Tory Riley, principal of the Lincoln Community School, wrote the following letter to her school district colleagues, in anticipation of the beginning of the new school year.
Although we're well into October now, the letter's message remains compelling.
My Dear Colleagues,
This is the
twelfth time I’ve sat down in August to write to you (or some variation on the
present configuration of “you”). I can’t say it gets any easier. Based on past
experience and the knowledge that I am capable of writing a letter, however, I
stick to it, get it done, and pop it in the mail. Is this perseverance? I’m not
so sure. I can write and I have the self-discipline to do something even when I
don’t feel like it (albeit a week later than I had hoped). By definition,
perseverance includes difficulty and/or delay in success. In that sense, my
completing this letter qualifies. But I think there’s more. What about when a
task is entirely unfamiliar? Or when it raises self-doubt or anxiety? Or when
failure with a similar taskor within a subject or categoryhas been rampant
in one’s life? What if the task is in a field that one has steadfastly avoided
due to discomfort? Or one that someone has told you you’re not good at?
Persevering is part of the fabric in
our schools, and I had been thinking that I’m not so bad at it. Now, I think
I’ve been cheating over the past few years. Honestly, I think I avoid much of
the stuff of life that is persistently difficult for me. I do persist in the
face of difficulty, but not necessarily when confronted with the
makes-me-squirm hard stuff. I know my strengths and challenges well enough to
focus on the former. Not that I don’t persist when faced with some
uncomfortable aspects of life. But I wouldn’t say I seek out challenges. But
challenges are persistent themselves and have sought me out. Of late, they have
presented themselves in the form of mechanical failure. Equipment in my house
has been breaking down with alarming regularity.
Late last
week, standing water in my basement suggested a failed, or at least troubled, sump pump. The flooded basement was the least of it. It was the daunting, “What
is that thing down in that barrel of water sunken into the basement floor and
what do I do now that it runs but pumps no water?” that had me beside myself.
My first response was to panic. Then to worry that I had no idea what category
of people fix sump pumps. Then to fret about how I don’t understand anything
mechanical. By this point - all of 90 seconds - I had rendered myself incapable
of identifying, let alone taking, a reasonable next step. The rational part
of my brain had shut down and I was operating from my amygdala. Being the grown
up in the house, I panicked in only a mild sort of way to Isaiah, my 14 year-old son. He doesn’t panic - not with mechanical problems. He hauled the sump
pump out of the pit of water onto the damp concrete floor while I feared that
he would electrocute himself as he mixed water and electricity. He was
nonplussed and all curiosity. Silently, he checked switches and connections; he
breathed evenly and simply wondered. I hovered, trying not to. I was so uncomfortable, not understanding, hardly even able to formulate questions. My
understanding of this wet, mysterious chunk of valves and motor was so limited.
It was best that I go away, which I did.
Surmising
that the pump was not working properly, he tried an old, cast iron pump he
found. No luck. Then he found a small green plastic number which he determined
worked. I have lived in this house for a couple of decades and had never
noticed either of these pumps. He found both, then miraculously produced a hose
to fit on the outflow valve, attached it to a garden hose, fed the hose into
the drainage system, and turned on the pump. The small pump hummed casually and
sent the water out of our basement. Temporary flood prevention.
We took the
broken sump pump to Jim Brown, mechanical savior, in the center of town. The
prognosis was not good, and we ended up at Martin’s buying a new one. We were
in a hurry, so at home Isaiah put it together and installed it. He doesn’t
generally read directions, and much to my chagrin, it usually doesn’t matter. I
fear explosion followed by death if I don’t read directions. My role: I shone
the light into the sump while Isaiah installed and tested. I know I was not
demonstrating perseverance, just coping. The pump worked. We hugged each other, because we
had done it together (I've left out all the parts where we got really mad with
each other).
The next
morning, the pump was running but was pumping no water. Determined to solve
this problem, I read the instruction manual, especially the troubleshooting
part. All by myself. And figured out the most likely cause for the problem. I
kept breathing. I used my analytical skills. And then, I just messed around
with the pump. This is the perseverance for me - the messing around while not
knowing, the staying open and curious; sticking with it when I have no idea
what is going to happen next or what is useful to do. Does this ever make me squirm. I hauled the
pump out of the water. I moved pieces around. I tried the same thing changing
one variable at a time. And at last, after playing and not panicking, I got the darn thing to pump water. All over the basement floor, but
that was OK. I had played and persevered and the pump pumped water. Then Isaiah
and I implemented the (more or less) lasting solution together.
Here’s how
this connects with what I’m thinking about our work as educators. Multiple
times every day, we ask children to do things that make them squirm. New
learning may be exciting and welcomed, or it may be terrifying or simply not
compelling. Let’s give all of us time and space to
explore by ourselves, quietly and bring discoveries to one
another. Let’s keep playing - all of us. Let’s remember that learning is hard.
And that the stuff that is hard for each of us and for our students to learn
can feel really scary and worth avoiding at all sorts of costs. And that
avoidance may manifest in peculiar, unsettling, frustrating, and unproductive
ways. Let’s remember that we are coaching young human beings, and that they are
fragile and resilient and wondrous and loving and mysterious and curious and
eager. And that going to work in a place where there are people who have been
on this planet only five years alongside many who have been here for over five
decades is a gift, a blessing - especially when that place focuses on
contributing and belonging, on being of service, on caring and loving and
forgiving and learning and laughing and growing.
Lucky us, that this is our
work.
Tory Riley
Lincoln, Vermont
