob others of an education, because I have to spend time dealing with your behavior rather than teaching.

To be a teacher, one has to be something of an idealist, somewhat naive regarding human nature. One has to look at these impulsive, often rude, sometimes cruel children — no more than two or three in a class — and think, “They must understand that their life can be better. They must want to change and simply not be able.” It’s easy to think of them even as victims — victims of neglect, of a shallow society, even of irresponsibile or possibly cruel parents. And so the second balancing act: to understand that they’re responsible for their own actions, but that they’re acting from habits formed in an environment not entirely of their choosing.

But naivete and idealism aren’t really necessary if I remember one thing: it’s all about the relationships. You and other students like you, Terrence, might have developed bad social habits because of a lack of positive adult relationships in your life, but I don’t have to be an additional, negative relationship simply in the name of “classroom management.” So at the beginning of this new school year, before I’ve even met you, I say to you what I say to every student. No matter what it feels like, no matter how harsh I seem to be, I am always on your side. It’s just that I’m on every student’s side, and when one student is taking from another her opportunity for an education, I am going to intervene and stop it. If that means coming down on you because your talking is disturbing others, then that’s what will happen; if that means coming down on others because their talking is disturbing you, then that’s what will happen. But no matter what, I am always on your side.

Regards,
Your Soon-To-Be Teacher

Rotary Phones and Education

Sunday 18 August 2013

[ted id=1732]

I am increasingly politically and fiscally conservative in a lot of areas, but concerning education…

Logic to the 14th Power

Friday 24 May 2013

“But Mr. S, you don’t understand!”

Obviously I don’t.

I don’t understand how something someone — a virtual stranger — says about you can be so meaningful that you’re ready to battle the person in the eighth-grade hallway. I don’t understand how so many kids today have so little control over their emotions and seem to have no idea how to deal with troubling emotions. I don’t understand how a kid can be willing physically to hurt someone or to get hurt himself because someone spread meaningless gossip about him.

“But Mr. S, you don’t understand!”

Obviously I don’t.

Perspective

Thursday 23 May 2013

Two stories from our home state of South Carolina tonight. One, a story of a complete lack of self-control and the brutal consequences for one toddler:

A Columbia woman has been arrested after a 2-year-old boy in her care died last weekend.

Police said Thursday that 34-year-old Margie Hamm had been charged with homicide by child abuse.

Authorities say Hamm slammed the boy’s head into a bathtub faucet while she was babysitting him May 18. (Source)

It’s hard not to be depressed about humanity and enraged about this woman’s evil impulsive behavior at the same time. It’s hard to live in a world where solders walking down the street in their home town get attacked and beheaded, where little children have their skulls crushed against the hunks of metal, where various and sundry evils surround us, and not be depressed about the state of humanity.

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Then there’s the other story in South Carolina: in Greenville this evening, sixty-four eighth graders and high school seniors received ACE (Advocates for Character and Education) Awards, which are intended to be recognition for “students who do amazing things in their schools and communities but are not necessarily recognized for their efforts and achievements.” These are kids who help the elderly and homeless, who stand up to bullies in their schools, who say to peers “this is wrong” and set a better example. These are kids who make a difference, some of whom have more courage at their age than I still have at my age.

I was honored to receive an invitation from M, one of my own students, a young lady who represented our school at the awards and who has consistently show maturity beyond her years in my classroom. She received one extra ticket to give to someone outside her family, and she gave it to me. K and I were planning on going to a Carolina Chocolate Drops concert tonight, but when I received the ticket last week and realized the significance of her decision, there was no way I could go to some silly concert.

So knowing that there are kids like M in the world makes it a little easier to live in world filled with Margie Hamms, Michael Abdebolajos, and similar ilk.

Choices

Monday 20 May 2013

Like so many accidents, the sinking of the Titanic was the result of decisions based on an unqualified, unmerited hubris. A string of choices, some seemingly small at the moment, led to the moment when ice was falling onto the fo’c’sle as the berg carved the gash into the bow of the ship that doomed it.

As part of the district-mandated fourth-quarter “choices” thematic unit for eighth grade, I’m having students read a passage from an article at the Titanic Historical Society that describes the decisions of the captain and crew that led to that most famous of disasters. An initial step was to have students read the passage and circle any passages that describe a choice being made.

