“Why do we spend our lives trying to be something we would
never want to be, if we only knew what we wanted? Why do we waste our time
doing things which, if we only stopped to think about them, are just the
opposite of what we are made for?” Thomas Merton
In The Muppets (the
Jason Segel one) there’s a moment at the end of Rainbow Connection where
Animal, who hasn’t been able to drum the whole movie because of anger
management treatment, just gives in to the muse and bangs the shit out of the
drums. At that moment, my dear ex-wife leaned over and said “Aw, he achieved
his telos.” In case you’re not a
philosophy major like her, telos is
the thing you were made for. Yesterday I had an Animal-achieving-his-purpose
kind of day.
I had training for summer camp yesterday. I’ve worked at the
art camp, mostly part time as a poetry teacher, for four years. This year, I
signed up for full time even thought they weren’t planning to do poetry. But then they decided to do poetry! I know
it’ll get squirrelly when it’s time to put on the play, but it’s such a
relaxed, happy place to work—diverse, kind, and queer friendly. There was even
a part in the training where the management told staff, in no uncertain terms,
that they are to respect little boys who wear dresses, and to be sensitive with
pronouns.
The team skews young, but the music teacher is close to
retirement age and kind of old school. When I told her a little about what had
happened at the school, she said “Oh, Miss Jane, I’m gonna have to give you
toughness lessons.” Though I shut her down pretty unequivocally, she still
proceeded to give me an example wherein she told a child she could “Squash him
like a bug.”
“Just stop,” I said, trying to be cool. “You don’t know that
school.”
“But I know hood rats.”
Now, she’s African American so I guess that makes it less
offensive, but I am unspeakably angry to know in my heart that that often when
people have told me I’m “too nice,” they mean “Too nice for poor black kids.”
The number of times I’ve heard them disparaged, that I’ve been condescended to
about it, the number of times I’ve had empathy mistaken for weakness, the number of times I’ve been told to get a
thicker skin, has caused me an enormous amount of stress and sorrow. I’ll never
forget the day last winter that my grade partner, who I looked up to and loved
so much, went off on me for giving our students “praise they don’t deserve.” A
mostly-praise classroom tone was the official policy of the school (and of my
heart) but policy isn’t any match for what’s already expected, what’s been
expected for generations. Everyone saw me how they saw me, everyone sees the
kids the way they see them, and it will take me the rest of my life to write
out the pain of that.
Though my music teacher friend meant to be protective and
certainly didn’t mean to open a wound, I’m glad she did. I’ve never realized
more deeply what a destructive waste it’s been all this time to fight being
sensitive, to fault myself for the thick skin that never seemed to grow. I’m
very sad about the times I conformed and
tried on that authoritarian armor, and I’m glad soul-sickness made me
take it off for good.
The idea that I need to be tougher is bonkers for two
reasons. First, anyone who really knows me understands just how resilient, how
stubborn, how passionate, what an immovable force I can be. In addition to the
sizable amount of strictness I can actually sneak into my handing-out-stickers
ethos, I’ve pulled myself through traumas, crossed boundaries, made connections
and lived deeply in ways that most people would have shied away from. Yes, I
can be really fragile and crappy at life a lot of the time, and I have plenty
of regrets, but I’ve turned nearly every mess into art by having compassion,
faith, and creativity. I’ve made change at times when I was expected to have no
voice, in situations that seemed (okay sometimes actually were) impossible. I
may have failed to keep teaching the population I wanted to serve, but while I
was there I brought peace and love every day into places most people would be
afraid to go.
The fact that my game face happens to be an adoring smile
doesn’t mean that I’m weak, it means that I am ale to reach through the ugly,
rotten, violent noise of the world and see goodness, see love.
The second reason “toughness lessons” don’t make sense is
that sensitivity is a resource. Being a delicate little seashell may limit the
number of hours I can work or the number of insults I can field without taking
it personally, but it also allows me to feel more deeply, to see and hear and
feel details that others might deem unimportant. The best thing is that I get
to empathize with people that others might dismiss, and that above all else is
what makes me a teacher. It makes me feel beauty and gratitude and love so
deeply that yep, I’m often overwhelmed, but I’m also amazing at the art of
being alive.
There were no toughness lessons at camp. After lunch,
breathless and nervous but sure I knew what the heck I was talking about, I got
to give the training in positive behavior support and de-escalation—I gave a
sensitivity lesson. We practiced shouting out each others’ awesomeness,
praise-only corrections, rewards instead of punishment. We got to practice
taking a breath before we speak, using active listening, giving someone space
when they’re upset. I told everyone to remember these two things for the rest
of their lives:
1. At least 10 positives for every negative.
2. Use a soft voice.
They were already so nice that I cut the training almost in
half. I can’t believe how at home I felt. This is me. I was nervous, but I
taught, and everyone learned. I don’t know what my job will be when the summer
is over, but I know that I will teach, and I know that I will always be strong
enough, because I have the most powerful thing in the universe—fiery, bubbly,
witchy, goddess-y, sparkly LOVE. (Also, stickers.)
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