Monday, March 27, 2006
Figure 8 -- Double Experience
When I was a kid, my dad threw me in the deepest part of Big Sand lake, a bay in the lake that is 160 feet deep. He did not throw me in the lake to teach me to swim, or because he was mad at me because I was being disrespectful, but because he wanted to teach me how to waterski. I was eight-years old. It was the summer Steven Spielberg released his first blockbuster film, "Jaws." I was scared to death, both about learning to waterski, which seemed impossible to me at the time, and about being eaten by some monster-from-the-deep.
My mom's always been into fringey, new-agey, Ripley's Believe-It-Or-Not types of things. She read books like Chariots of Fire, a book about aliens visiting earth and creating the pyramids and such. She went through a phase where she didn't allow us any processed sugars in our diets. She watched shows on TV about Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster. That sort of stuff. Weird stuff. She influenced me with this stuff, so much so that when I was sitting in the lake, floating peacefully with a life-jacket on, watching as my dad tossed the two wooden skis out of the boat, in my direction, expecting me to grab them and put them on my feet, by myself, in the deepest part of a very large lake, I was certain, without a doubt, that some big monster, maybe Jaws himself, was about to swallow me whole from beneath.
As I was floating there, I remember looking down, into the depths, but you can't see anything below eight feet or so, the rest, the other 152 feet of open water, just melds into an impenetrable darkness, empty, except for, of course, the monster lurking below.
My heart was beating, so much so that my ears burned, not from embarrassment, but from the pressure of fear building inside my body. I remember thinking the best and only way out of this predicament, the only way to save myself from the monster below, was to put on these water skis and do it, to make it work, to learn how to ski, and then my dad could pull me, me on my skis, gliding across the water, to shallower water, maybe even near the dock, where I would let go of the rope, slowly sink back into the water, where I could kick off my skis and swim furiously for shore.
Miraculously, I learned to ski that day. I remember the pride and sense of accomplishment I felt. I forgot my fear, although it was my fear that motivated me to try. Once I was pulled out of the water by the boat's insistent and unending drive, and I was gliding across the water, I felt silly. It wasn't that hard afterall. Obviously, not impossible as I had originally thought.
I'm glad I learned to ski that day because it led to many more wonderful days spent out on the water in the years to come.
This experience forces me to think about trials by fire. That's what this was, learning to water-ski, a trial by fire. I passed this trial, and I learned to ski. The trial was difficult, and I was angry with my father at the time, but in retrospect, I don't regret the trial or the inevitable learning that occurred because of it.
A lot of learning that we endure in life is completed in a manner such as this. Formal education, for the most part, is guided by the same principle. A midterm or final exam -- trial by fire. Tests and exams are more than just a simple regurgitation of what you already know, they are also part of the overall learning process, and after you finish an exam, for sure, if you tried, you will have learned something.
Teaching, as well, is a trial by fire. I will never forget my first time as teacher. As an undergraduate, Dr. Evans had asked me to be her undergraduate teaching associate, shocking me blue. I worked closely with her throughout the semester, designing assignments and quizzes, helping to grade exams, tutoring students, conferencing on their writing, and, once in awhile, leading a lecture or discussion in class.
The first lecture I was asked to lead dealt with Beowulf, the epic story of a Nordic hero's (and eventual King)quest to save the Danes from a terrible monster, Grendel (and, later, Grendel's mother), who was terrorizing the court of King Hrothgar.
I was always interested in medieval literature. I was an avid fantasy and science fiction reader as a youngster and this literature was right up my alley, so I felt comfortable with the subject matter, I knew the story, but what was I supposed to teach about the story? Teaching something is far different than just reading and understanding it. Dr. Evans gave me a book about Beowulf, explaining that the material in the book might help me to organize a lecture and discussion.
I read the book, twice, memorizing parts, outlining other parts, and jotting notes throughout, but even after all that, looking back on my notes and through my memory, I still didn't know what to teach about the story. I was too proud to admit that I had nothing to teach about Beowulf when Dr. Evans asked me for updates on my progress. I toiled on, late at night, reading and rereading the story, and the book Dr. Evans had loaned me.
