Rewriting Our Own Stories

We are all storytellers, and the most powerful stories are those we tell to ourselves. We are the protagonists. We each have a distinct persona, a carefully cultivated identity that we hold close. It's who we are, and who we aren't.

We are the artists who paint beautiful portraits, but we have no business sense. We are the teachers who know how to explain quadratic equations, but we are terrible writers. We are the parents who love our kids dearly, but we just aren't capable of demonstrating that love meaningfully. 

The common word here is "but." We define our persona by inscribing a story of what we can do, but also what we can't do. And it is that story that keeps us from growing--from being who we envision ourselves to be. 

What if we gave ourselves permission to rewrite our own story? To engage in a kind of self-editing that allows us to be more expansive? "But" tells us not to even try--and is based in fear. If we want to grow we strike "but" from our vocabulary. We replace it with "and." And we move beyond the fear that inevitably holds us back.

We are the artist who paints beautiful portraits and is learning how to sell them. We are the teacher who explains quadratic equations perfectly and is committed to writing about how well our students are learning. We are the parent who loves his kids and is making room in his heart to show them just how much.

Storytellers create characters, and they don't hesitate to revise the qualities of those characters as the story unfolds. Our story is perpetually unfolding, and the persona of our protagonist deserves to be revised to take on new capabilities and to move ever closer to actualizing who we truly wish to be.

The Vocabulary of Violence

Our everyday speech is replete with metaphor, a linguistic convention that enlivens our communications and makes them relatable. But some metaphors send unconscious messages beyond what we really intend to communicate. And some are even violent and insidiously destructive. 

We "shoot from the hip." We use "bullet points" in our writing. We are sometimes "dressed to kill." We "shoot off at the mouth" "on the front lines" while someone drops a "bombshell" and we "take a stab" at fixing it. Eventually, someone is responsible or "heads will roll." It's only through "boots on the ground" with people who are "straight shooters" "who are quick on the draw" that we can get ourselves "out of the cross hairs." It's time to come out with "guns a-blazing" and to "have each other's backs."

I don't know how such speech affects us. It's easy to dismiss metaphors as harmless words that are simply embedded in the way we communicate. 

But our children listen to what we say--and how we say it--and it teaches them. If violence is normalized in daily speech, might they be learning that it is a simple, harmless fact of life? That the way we get ahead and achieve success is through might, militarism, and brash pronouncements of conquest?

As politicians continue to debate how to keep us all safe, maybe we can do our small part by measuring our words, finding gentler metaphors to enliven our communications. However subtle the change might be, maybe our children will learn that it's possible to live in a world where words can create and not destroy.

Much has been written on this subject, and I encourage you to check out the classic book Metaphors We Live By and an article in the New York Times about the power of belligerent speech to incite violence.

The Politicization of Diversity, Equity and Inclusion

I wince when people say that diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) is "PC." Such a perspective reduces DEI to an issue we HAVE to discuss because not doing so would create displeasure among people we do not want to offend. It implies that there is a political agenda behind the promotion of DEI.

Large-scale efforts to understand and support DEI often fall short of their goals. Corporate diversity "trainings" often only scratch the surface and leave many participants feeling half-empty and resentful that time has been stolen from productivity. The focus on learning "sensitivity" has been widely lampooned--I recall an episode of "The Office" in which the manager takes it upon his ignorant self to train people in diversity, to predictably disastrous (and, I must admit, hilarious) results. It's so misguided that it's funny.

It's not that I don't respect the heart behind such approaches, it's just that they're not authentic. They do not resonate because they are artificial, forced, and feel imposed from the top down. Such approaches inadvertently create the feeling that DEI is about politics. About being "PC." About walking on eggshells around people so as not to offend.

The active support of diversity is not a political issue; it is a human issue. Put simply, diversity creates strength in any community. In his book Diversity and Complexity, Scott E. Page writes, "In complex adaptive systems, such as an economy or a tropical ecosystem, diversity makes fundamental contributions to system performance." To translate from Princeton-ese, diversity is critical to making any complex system--a corporation, a school or a society--strong and enduring. Human diversity is no different. The Co-Intelligence Institute has this to say about human diversity: "To the extent that people's differences ARE recognized and truly heard or seen, they become contributions to the co-evolution of new insights, solutions, activities, experiences, possibilities and relationships that enrich a group or community and move it ahead to a fuller realization of the best that it could be."

