| My Self of Steam |
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Jack from Missouri (the “Show Me” State) … A Teacher’s Journal. The other day, a student of mine nearly punched me in the head over Shakespeare’s Globe Theater. Let me explain: Every so often I allow a failing senior to do extra credit with the hope that he will redeem himself. This particular student chose to build a miniature replica of the Globe Theater. On the day the assignment was due he proudly placed his creation on my desk. “What’s this?” I asked him. “What do you think it is?” he said, smirking. “I don’t know. That’s why I asked.” “It’s the friggin’ Globe Theater, dude!” (Students nowadays really do call their teachers—even teachers over 50—“Dude.”) I stared at the thing. It was round—more or less. It was made of Popsicle sticks. I saw remnants of the original flavors all over the “playhouse” walls. I counted lemon, lime, grape, raspberry, cherry, chocolate, and orange among the construction materials. Possibly boysenberry. “It’s just a bunch of old popsicle sticks arranged in a circle,” I said, incredulously. “For all I know it could be Stonehenge—or Gumby’s house.” “Could I get credit for that, too?” the kid asked eagerly. “No! You haven’t even washed the sticks!” “Dude, I worked on that for an hour!” the kid said, obviously affronted. “Do you know how many popsicles my family had to eat so I could make Shakespeare’s condo or whatever? We all got cold headaches.” For a little while we argued back and forth. Then I made a judgment. “I am not giving you extra credit,” I said. “In fact, I’m appalled that you would even think of submitting this for a grade.” The kid turned purple with rage. “If—if…you weren’t a teacher, dude… I would punch you in the head!” he nearly screamed. Then he added, “You are really hurting my self of steam, man!” I looked at him. “Your what?” I asked. “My self of steam!” he shouted. “Are you deaf, old man?” Several years ago I made a startling discovery. My students really like themselves—a whole lot, in most cases. But they don’t want people like themselves to represent them in court. Or operate on them. Or do any work for them that might require real proficiency. I learned all this when I proposed the following scenario to them. Imagine a day, I asked them, when you are arrested for—oh, I don’t know—robbery and/or assault and battery. My students listened carefully. They were familiar with the scenario. And let’s further imagine, I postulated, that this time you are actually innocent. Interesting idea, one of them murmured from the back row. Now, follow me here, I enjoined them. Let’s say that you don’t have the money to hire an attorney, and so the court appoints one for you. Unfortunately, he cheated his way through law school. He cheated on the bar exam. He doesn’t know a thing about the law. But he’s a happy fellow. He really likes himself. In fact, he likes himself so much that he’s even convinced himself that he’s a competent attorney. But he loses your case and now you’re going to jail. How would you feel? My students stared at me in silence. Then a girl in the front row lifted her head from her desk. With considerable heat she said, “I would beat him up, Mr. Larsen!” Another student lifted his head from his desk. “Yes, I would beat him up, Mr. Larsen!” the student concurred. “I would beat him up real bad!” “Beat him up!” came the battle cry from all corners of the room. “Punch him in the face!” I quieted the enraged citizens. Then I asked them to consider another scenario. Imagine you are out for a pleasant Sunday drive. You decide to take the scenic route that crosses a beautiful river. You are driving over a bridge when suddenly you hear a creaking, cracking noise. Before you even have to time to react, the bridge is collapsing underneath you. You are falling, falling, falling. Later, after the funeral, your relatives discover that the engineers who designed the bridge didn’t calculate the stress points properly. These engineers had tried really hard in engineering school, but they weren’t very good in math. Their teachers, however, didn’t want to damage their self confidence. So they were passed. But now, unfortunately, you’re dead. But the good news is that the engineers who killed you feel really good about themselves. Beat them up, my students adjudicated. Sue them, kill them, shoot them, hang them, stab them. But wouldn’t that hurt their self image, I mused aloud. The bell rang. My students shuffled out. They were obviously still upset over their deaths from mathematical incompetence. Later, I wondered if I had done the right thing. Possibly I should not have told them about the problems of living in a world where excellence is secondary to feeling “special.” Who was I, after all, to suggest that anyone should feel bad about himself, ever? I was afraid I might have damaged their self of steam. My name is Jack, and I’m a teacher in a small town in Missouri—the “Show Me” state…. Donald Gallinger is the author of The Master Planets Add this page to your favorite Social Bookmarking websites               
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