I thought this was a fairly simple, fairly obvious task for reading, and that’s critical: as students are reading, they need to have some secondary, text-related task to keep track of to help keep interest and provide a purpose for reading. But to see others’ choices, you first have to be able to see your own. You have to be aware of the choices you make on a daily — indeed, hourly — basis; you need to see the choices of those around you and understand they are just that: choices.

What happens when a room filled with fatalistic students reads such a text? They simply can’t see choices anywhere. The read something like this and see no choice:

At 1:40 pm the [wireless] operators’ working routine was disturbed by an incoming message from the White Star liner Baltic: “Captain Smith, Titanic. Have had moderate variable winds and clear fine weather since leaving. Greek steamer Athinai reports passing icebergs and large quantities of field ice today in latitude 41.51 N. longitude 49.11 W…Wish you and Titanic all success. Commander.” This particular message was handed directly to Captain Smith, who, instead of posting it in the chart room, gave it to Bruce Ismay who casually put it in his pocket. Later in the day Smith asked for it back.

Two clear choices there: the captain chose not to put the message in the chart room, presumably where it belonged, and Ismay chose, upon receiving the message from the captain, to put the it in his pocket.

Almost no one saw the choice.

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Later, we read the following:

From the German steamer Amerika wireless operator Otto Reuter sent at 1:45 PM: “Amerika passed two large icebergs in 41 degrees 27′ N., 50 degrees 8′ W., on the 14th April.”

Previous messages had been promptly delivered to the bridge but this one never got there. Titanic’s wireless unexpectedly went dead and Phillips, busy trouble shooting, shoved aside probably the most critical ice warning.

Another choice, to brush this message aside. And no one saw it.

These are kids who say “what will be, will be.” These are kids who get in trouble and can’t see what choices led to that trouble. These are kids who see themselves as victims. They don’t see choices in front of them; they see a string of inevitabilities behind them.

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What did some of them indicate as a choice? This passage:

The night was crystal clear; there was no moon and the sky was filled with stars. The sea looked as smooth as plate glass, paradoxically, a disadvantage for the lookouts. Without waves breaking around an iceberg’s base leaving a wake, it would be hard to spot without reflective moonlight, especially if a berg was showing its dark side.

Kids surrounded by choices and see only inevitabilities.

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I wondered about their fatalism this evening as I finished up the Leyland cypress trimming. As I moved a ladder, a dove fluttered from the tree, and I realize there must be a nest near my ladder. I’d seen the birds around the trees several times, and I suppose I’d assumed there was a nest, but I’d never investigated. Yet a few minutes of very intentional investigation revealed the nest and a bit of trimmed twig on the baby bird.

How much of that was choice and how much of that was accident, fate? That the twig landed the bird was accidental; that the twig was small enough to leave the bird uninjured was accidental; that I trimmed knowing there might be a nest in the vicinity was a choice, though not entirely conscious.

Had I, in a moment of cruelty, reached my hand down and tipped the bird from the nest, that too would have been a choice. A sadistic, even evil choice. Would the students have seen it as such? It seems impossible to imagine them not seeing the element of decision in that. But then again, it seemed impossible for them not to see the element of choice in all the Titanic’s crew’s actions as well.

How do you teach children to see choice in an arbitrary text when they see no choice in their own lives? How can you not feel a tinge of worry and even dismay when you think about the future of such children?

Examples

Monday 6 May 2013

Dear Terrence,

Listening to you talk about what your mother does when she gets drunk, hearing your stories about how your grandmother can curse with the apparent fluency of a cliche sailor, I begin to understand how it is you have so few social skills. You’ve had no one to teach you these skills, through words or example.

Yet I’m still troubled. You’ve been in school now for nine years (counting kindergarten and this yet-to-be-completed year). Surely you’ve seen other students model these social skills you’re missing. So what’s missing in the equation? Recognition. You see these successful students as simply have a different nature than you, and to an extent, they do. They’ve learned and internalized behaviors that make them seem like they have a different nature, but in fact, you could be just like that. You just don’t recognize it. And unfortunately, no matter how many times I and other teachers tell you this, you won’t believe us.