In our journey towards a more equitable and inclusive word, we should also reject the word "tolerance." Tolerance implies that if we can just deal with each other, things will be fine. That's not enough. Our children need to know that understanding, embracing, supporting, and promoting DEI makes all of us stronger. And that strength profoundly impacts their interaction with and enrichment of any system, be it the cross country team or a Fortune 500 company. And who among us, regardless of our political beliefs, does not want that for our children?

Look Where You Want to Go, Not Where You Don't

A few years ago while vacationing at the beach, something possessed me to take a surfing lesson. Not exactly athletic, I struggled to even get on the board. After multiple attempts, I finally learned to stand and even caught a couple of waves. But the rides never lasted for more than a few seconds, and each ended the same way: I always crashed into another surfer. 

"Why does this keep happening?" I asked my instructor with exasperation. His reply has resonated with me ever since: "Dude, stop looking at those other surfers. Look where you WANT to go and not where you DON'T." He explained that surfers will inevitably go in the direction they are looking, even if they are trying to do otherwise.

Some months later, I was observing an after school bicycle program for young kids and witnessed something extraordinary. The instructor was teaching kids to ride their bikes on a long two-by-four beam--that's right, two-by-four. If they couldn’t keep their bike wheels within a four-inch range, they fell two inches to the ground.

The kids who had the most trouble looked worriedly at the ground in an attempt to keep from falling. They fell off every time. "Keep your heads up and look where you want to go!" admonished the instructor. Sure enough, most every child who heeded his advice rode the length of the beam without faltering.

I can’t help but wondering if this wisdom applies beyond surfing and cycling. By focusing on our fears, are we manifesting what we are trying to avoid? Maybe if we keep our heads up with eyes focused on the finish, we won’t let surf or earth get in the way of what we really want to achieve.

Redefining Rigor

“Demanding, difficult.” “Thorough, exhaustive, accurate.” “Strictness, severity.” All are modern definitions of “rigor" I found in various dictionaries. And I also found one particularly troubling  synonym: "misery.”

Lots of parents are looking for an “academically rigorous” school experience for their child. But I know no parent who want their kids anywhere near an “academically miserable” school.

Let’s reframe “rigor.” It’s certainly good for kids to experience discipline, thoroughness, and challenge. But the best learning experiences present rigor with activities that are deeply thoughtful, mind-expanding and exciting.

Given that, which of these rigorous experiences do we want for our children?

Do we want them to plod against closed-ended, multiple choice bubble tests with only one correct answer? Or assessments that require students to analyze real-life situations and dilemmas that have more than one answer?

Do we want our kids to memorize facts that will soon be forgotten? Or do we want them to learn how to find facts for themselves and use them in an authentic way?

A few years ago, teachers at The Lawrenceville School in New Jersey, a school widely regarded as the pinnacle of educational rigor, conducted a powerful experiment. At the end of the academic year, teachers administered traditional science tests to high schoolers. The tests were replete with facts and formulas that required significant memorization. 

Lawrenceville students being high achievers, it was not surprising that the average grade was 87%. In the fall of the following school year, the teachers, without prior notice, administered a nearly identical test to the same group of students. The average grade was 58%. Students had retained virtually nothing over the summer. What, then, was the value of what they had “learned?” This experiment set Lawrenceville on a new path of designing cognitively rich and meaningful experiences for its students.

The rigor of today is not what it used to be. It still implies hard work, discipline, and completeness. But it also means that students engage meaningfully, cognitively, and authentically in learning experiences.

And it certainly doesn’t have to mean misery. 

Moving Beyond Fear

Originally published in November 2015

Earlier this week, the City of Houston voted down a standing city ordinance aimed at protecting the civil rights of many of its citizens, most notably transgender people. At the heart of the vote was what has become the undignified threshold question that trans people face: What bathroom do they use?