Nowadays, it would be an easy enough to find a lesson plan online and follow that, but at that time, in 1991, the web was just a tiny fetus in some computer geek's mind. I tried to remember how I had been taught the story of Beowulf, what questions or activities I had been asked to contemplate, but nothing would come to me. In my other classes, I paid attention to how other teachers were presenting their material to me. I even watched talk-TV hoping for inspiration. I watched Jenny Jones and took note of how she interviewed her guests, eliciting information about torrid affairs with first cousins or home decorating tips from people who fancy themselves vampires.
Nothing.
The days ticked by, turning far too quickly into weeks, and my debut approached quickly.
I slept on the issue each night. I reenacted likely approaches in my head, playingthem out until some imagined disaster struck -- a question I was unable to answer, a student calling me out for being a fraud, Dr. Evans stopping the entire lecture chiding me for missing the point . . . completely.
The fateful day finally came. I remember clearly plodding up the stairs into Hagg-Sauer hall, each time my feet struck a new step, I said to myself, "you can do it." I allowed no self-doubt to root itself in my brain. I convinced myself of my own confidence. I assured myself, with this one story, I am an expert, and speaking for 50 minutes would be a simple walk in the park.
I entered the room, 2414, and walked confidently to the podium. I set my notes and materials down and scanned the room confidently. I called out names for roll without hesitation. I wrote my agenda on the board with authority and I smiled at Dr. Evans, sitting quietly in the back row, before taking the first step in what would become a long series of steps culminating in a teaching career.
I'm not sure how successful I was as a teacher that day. It doesn't matter. Dr. Evans praised some aspects of my lecture and left others alone. It was enough for me. I didn't bomb, I'm sure of that. I'm not sure if every teacher's career begins in such a manner, but I'm awfully glad that mine did. Being thrown into the fire, forced into doing something on my own, relying primarily on my own intellect and effort, was good experience for me. It taught me the value of hard work and preparation. It taught me a "can-do" attitude. I did something I did not think I'd be able to do.
It seems to me that life is full of these moments, sink or swim moments, times when you either put-up or shut-up, and for most of us, we put-up, and in doing so, we learn the constancy of the salt from which we are made, and this, in and of itself, makes the moment, successful or not, worth living.
When I was a kid, my dad threw me in the deepest part of Big Sand lake, a bay in the lake that is 160 feet deep. He did not throw me in the lake to teach me to swim, or because he was mad at me because I was being disrespectful, but because he wanted to teach me how to waterski. I was eight-years old. It was the summer Steven Spielberg released his first blockbuster film, "Jaws." I was scared to death, both about learning to waterski, which seemed impossible to me at the time, and about being eaten by some monster-from-the-deep.
My mom's always been into fringey, new-agey, Ripley's Believe-It-Or-Not types of things. She read books like Chariots of Fire, a book about aliens visiting earth and creating the pyramids and such. She went through a phase where she didn't allow us any processed sugars in our diets. She watched shows on TV about Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster. That sort of stuff. Weird stuff. She influenced me with this stuff, so much so that when I was sitting in the lake, floating peacefully with a life-jacket on, watching as my dad tossed the two wooden skis out of the boat, in my direction, expecting me to grab them and put them on my feet, by myself, in the deepest part of a very large lake, I was certain, without a doubt, that some big monster, maybe Jaws himself, was about to swallow me whole from beneath.
As I was floating there, I remember looking down, into the depths, but you can't see anything below eight feet or so, the rest, the other 152 feet of open water, just melds into an impenetrable darkness, empty, except for, of course, the monster lurking below.
My heart was beating, so much so that my ears burned, not from embarrassment, but from the pressure of fear building inside my body. I remember thinking the best and only way out of this predicament, the only way to save myself from the monster below, was to put on these water skis and do it, to make it work, to learn how to ski, and then my dad could pull me, me on my skis, gliding across the water, to shallower water, maybe even near the dock, where I would let go of the rope, slowly sink back into the water, where I could kick off my skis and swim furiously for shore.
Miraculously, I learned to ski that day. I remember the pride and sense of accomplishment I felt. I forgot my fear, although it was my fear that motivated me to try. Once I was pulled out of the water by the boat's insistent and unending drive, and I was gliding across the water, I felt silly. It wasn't that hard afterall. Obviously, not impossible as I had originally thought.
