Masters of Disguise

When I was on the verge of completing kindergarten, I was scheduled to take a test measuring my readiness for the first grade. My mother accompanied me into a small room where the test proctor sat at a table with nothing on it but a single piece of paper and a pencil. I sat down, my mother beside me. On the paper was a circle. I was instructed by the proctor to draw a face.

I picked up the pencil and, on the far side of the circle, drew one eye. The proctor looked pleased. My mother beamed. Then I put the tip of the pencil on the outside edge of the circle and drew what appeared to be a triangle. The proctor fidgeted. My mother remained calm. Then I finished by placing the pencil back inside the circle, and, near the edge, drawing half of a smile. I put the pencil down and looked up at my mom. She was pleased.

The proctor was not.

I had drawn a face. In profile. The proctor explained to my mother that wasn’t the intent of the test. The test was to see if I could place two eyes, a nose, and a mouth within the circle in an arrangement that would best represent a face. She picked up the pencil and asked me to erase what I had drawn. My mother extended her hand to gently intercept the pencil. She explained to the proctor that her instructions never specified the face had to be forward facing. The proctor said if I wasn’t able to complete the test as it was intended, she would not recommend me for the first grade.

Whatever transpired in the room after that is still a bit fuzzy. All I remember was my test being taped to our refrigerator at home, and, in very short order, starting the first grade.

School is nothing if not the push and pull between conformity and individuality.

In the classroom I’m always asking my students to both fit a mold (everyone must be present, engaged, and participating) and to be themselves (bring in your own experiences, express your individual opinions). Everyone gets the same paper assignment (same page requirement, structure, citation guidelines) but I want them all to be creative and distinctive within that (pick a unique topic, bring in your own point of view).

And now that our oldest is in school, I see the push and pull between conformity and individuality coming strongly into play. But, much like my first grade entrance exam, I also see the push and pull between parental involvement and independent growth.

Lowery came home recently with a homework assignment: an outline of a turkey with instructions to “disguise it” so it wouldn’t get eaten on Thanksgiving. I didn’t give this assignment much thought. It was buried within the abundance of papers that come home every day, and, so, I glossed over it.

Jim, however, did not. He always carefully reads each piece of paper and makes notes of deadlines in our family calendar. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this Turkey Project was heavy on his mind.

The night before the Turkey Project was due, we had to attend an unexpected work-related event. As I gave dinner instructions to the babysitter, Jim told Lowery she would need to complete her Turkey Project. He explained that she had to disguise the turkey, and he left her with her bucket of markers, glitter and stickers. She nodded with the confidence only a five-year-old can possess, and off we went.

That evening, we got home in time to put the kids to bed. We read to them, giggled with them, talked to them about how their evening had gone, and tucked them both in with a kiss. Back downstairs I heard Jim let out a groan. When I walked in to see why, he was holding up her Turkey Project. It was the turkey completely colored over in brown marker.

I let out a laugh and clapped. “That’s awesome!” I exclaimed. He looked pained.

“She can’t turn this in,” he said.

“Why not? It’s hilarious. And clever.”

“No, no. This isn’t the intent of the project. Kids are meant to disguise the turkey.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a tough concept for a kindergartener to understand. She clearly took it to mean ‘hide’ and that’s what she did,” I said, still laughing as I admired it.

The next morning, as we rushed around to get the kids ready, Jim asked to talk with me alone in the kitchen.

“I can’t let her turn in that turkey,” he whispered, pulling at the knot in his tie.

“Sure you can,” I said.

“No, seriously. We failed as parents on this.”

“Excuse me!?”

“Meg, this was supposed to be a family project and we let her do it on her own. She’s going to get laughed at.”

“Laughed at why? And by whom?”

“I just know how this is going to go. Parents are going to have helped their kids, and they are going to be over-the-top masterpieces. And hers is, well, a blob of brown.”

“Hey now. She hid the damn turkey. You can’t eat what you can’t see! Besides, we don’t parent for other parents.”

