Embracing Weirdness in Students

When I was a kid, the bed time routine usually involved my mom giving my stuffed animals voices.  At some point on most nights, I would say, "Mom, you are so weird." She would respond, "That's okay, you like weird."  This was a statement, not a question.  It was like she decreed that I like weird.

And, so, I do.

Which is a good thing.  Because the plan for me for 25 years was teaching middle school.  Not only do you have to be a little weird for that, you also have to like the weirdness you see in others.  You are going to have a boy who sits with one foot up in the desk and leans over until you think he'll fall out of the chair. You are going to have a girl who draws cartoons of animals with human legs (which looks more disturbing than it sounds). You are going to have students who burst into song in the middle of class and those who can't be cajoled to speak with any kind of incentive.  

When we think of school stereotypes, we typically think of the categories from The Breakfast Club - athlete, princess, nerd, bad boy, and weirdo. But the truth is, most kids are a category of one.  

And that's because we are individuals, not types.  For all of the money and air time that is dropped on personality testing, from Myers Briggs to Enneagram, they have little more validity than horoscopes and Buzz Feed quizzes. People in the same generation do not think the same way.  All members of a race or gender are not identical. I can tell from sitting in faculty meetings that not all teachers have the same view of things.  We are each individuals, born with certain gifts, raised in different environments, encouraged to develop different skills, taught to value different qualities.

In short, we are all weird.

And that is a good thing. God uses whatever makes you weird to fulfill His purposes in the world. He put you where you are with the strengths and weaknesses you have because there is someone who needs that aspect of your character to build them up. When you look at Scripture, every person God used in a significant way was unusual. Noah was a drunk. Abraham and Sarah were far too old. Moses stuttered. David was the family runt. And I'm convinced the apostle Peter had ADHD. 

Even if you aren't a person of faith, you have to be able to see that the world has only ever been changed by those who are willing to go against the flow and change the way things are done.  Suffragettes stood against the status quo, often putting themselves in grave danger, to get us the right to vote. The Civil Rights movement was built entirely by those who insisted on doing the unexpected, from sitting at the lunch counter to marching across a bridge to kneeling at the beginning of an athletic event. Nikola Tesla stood in opposition to the smartest men in his field, including the powerful force that was Thomas Edison. Galileo stood against the norm as did Malala Yousafzai. William Wilberforce worked himself to death opposing what was to make the world better. You can bet he would never have uttered the words, "It is what it is." 

Weird is good.  Weird brings change. We must embrace the weird in each other and in ourselves.  

I am not advocating that we all develop into people so strange that we can't operate in culture. We won't have influence that way because there are systems in which things get done and rules that have to be followed. Wilberforce was only successful in the abolition of the slave trade because he worked within the legal system. Civil Rights activists did more than create spectacles; they worked to make slow changes in the law. Tesla made connections with financial backers by proving his ideas weren't as crazy as they sounded. While weird is good, it is only useful if you can function in society.  So balance matters.

I've been thinking a lot about my Granny for the last couple of days.  She was delightfully quirky, and the stories told at her funeral reflected it. She played practical jokes on her family and called friends on their birthdays just to sing to them (and let's just admit that she wasn't going to join the choir). She often called the pastor in the middle of the week to tell him he should get a tape of his sermon and listen to it because it would bless his heart. People cried at her funeral, but they laughed a lot too. Dear God, please let me be weird like that.

Teachers, school is getting ready to start. You are about to meet some weird students, weird parents (maybe even weird colleagues).  Some of them want to hide their weirdness while other will put it on full display. Take the time to recognize what aspect of their character is unusual and useful and help them develop and mature those qualities. Help them to pursue those gifts that will make them influential, not in spite of their differences but  because of them. But also teach them the value of social norms and show them that living within the rules of society is possible while still maintaining their quirkiness. If they combine those things, they will have influence on those around them (and for some, even farther) and have great joy while doing so.

A Life Invested - Tribute to Henry Black

I didn't know Henry for very long.  We were RFK camp colleagues for six summers.  All together, between camp weeks and training days, that means we had only spent about 7 weeks together.  What you may not know about RFK is that the intensity of service to foster kids drives relationships deeper during those weeks than they do in the non-camp world.  Knowing Henry during these few weeks taught me much, and his death makes the world a dimmer place.  In tribute to Henry, I'd like to share a few of the lessons he taught everyone, especially those at Royal Family Kids Camp.

1.  Gentleness is not weakness.  The kids at RFK have lived difficult lives.  They have seen and experienced things that made them grow up too fast and become defensive.  Often, they arrive at camp with a tough front.  In their lives, vulnerability leads to bad things, so they have to pretend they are strong, whether or not they are.  When they met Henry, they met gentleness personified.  He was kind, but he was not weak.  I have no doubt that there are many adults in the world today who are kinder than they would have been if they had not seen Henry's example.