Ever frustrated,
Your Teacher

Others’ Business

Thursday 2 May 2013

Dear Teresa,

I overheard your comment to another student today about “going on down the hall before that teacher says something” because “she’s always in other people’s business.”I’m assuming you’re referring to the fact that the teacher in question will tell you to move on down the hall, probably interrupting any conversation in which you might be engaged and disregarding the potential impact of such an interruption. In case it had escaped you, said teacher is on hall duty when she tells you that. You, as a student, are in her charge; you are her responsibility. She is not getting in your business; she fulfilling her contractual duties.

What would getting into your business look like? Showing up at a social gathering you’re attending and bad-mouthing you to others might be a good example. Making desparaging comments about your personal life and the decisions you’ve made might be another example. Gossiping about you would be a third example. Telling you to move on down the hall is so far from “getting into your business,” though, is most decidedly not an example.

If you’re going to gripe about teachers, at least make an attempt not to look foolish by mislabeling your gripe.

Regards,
A Teacher Up the Hall

Beauty

Wednesday 24 April 2013

Dear Terrence and Teresa,

Have you ever experienced true beauty? Your lives sometimes seem so lacking in it — the fruits you show in class make me wonder if you’ve ever been struck dumb by something truly, deeply, and unquestionably beautiful.

Listen to this if you haven’t experienced that kind of beauty.

Sincerely,
Your Teacher

Effort

Friday 12 April 2013

Dear Terrence,

There’s really only one thing that’s required to pass my class: effort. There’s really only one thing required to be successful in life: effort. There’s really only one thing necessary for happiness: effort. There’s really only one recipe for healthy relationships: effort. There’s really only one path to riches of any sort, be they fiscal, emotional, intrapersonal: effort.

Yet you don’t tend to put forth any at all. I have to fight with you to keep your head up. I have to fight with you to keep a pencil in your hand. I have to fight with you some days even to look at the paper you’re working on.

“You won’t be able to do this in high school and pass,” I explain one day. “Certainly not college. And you won’t last a second on any job with this level of effort.”

“I know,” you respond. You say you’ll put forth effort in high school.

But you’ve created for yourself a habit that will be difficult to break. You certainly won’t be able to do it all at once, “cold turkey.” You’ll need to set milestones and achieve them, moving the goal line a little further back each time. And you have to begin now: high school will be too late. You’ll get so far behind so quickly, and you’ll reach an age at which you can make the decision for yourself about continuing your education, that I’m afraid you’ll just drop out.

And then what?

Concerned,
Your Teacher in Room 302

Handful of Hair

Wednesday 10 April 2013

Dear Teresa,

jerry-siegel-hairI cannot imagine what it’s like to feel the kind of uncontrolled rage you felt today. To be so out of control, so boiling with rage, that you don’t pay attention to who is around and whom you are swinging at that you strike not one but two teachers — that would terrify me. I would be afraid about what I might do to those around me, to those whom I love, to those with whom I work. And yet afterward, you were so calm, so matter-of-fact about it.

“That girl said such and such,” you explained as I escorted you down the hall to the office, “and so I,” and your arms began swinging wildly in imitation of how you initiated the fight.

It scares me to think of what your life might be like if this is your reaction to something as petty as a literal “he said that you said” situation. Gossip brings out violence in you? What a miserable life you’ll have, then, if you can’t foster at least some slight self-control.

Worried,
Your Teacher

Tabula Rasa

Tuesday 9 April 2013

Dear Terrence,

PyramidInvesting_DfnFig1_3DPyramidI handed out report cards today along with the notices to your parents about which classes some of you guys are failing for the year. Of course we only include the core academic classes in that list: English, science, math, and social studies. You’re failing all four.

Why?

I think we all know, but you provided eloquently ironic commentary on this when I asked you guys to do your quarterly grade assessment. Three simple questions:

  • What are your grades like?
  • Are your grades what you expected? Why are/aren’t they like you expected?
  • What specific actions can you take to change this for the fourth quarter?

When I took up the papers, yours was blank. Just your name in the corner. Nothing else.