I'm glad I learned to ski that day because it led to many more wonderful days spent out on the water in the years to come.
This experience forces me to think about trials by fire. That's what this was, learning to water-ski, a trial by fire. I passed this trial, and I learned to ski. The trial was difficult, and I was angry with my father at the time, but in retrospect, I don't regret the trial or the inevitable learning that occurred because of it.
A lot of learning that we endure in life is completed in a manner such as this. Formal education, for the most part, is guided by the same principle. A midterm or final exam -- trial by fire. Tests and exams are more than just a simple regurgitation of what you already know, they are also part of the overall learning process, and after you finish an exam, for sure, if you tried, you will have learned something.
Teaching, as well, is a trial by fire. I will never forget my first time as teacher. As an undergraduate, Dr. Evans had asked me to be her undergraduate teaching associate, shocking me blue. I worked closely with her throughout the semester, designing assignments and quizzes, helping to grade exams, tutoring students, conferencing on their writing, and, once in awhile, leading a lecture or discussion in class.
The first lecture I was asked to lead dealt with Beowulf, the epic story of a Nordic hero's (and eventual King)quest to save the Danes from a terrible monster, Grendel (and, later, Grendel's mother), who was terrorizing the court of King Hrothgar.
I was always interested in medieval literature. I was an avid fantasy and science fiction reader as a youngster and this literature was right up my alley, so I felt comfortable with the subject matter, I knew the story, but what was I supposed to teach about the story? Teaching something is far different than just reading and understanding it. Dr. Evans gave me a book about Beowulf, explaining that the material in the book might help me to organize a lecture and discussion.
I read the book, twice, memorizing parts, outlining other parts, and jotting notes throughout, but even after all that, looking back on my notes and through my memory, I still didn't know what to teach about the story. I was too proud to admit that I had nothing to teach about Beowulf when Dr. Evans asked me for updates on my progress. I toiled on, late at night, reading and rereading the story, and the book Dr. Evans had loaned me.
Nowadays, it would be an easy enough to find a lesson plan online and follow that, but at that time, in 1991, the web was just a tiny fetus in some computer geek's mind. I tried to remember how I had been taught the story of Beowulf, what questions or activities I had been asked to contemplate, but nothing would come to me. In my other classes, I paid attention to how other teachers were presenting their material to me. I even watched talk-TV hoping for inspiration. I watched Jenny Jones and took note of how she interviewed her guests, eliciting information about torrid affairs with first cousins or home decorating tips from people who fancy themselves vampires.
Nothing.
The days ticked by, turning far too quickly into weeks, and my debut approached quickly.
I slept on the issue each night. I reenacted likely approaches in my head, playingthem out until some imagined disaster struck -- a question I was unable to answer, a student calling me out for being a fraud, Dr. Evans stopping the entire lecture chiding me for missing the point . . . completely.
The fateful day finally came. I remember clearly plodding up the stairs into Hagg-Sauer hall, each time my feet struck a new step, I said to myself, "you can do it." I allowed no self-doubt to root itself in my brain. I convinced myself of my own confidence. I assured myself, with this one story, I am an expert, and speaking for 50 minutes would be a simple walk in the park.
I entered the room, 2414, and walked confidently to the podium. I set my notes and materials down and scanned the room confidently. I called out names for roll without hesitation. I wrote my agenda on the board with authority and I smiled at Dr. Evans, sitting quietly in the back row, before taking the first step in what would become a long series of steps culminating in a teaching career.
I'm not sure how successful I was as a teacher that day. It doesn't matter. Dr. Evans praised some aspects of my lecture and left others alone. It was enough for me. I didn't bomb, I'm sure of that. I'm not sure if every teacher's career begins in such a manner, but I'm awfully glad that mine did. Being thrown into the fire, forced into doing something on my own, relying primarily on my own intellect and effort, was good experience for me. It taught me the value of hard work and preparation. It taught me a "can-do" attitude. I did something I did not think I'd be able to do.
It seems to me that life is full of these moments, sink or swim moments, times when you either put-up or shut-up, and for most of us, we put-up, and in doing so, we learn the constancy of the salt from which we are made, and this, in and of itself, makes the moment, successful or not, worth living.