“Meg, just let me ask the teacher for another turkey.”

“There’s no need. She did the assignment and it’s great.”

At that point Lowery walked into the kitchen. “Are you talking about me?” she asked. It was time for school.

That evening, when I arrived home after teaching my class, Jim seemed more relaxed. The kids were in good moods as we put them to bed. Back downstairs I asked, “Good day?”

He smiled and held up a piece of paper. On it was a turkey, colored to look like a purple unicorn, complete with drawn on horn and tail.

“What’s going on here?” I said, my smile fading.

“Well, the teacher forgot to send home another Turkey in her folder—”

“You asked for another one? I thought we agreed—”

“And so I just took the brown blobby one, held it up to the light, and traced the outline of the turkey. Then I made a photocopy of it so it would match the others.”

“This is insane, Jim.”

“No, you don’t understand. When I got to school today I saw what the other kids were turning in. One turkey was disguised as Superman, with a cape glued on it.”

“Okay, well that was clearly a parent…”

“Another was a snowman made out of cotton balls.”

“Yeah...okay....I get it, but—”

“One had a beaded necklace glued to it. I think it was Elizabeth Taylor.”

I looked back down at the purple unicorn. How meticulously Jim had traced the turkey outline through the original dark brown blob. I looked in admiration at the twisty horn he had drawn, and the thoughtful way Lowery had colored various shades of purple on each of the turkey’s feathers. I sighed and smiled up at him without any more to add.

A few days later, Jim and I met for lunch. Having not spoken about the turkey again since he proudly handed it over to the teacher, I couldn’t disguise my concern any longer.

“Can we talk about the turkey?”

“Sure…”

“What the hell was that all about?”

That turkey was the first time—aside from ‘who is going to change the next diaper’—that Jim and I were at odds about a parenting choice. We spent that lunch break hashing out what exactly had happened. Why I was so reluctant to get involved. Why he was so obsessed with being involved. Why he took charge before we had agreed on a plan. Why I was resistant to push conformity. On and on it went until by the end of the lunch a strange thing happened: we completely switched sides of the argument.

“I think you’re right,” Jim said, shoulders slumped. “I basically did the assignment just so she matched the other kids. I didn’t let her own it.”

“Nope. I’m an idiot,” I sighed. “It was intended to be a family project and I’m just sensitive to those mandatory parental involvement assignments. It undervalues all the ways we are involved. I was obviously projecting.”

“No, I was projecting.”

“No, you were being an exceptional father.”

“Nope. You were the one modeling good parenting.”

So, like any good argument, we both left still on opposite sides of the issue. And more confused than ever. Now, on the verge of Thanksgiving, where we will be eating an undisguised turkey, we find ourselves still at odds over what the right thing was to do. And desperate for a judgment call.

As if we think this one assignment sets the tone for our child’s entire education.

That day in the testing room, when I was in kindergarten, my mom let me be who I was and rejected any awareness or pressure of conformity. And she stayed right next to me so she could fight for my independence when needed.

In one artistic exercise when I was five years old, I learned what my goal was, and what the goal of my parents was. Maybe the Turkey Project was a lesson for Lowery, too. But what exactly did she learn? Does she know to strive for distinction within the conformity? And does she know her parents are there to step in only in defense of that?

Here’s hoping.

I take heart knowing a new folder filled with assignments is surely on its way. Another chance to show her what we’re made of. Another opportunity for us to figure out where exactly our place is in our child’s education. And in her life.

Whatever our place may be, I know sometimes we will need to make our efforts abundantly clear.

And other times, keep them expertly disguised.






megmyersmorgan.com

The People in the Room

When I was offered my current job, two and a half years ago, I was told the challenges that awaited me. I was there, on the branch campus of a major state university, to essentially save a dwindling graduate program.