This has your modus operandi throughout the school year. When I ask you about it, you always respond the same: “It’s hard. I don’t get it.” Surely you can’t say the same thing about this, though. Surely you understand this. It’s simple. But it’s hard: self-reflection, honest self-reflection, always is.

As I was thinking about today’s letter to you, I was helping my daughter with her homework. She gets monthly homework tables, and she’s trying to get the whole month done in a single week. Today she had to do the following:

Remember your 3-D shapes. Draw a sphere, cylinder, cube, cone, and pyramid. List something around your house that is shaped like each one.

“Daddy!” she exclaimed, “I can’t do pyramids!”

We looked online, found a drawing of a pyramid, talked about the lighter and darker lines, and she said, “Okay, I can try.”

That’s all you need to do. I’m not looking for perfection; no teacher is looking for perfection. We just need effort. You just need effort, because you’re creating such dangerous habits for yourself with this chronic underachieving.

If I could, I’d sit by you all the time, like I sat by my daughter, but I can’t. No one can. It’s the tragedy and beauty of growing up.

With hope,
Your Teacher

Park

Thursday 4 April 2013

Dear Terrence,

I took my kids to the park today. Yesterday, too. “Daddy, can we come back tomorrow?” my daughter asked just before we left, so it looks like we might be heading back tomorrow as well.

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It’s a real privilege to be able to spend so much time with my kids. It’s one of the perks of being a teacher: I get spring break off too. And so I spend it with my family.

I wonder how many times you got to spend the afternoon at the park with your dad. I know you live with your mom, and for all I know, your dad could be out of the picture altogether. It’s not at all uncommon these days.

I know you’ll likely say, “It is what it is.” Perhaps. It is, but it shouldn’t be. I’m always a little taken aback at how cavalierly some of you guys take the fact that your parents are divorced. I cannot image my parents divorcing; I cannot imagine divorcing my wife. We’re in to for good — there is no problem we won’t work out somehow. And so I’ll always be able to take my kid to the park on sunny spring afternoons. Because it’s important — the smallest things always are.

I hope you’ll take this to heart when you start your own family. It’s likely to be difficult for you, not having any solid role model to serve as a pattern. Still, it’s possible. Just say to yourself daily, “My child will have a more stable family life than I did.” Say it now. Say it again. There — that’s a start.

Tired but satisfied,
Your Teacher

#25 — Conditioned Choices

Wednesday 13 March 2013

Man is a slave in so far as, between action and its effect, between effort and the finished work, there is the interference of alien wills.

Dear Terrence,

I’ve heard that a reputation is permanent, that once you teach people how to treat you — and we do teach others how to treat us — people will always treat you that way. Once people come to expect behavior x from you, they will always expect behavior x.

In my own educational experience, this certainly rang true. I had a good reputation; I was trusted among my teachers; I made sure I rarely got in trouble. As a consequence, I could easily ask to go to the restroom and roam the halls for a little if I so chose. And every now and then, I did so choose. When confronted by a teacher, I could simply make up a quick convincing story and move on. No one ever asked me for a pass because no one ever suspected I was up to no good, even when I was. My reputation saved me, and I used that to my advantage — especially during my senior year in high school, when my best friend and I sneaked off campus almost every day during lunch.

You, though, have the opposite problem. Even when you’re trying to do the right thing, you’ve taught most everyone — teachers and administrators — to doubt your sincerity, to suspect you’re up to no good. Quite frankly, you often were at the beginning of the year.

So now you find yourself in this dilemma: you’re at risk of receiving an administrative referral for something that, even if you did it, probably doesn’t really deserve that level of action, especially if, as you say, one more referral will get you expelled. But because of your reputation, there’s little you can say or do to talk your way into a less serious consequence.

You planted seeds that are now beginning to sprout even though you’re trying to prevent it. But the seeds are there; your reputation is set. No matter what you do, you’ll receive the short end because you’ve lost the trust of those around you. In fact, those seeds — your reputation — have taken such firm root that a teacher could lie about some encounter with you, could say you cursed her and walked away with a huff, and even if it’s all a fabrication, the administration would believe the teacher. Why? Because it sounds like something you would do. Let’s be frank: it sounds like something you’ve already done, several times.