2.  You don't have to be loud to be heard.  Henry was the calmest man I've ever known.  I never heard his voice raised.  I don't think I ever heard his voice louder than 30dB.  Yet, I stood close to him at camp training because he said great things.  He was funny and profound and worth hearing.  When we planted a new camp, the woodworking director had been trained by Henry.  While the woodworking area is loud, he isn't.  Henry's influence carried over into more than one camp.  While this lesson was never explicitly stated, the kids who spent time at either of those woodworking stations saw what quiet influence was. 

3.  Doing something tangible with your hands is therapeutic.  I mentioned before that Henry was in charge of the woodworking station.  There is no part of camp that was more surprising to me than this station.  Before that first year, I pictured small projects in the realm of those little snap together kits you get at Lowes.  I arrived at camp to find real lumber and real tools.  Kids were building everything from bug catching boxes to chairs.  Yes, chairs that they could actually sit in.  In my second year as a counselor, I had a girl who pulled out a sheet of paper with a list of wood projects she wanted to make, mostly as gifts for family and friends.  She wanted to spend every activity time at the woodworking station.  When I asked her what she liked so much about woodworking, she said, "I can take home something real that I made and give it to people."  Make something real gave her a sense of accomplishment that she needed.  One of the most memorable moments I have from that year happened when I was with her, helping her make a jewelry box.  An angry seven-year-old boy arrived at the table with his cabin.  He didn't want to be there; he didn't want to make anything.  Henry calmly handed him a block of wood, a pile of nails, and a hammer and said, "Just hammer these."  For an hour, that boy pounded nails into a block of wood.  He started pounding them with anger, but by the end of the hour, he was laughing with his counselor while joyfully hammering these nails.  I'm not under the misconception that all of that boy's problems have now been solved because of an hour of hammering nails, but for that hour, he put his energy into something besides anger. 

Camp wasn't the only way in which Henry served the Lord (see his obituary here).  He was an active member of his church, and usher, a Royal Rangers commander.  He invested his life in others, and that investment is reaping eternal benefits.

Establishing Credibility Before Connection

Several months ago, a local youth pastor came to my school to speak to our students in chapel.  At the beginning of his speech to our middle school students, he said, "What?  You are in 7th and 8th grade?  I thought you were juniors and seniors."  Thank goodness I was on the row behind my students because I couldn't conceal my distaste.  I was offended on behalf of my students because he was treating them like they were stupid (young and stupid are not the same thing).  Telling students an obvious lie is not a way to get them on your side because this generation values authenticity above all, and a youth pastor should really know that.  For the rest of his speech, I was unable to take anything he said seriously because of the way he started.

If in hindsight, I want to give him the benefit of the doubt, I can guess that he was trying to make a connection with them.  Given that he was going to be with them for about twenty-five minutes, I don't think that is possible.  You can't make a meaningful connection with middle or high school students in half an hour or less; it requires the hard work of relationship building.  What he needed wasn't connection; it was credibility.

Later that day, I was talking through this experience with the teacher friend I go to when I need wisdom and/or perspective.  As we talked about this idea of credibility before connection, she said, "One way to start would be by showing them that he took his work seriously."  During teacher week, we had a workshop (actually presented by that same friend) about student motivation based on the work of Dave Stuart, Jr.  The first key was credibility.  Making genuine connections is discussed but not until later.  Obviously, this is an important aspect of teaching, so let's address how we can make ourselves and our classes credible.

1.  Communicate that you take your profession seriously.  Many teachers are focused on being fun and entertaining in order to engage.  These aren't bad things, and I like to think I'm fun for my students, but it doesn't build credibility.  Too many jokes early on may undermine your credibility.  Start with the message that you take your class seriously by telling students about your preparation.  Hang your diploma and teaching certificate on the wall of your classroom (You wouldn't go to a doctor who didn't hang his, no matter how funny he was).  On day one, I tell my students about my education, years of experience, and ongoing professional development.  Do I throw in jokes?  Of course.  Is the first day a stand-up routine?  Absolutely not.  One day last year, a delightful 8th-grader said to me, "I've decided I trust you more than my other teachers because you have been doing this for a really long time."  Setting aside that she complimented me and called me old at the same time, it reflected something important.  She knew that I had been doing it long enough to know what I was doing, and that made her trust my decisions.

2.  Communicate that you take all classes seriously.  I've seen many parents over the years tell their students that they "don't use algebra either" or that "8th-grade doesn't matter anyway" or that they "couldn't spell very well either."  Then, they are at a loss for why their student doesn't do their homework.  They mean well; they mean to comfort their child.  Instead, they demotivate their child.  We can't stop that from happening at home, but we can stop it from happening in our classrooms.  As a teacher, you should never communicate that some part of education doesn't matter, even if it isn't your own subject.  Undermining any class' credibility undermines them all.  When a student asks "when am I going to use this in life," make the answer about something other than getting into college or a job.  Showing your love for your class motivates your students in ways you may never be aware of (I should write about my history teacher some time).