Houston, like many other big cities such as Dallas and San Antonio, once honored the extensive research about (and the American Medical Association's recognition of) the complex issue of gender identity--that some people have a legitimate mental and emotional disconnect from their biological sex, and identify more closely with the opposite gender. This recognition enabled trans people to legally use the bathroom of the gender with which they identify.

But some Houstonians--fearful that such an ordinance would enable male predators to accost women in public restrooms--succeeded in repealing it, chiefly through a well-crafted television campaign that stoked terror and fear in the hearts of voters. [N.B. Neither Dallas nor San Antonio has reported incidents of such violence toward women in public restrooms.]

I cite this recent news not to promote a political "agenda"--I believe that respecting people for who they are is a simple matter of honoring human dignity and has no place in politics.

But there is one destructive reality that resides at the core of the example above: Fear is alive and well in our world.

Fear divides us. It perpetuates a simplistic, binary worldview--good/bad, black/white, liberal/conservative, us/them. Our schools should be focused squarely on the goal of eradicating such irrational fears, helping students to understand that the world is a place with endless possibilities and no limitations.

Fear is the enemy of innovation, of reasonable risk-taking. If I try and fail, then I'm no good.

Fear is what keeps us wed to educational practices that are valueless, like administering vapid, state-mandated standardized tests and training kids to crave the approval of others by giving letter grades. If I don't score well on the test or get good grades, I will not get into a good school. I won't live a good life.

Fear keeps us from truly getting to know other people and forming strong relationships. If I hang out with the brainiacs, then the cool kids won't like me. 

We are the models for our children. They take their cues from us. If we act with fear, they learn to be fearful. As parents and educators who want our children to be their best selves--happy, well-adjusted, fearless people--let's set a higher bar. We can embrace the power of nurture, inquiry, forgiveness, and love. Our children will take notice. And they won't be afraid anymore.

Rebuilding Friendships: Molding Clay and Letting Go of Boulders

A few ago when I was the head of High Meadows School, I was walking the halls of the early childhood building and heard something extraordinary.

A teacher was seated on the floor outside of her classroom with a young student. From what I could glean, the student was not getting along well with one of his classmates. 

"She keeps bumping into me and she knows she's doing it," said the student. "She did it last year too and it makes me mad."

After guiding the student to think of his own strategies to improve the relationship, he sat quietly. "Are you OK with this?" asked the teacher. "Something tells me that you're not."

Her heartfelt sensitivity to the child's feelings opened him up right away. "I just don't think it's going to stop," he said.

"Do you know what it means to forgive?" the teacher asked. "I like to think of people as lumps of clay. We can be molded and changed, and we are never the same. It's possible to change and be different shapes over time. So if you give her time and space, you might notice that she has grown and changed too."

The student sat quietly, pondering what his teacher had just said. Sensing that she needed to go a bit further with him, the teacher said, "You know, bad feelings about someone can weigh on your heart like a boulder. It can actually make you keep feeling angry if you don't let go of that heavy boulder."

What a lesson! The teacher, demonstrating natural intuition and compassion, engaged the student's trust as he shared with her his honest feelings. She guided him in coming up with his own strategies. She then used metaphor, a powerful teaching tool, to illustrate the nature of change and the ill-effects of holding on to resentments.

I hope the outcome is as strong as the lesson, but the lesson itself will stay with this student for a long time. I know it will stay with me.

A Diary of an Angst-Ridden Kid

With the excavation of adolescent angst inscribed below, I offer you a personal peek behind the veil that separates teenagers from the rest of us. Lest you judge me too harshly, I assure you that I have successfully worked through the multiple issues described herein. Mostly. Here goes:

Unlike heterosexual boys today, “getting” a girlfriend was my highest priority. And, hey, a four-year age difference is nothing when you're in your forties:

I had an above-average self image back then. Thankfully, my artistic talent gave me an outlet:

Of course, my "competitors" looked like a cross between Han Solo and David Hasselhoff:

It still baffles me that a girl would react adversely to a greasy-haired stalker wearing a Black Sabbath t-shirt:

Needless to say the old "Do-you-have-a-sister-named-Denise" trick never worked for me:

So I guess I peaked at 13, and it's all been downhill ever since. Isn't that the way it is for most of us?