So what can you do about it? The truth, at this stage in the school year, at this stage in your middle school career, is simple: not a whole lot. If you kick a dog every time you walk into the room, pretty soon that dog will get up and leave the room every time you enter; if you habitually deal with your frustrations in negative, disruptive, destructive ways, those around you will come to expect that from every counter, and their support for you walk get up and walk out with the hypothetical dog.

All that being said, there is some good news: you’ll be going to high school next year. (Let’s be honest: having already failed one grade, you’re not at risk of being retained even if you fail every single subject, which you currently are.) At high school, you get to start over. You get the great academic reset. All counters are returned to zero. Your reputation is a blank canvas upon which people will begin to paint their expectations of your behavior as you begin to teach them what to expect. In other words, you have a chance to start over and put it all behind you.

I hope at the very least you take that opportunity seriously.

Concerned as always,
Your Teacher in Room 302

#17 — Evil and Duty

Monday 4 March 2013

Evil when we are in its power is not felt as evil but as a necessity, or even a duty.

He stood in the hallway, thinking I don’t really know what. Was he not aware that I’d heard the profanity coming from his mouth? Was he not aware that the profanity, misogynistic and vile. had indeed come from him mouth? Was he bluffing, hoping for some — what?

If I had asked him what possessed him to say those things, to call the female student a b—-, to become enraged, he would probably (indeed, likely, even predictably) justify it.

“She started it.”

“Did you see what she did to me?”

“Nobody’s going to do that to me and get away with it.”

A thousand and one excuses. A million and one reasons why the evil was not evil, but a necessity. A duty.

#8 — Feeling Good About Oneself

Thursday 21 February 2013

Dear Terrence,

A brief respite from Weil, inspired by a few things in school from the last few days. It’s an appropriate supplement to yesterday’s post.

What are some of the things about yourself, about your life, about your future that make you feel good about yourself? What are the things in your life that are sources of pride? When you’re down, feeling a little low about yourself, what do you think about to remind yourself that you’re valuable, that you’re worth something? In short, what can you do to give your self-esteem a quick fix?

I have many sources of pride in my life. Most immediately, I’m proud of my family: my wife and my children make me feel like I am truly a valuable person. Other things I take pride in are my job (as a teacher, my job is essentially to help people), my time overseas (an experience that was as challenging as it was rewarding), and the respect and admiration of my colleagues (something I’ve worked hard to develop). When I’m feeling upset about something, I can think about or interact with these elements of my life, and I feel a little better as a result.

Occasionally, one of these very elements of my life leaves me upset. A bad day at school, an argument with my wife, an unsuccessful interaction with my daughter: all of these things can leave me a bit down, feeling a little less valuable, a little less important. Those moments are tricky, because I’m feeling bad about something which usually causes me to feel good.

That is the case today, because today you showed me, in no uncertain terms, that the best way for you to get your fix, the best way for you to feel better about yourself is to make someone else miserable through mocking, teasing, taunting, threatening, and seemingly countless other forms of bullying. It’s depressing to think of what your victim is going through, but it’s almost more tragic to think of what you’re screaming at the top of your lungs with those actions.

  • “I have no self-esteem!”
  • “I look inside myself and I see little of any beauty.”
  • “I feel horrible about myself!”
  • “I hate myself.”
  • “I’m so afraid of what others will see if they look closely at me that I will do everything I can to deflect attention to someone else.”
  • “I am terrible.”
  • “I look inside myself and I see nothing — nothing — of any value.”
  • “I am dumb.”
  • “I am ugly.”

None of these things are true. You’re not dumb, ugly, terrible, or worthless.

You’re not any of these things, and you don’t have to try to make others feel they are just so you can feel equal. Pulling someone down is impossible: you can only pull yourself down. Or up.

You’re not any of these things, and insulting, threatening, and belittling others does not raise you up in everyone’s eyes. It lowers you.

You’re not any of these things because you’re a human being, full of dignity and deserving respect. Perhaps you’ve not gotten enough dignity and respect yourself from others around you. But does it really help you feel better to pass that pain on to others?

Concerned and in defense of others,
Your teacher