3.  Communicate that you take students seriously.  It is easy to communicate that you don't take students seriously, even without meaning to.  Blowing off an answer just because you didn't expect it will make that student less inclined to answer again.  Giving a student's question a blow-off answer will make them less inclined to ask them again.  It can be difficult to stay "on" all the time, but it is the quickest way to establish or lose credibility with our students.  If you truly to do not have time to give a question serious consideration, tell the student you will think about it and get back with them.  Make a note to answer them later.  In my school, all students have a computer and school email address, so I ask them to email the question to me in order to remind me to get back to them.  You would be amazed by their response when you give them a thoughtful and thorough reply. 

Taking these things seriously doesn't mean being a dower teacher that doesn't allow fun in their classroom.  Once you have established that we do important work in this room, there's plenty of room for personality, but if you start with personality, that may be all your students ever see. 

Awareness of the Moment

In the penultimate episode of The Office, Andy Bernard says,

"I wish there was a way to know you are in the good old days while you are still in them."  

I love that line.  It makes me cry every time I watch it.  (Disclaimer:  I'm kind of a sap, so everyone's last line on that show makes me cry.)  Nostalgia has long been one of my favorite feelings because I think it is really the gratitude we feel when we recognize the patterns of God's providence in our lives, so I totally love this sentiment from Andy.

Here's the thing; if you pay attention, you can know.  You just have to be careful to pay attention to the moment you are in.  I learned this life lesson from my sixth-grade teacher, Tom Dorrin.  Neither one of us knew it at the time.

The Teacher Who Changed My Personality
Until sixth grade, I was a crybaby and a touch-me-not.  We didn't have the word "triggered" then, but if we had, mine was a hair trigger.  Today, I might be called a snowflake.  I cried at the drop of a hat even if I had to drop the hat.  Say the wrong thing to me or look at me sideways, and I was that kid who would run crying to the teacher or my mom.  Once, when I was in college, I was babysitting a child who was like that, and I called my mom to apologize and thank her for letting me live to adulthood.

Here's where Mr. Dorrin enters the story.  At this time, sixth grade was still considered elementary school, so I had one teacher all day.  For this particular teacher, affection was shown by teasing.  If he liked you, he picked on you.  He loved me.  He had taught my brother and liked our family, so he teased me a lot.  He teased me so much that another child's mom reprimanded him for it at the conference for her child (I found this out much later and wished I could have told her to mind her own child's business).  You may be thinking, like this mom did, that it was horrible for him to pick on me, especially given how sensitive I was to being teased.  If you are thinking this, you are wrong.  This was the best thing that could have happened at this time in my life.  He taught me not to take everything so seriously, particularly myself.  He taught me that only people who love you will take the time to tease you; other people will ignore you.  I'm not sure I would have developed the appropriate personality for teaching middle school if it hadn't been for this man.

I didn't recognize that this massive change was being made in my life until I was in the eighth grade and had a chance to reflect on how I was different.  The problem was that he had left our school at the end of my seventh-grade year.  He left to work for IBM, which we used to say stood for "I've Been Moved."  There wasn't social media or even an internet yet, so tracking people down wasn't an easy thing to do.  "He'll never know," I thought.  "He's made this big difference in my life, and I can't tell him."

The Promise I Made to Myself
I was incredibly bothered that he would never know how important he had been in my life.  That's when I made myself a promise.  I would not let that happen again.  I would keep my eyes open for the impact people had on me so that I could recognize it sooner than I had with Mr. Dorrin.  I would be aware of their contribution to my life and let them know it as soon as possible.

If you have ever gotten a card or letter from me, thanking you for what you have done in my life, this is why.  As a department chair, I write notes to my people, thanking them for the work they put into a great class.  This is why.  My colleagues know that I consider our "Shout Out Meeting" at the end of the year sacrosanct.  This is why.  I cannot let the year end without you knowing the impact you are having on the people around you, especially me.  This lost opportunity raised my attention level, seeking out awareness of being in "the good old days" while I am still in them.

An Even Better Feeling
While I was preparing to introduce and thank another former teacher with my colleagues on Wednesday (read that story here), I knew that this was an opportunity most people don't get in their lives.  I rehearsed it a lot because I wanted it to be exactly right.  As I stood on the stage, I realized that I was having a feeling that is even better than nostalgia.    I didn't have to wait until the experience was over and look back on it to realize it was special.  I could take in every aspect of the moment and appreciate it because I was aware of how special it was as I was doing it.  I had so many feelings that it was like my heart wasn't big enough to hold them all.  I don't know the name for the feeling, so I'm going to call it "instant nostalgia."  This is my new favorite feeling, and all it takes is the discipline to pay attention.