Failure...?

This is really a Motivate Me post, but I'm not feeling very motivated, and it's my own dang fault.  Or is it?  I was supposed to go to the gym today and do 30 minutes of cardio, 100 squats, and 100 crunches...or something like that.  Well.  I didn't even make it out of the house.  I failed.  I did do 50 squats while I waited for my popcorn to pop.  And I did 50 more after I ate a piece of our anniversary cake.  So, I guess I only partially failed.  Is partial failure really a failure?  Or is it a partial success?  This is a matter of paradox and perspective, isn't it?  The fact that I did relatively nothing that I view meaningful today may be seen as lack of ambition--complete laziness.  Or, it may be seen as a rare opportunity to relax.  Just because I seem to have more opportunities to "relax" than many others shouldn't necessarily mean I'm a slacker.  Or am I providing myself with yet another justification for a wasted day?  I did a load of laundry!  I made my husband dinner!  Ha!  Though I suspect nobody would actually think I ate my husband, let me rephrase that:  I made dinner for my husband!  I walked ten feet to the mailbox!  I caught up with two girlfriends on the phone!  I wrote a lengthy email and now am writing this!  I'm contemplating some push-ups but canceling my crunches due to all the over-eating that occurred today.  There have been less productive days, just as there have been more productive days, in the history of days.  So why am I beating myself up?  Why do I feel as if I've failed?

As a teacher, I came to know many students who truly saw themselves as failures.  They believed they could not write poetry or understand difficult reading or get an essay started or even come up with an idea for a paper.  They believed they could not, would not, succeed, not matter what they did--never mind what they did was often sit there comatose or paralyzed or both, utterly convinced that no movement on their part could ever make an iota of a difference.

I often wondered what had happened in such kids' lives that rendered them so adamant about that with which they were so inexperienced.  How did they know they couldn't read Thoreau?  Had they ever tried--really tried?  Did someone one day see them sitting on a park bench holding an open volume of Walden and swoop up, undetected, snatch the book from their hands and yell, "You can't read that!  It's impossible!"?  And if such a person had done that, why on earth would this kid, this young, curious, mind, ever believe this person?

After many years of hearing students say they couldn't do something I was convinced they could do, I began to get a little nosy.  Instead of reiterating the importance of trying or showing my frustration with some obvious gestures of impatience, such as a sigh, or a caught breath followed by a turn of my head to the next student who was, evidently, trying, I began to get a little personal.  Instead of letting the impotent student carry on in what was clearly (to me at the time) a ploy to avoid having to work, a technique to try to get me to do their work for them, I began to get a little honest.

 One student repeatedly told me he couldn't write--that he was a bad writer and never had anything to say.  Every time students were supposed to be eagerly, frantically journaling at the beginning of class, or writing a timed essay (this was a student in my AP Language and Composition class!), or brainstorming, for goodness sake, he just sat there, twiddling his pen between two fingers.

 I finally went right up to him and said, "Let me guess.  You're a bad writer?"

He said, "Yep."

When journal time was up, I spoke to the class, using this particular student as an example.  I realized immediately that he might not appreciate what I was about to do, but his future depended on the next few minutes.  I reminded the class that the purpose of journaling was to develop fluidity and voice.  What they said wasn't as important as the fact that they said something--anything at all, and that they wrote continuously for five minutes, with an attempt to be on topic.

"But some of you," I lied; it was actually only this one student in this particular class that day, "are sitting there trying to think about what to write.  I looked around the room.  They all looked around the room, as if connecting glances would tell them who defied the most important rule of journaling.  And then I said his name--We'll call him Jim.  "For example, Jim, here, is just sitting there.  He has to produce a page of writing in five minutes, and he has only written the quote and prompt from the board.  How is that going to help him accomplish his goal?"  Students shook their heads.  Jim bowed his in shame.  "Why is he just sitting there?  He thinks he's a bad writer.  Don't you?"  I looked right at him.  He nodded his head, yes.  

 "Well, how would you know?  How do you know what a bad writer looks like?  Somebody along the line told you that you were a bad writer, and you believed them, and you've been paralyzed ever since."  He had steel in his eyes.  "Right?"  I said.  He nodded his head, yes, again.  "Well, guess what?  You're actually a very good writer."

A smile began to form on his lips.  "Really?" he said.

"Yes, and I should know, because I've been reading your work.  And anyway, everybody in here is going to get better.  But not by doing nothing.  Writing improvement happens with practice, so stop telling yourself you're a bad writer.  Has telling yourself that helped you?"

He shook his head.

"So what about trying to tell yourself you are a good writer?  Better yet, tell yourself you are going to do what it takes to be better.  Can you do that?  Believe in yourself, and work to be better.  That is all anyone can ask."

By now, many were nodding their heads.  Jim was smiling.  I could tell, that just in those few moments, whatever faith he'd lost somewhere long before he stepped foot in my classroom had been restored.  The truth was, I couldn't remember any significant details from what he had written up to that point for my class.  What I did know was that his writing was stifled, truncated, and suffering at the pen of an uninspired writer.  But it had potential, and I certainly wasn't going to stand for his blatant lack of faith that had propelled him into writing paralysis.  And he shouldn't have been satisfied with it either.  Anyway, the point wasn't so much whether his writing was "bad" or "good"; so much writing is subjective anyhow.  What mattered is that he once again saw that it was important to believe in himself, and that whoever it was that had effectively oppressed his curious spirit no longer did matter.

Whew, was I glad that worked; I knew there was a chance he could hate me for "putting him on blast," but the risk was well worth the reward.  From that moment on, Jim wrote like a madman, and he became a curious, thoughtful writer.  His essays honestly became some of the best in the class.  He earned a 5 on the AP exam, and he gained a renewed sense of self-worth.  I was so proud of what he accomplished, sure, but the fact that he was so proud of what he had accomplished should be a reminder to us all.  Sometimes, just believing in yourself is all you need to get where you're going, and it is certainly hard to believe in yourself when people you trust don't believe in you first.  As parents and teachers, it is not our job to kill dreams.  It's pragmatic, perhaps to offer a dose of reality, and to guide students toward their strengths.  However, may we tread lightly, for our assessment of another's strengths and weaknesses reveals more about us than it does about them.  It is our job not to falsely build up our youth but to provide opportunities for growth and learning. 

When we think about success and failure, we often allow others' definitions or standards to determine our progress.  We are driven by praise and affirmation of the good; likewise, we are derailed by criticism and comparisons.  I'm trying to give myself credit for what I am accomplishing.  It's still hard to think of a day "wasted." Perhaps it's all in the language I use.  Instead of "wasted," maybe the day was "redirected."  I've stopped being so hard on myself when it comes to "redirecting" my workouts.  I realize I am not as motivated to be fit as I was when I played basketball in college, or even as motivated as I was in my early 30s when I played competitive volleyball regularly.  Once I injured my knees, things seemed to go downhill in the fitness department.  Perhaps this is just my dose of reality.  Every day is about reassessing the destination--and the determination.  The good thing is I sure as hell know there's nobody holding me back but myself.