To their credit, the administration graciously gave me the freedom and creativity to drive the direction of the program on the branch campus. This meant that very important people within the university system were interested to know what my strategy was going to be. What was my overall plan for recruitment? What specific sections of the professional market would I try to corner? Did I need a budget for billboard ads and click bait?

The truth was, I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a strategic vision or a recruitment strategy coming into the job. All I had was a goal: grow and strengthen the program. And given how small the program had become, and how new and green I was, this was a big goal. So I decided to start with a simple idea, a personal strategy I have long tried to follow: take care of the people in the room.

The first day on the job, I came into a room with six students in it. They were all I had. So I set out to give them everything I could. I listened to their concerns, their wants, their desires in a program, and the classes they were most interested in taking. I scheduled those classes, created assignments around their interests, and booked guest speakers to satisfy their curiosity in certain areas. I built every inch of that program around six people in a room.

Those six students graduated a year later. They are among the most ambitious and brilliant people I’ve ever met. Some went on to take important, change-making jobs in the community. Others were promoted within their fields. One went as far as Africa to work with an NGO. But every single one of them did another very valuable thing: they talked about their experience in the room.

Before long, others were applying. And I had a few more people in the room. On and on it went until two years later and now the room is overflowing.

I find that big goals cause people great anxiety. I push my students to always live with a bit of that anxiety because if they aren’t feeling it, they aren’t dreaming big enough. But those big goals often paralyze people before they even get the chance to make progress toward them.

Many students come into class on the first day worried about their final grade. Many prospective students worry about what they will do with the degree after they graduate, before they’ve even decided to apply.

The deal is, everyone has a goal. A big goal. Sometimes many, many big goals.

But they are a bit fuzzy on the plan.

So here’s the plan: Start with the people in the room.

Some of my most productive days end in me getting nothing done. I have an open-door policy, which means students can, and do, frequently stop by. While it’s difficult to ever make much progress grading papers or returning emails, it puts the power on those who enter the room. Once they sit down in front of me, they become my focus.

Sure, that isn’t a terribly efficient way to run a day. It’s often slow work. It sometimes feels like I got nothing done. And I often wonder if I spent my time wisely. But the truth is, taking care of those in the room is the work. An hour with one student seems to make greater impact than spending that hour talking to 20 potential students at a recruiting event.

The room is where the most important work is done. I’ve sat in plenty of meetings with colleagues where the laptop divides us—remotely sent messages are the priority in the room. Or people are distracted by what’s just outside the room—the next meeting, a pile of paperwork, unread emails. Or they forget to really listen to the thoughts of those closest. Or worse, they don't get consensus, buy-in, or excitement, from those around the table before a plan is rolled outside the room.

In class, I have a reputation for being a Luddite. I don’t allow phones or laptops. Which is tough on the students because they want to work all the time. Write while in class. Get started on the next project. Start researching for next week’s assignment while the class is discussing this week’s assignment. And sometimes look at their house on Google Earth.

I get it. That’s how we are built to think.

That somehow activity is productivity, and that productivity is the only way to achieve our goal.

But when my students are without distraction, and are focused solely on the other classmates in the room, everyone learns more. They have a better experience. And they are way more prepared for next week’s assignment.

When I get home at night I often feel the pull of work. Emails from my students. Grading. Or I feel the pull of a social life I currently can’t quite sustain. Texts for a happy hour. Invitation to a dinner. But when I walk in and see my kids and my husband, that’s the room I have to focus on. One of my big goals is a happy family life with lasting relationships. So my five-year-old’s histrionics and my two-year-old’s requests for a hug are what’s in the room.

This isn’t easy practice. Especially for someone like me that always wants to be working toward the goal. Growing, improving, excelling, inspiring, creating. And at any point in time something somewhere on Instagram needs my double tap.

But progress is, by its very nature, progressive. So start with what’s right in front of you.

To my students I say, don’t worry about the final. Start with the current assignment. Enjoy it. Work hard on it. Excel at it. That’s going to be the very thing that earns you the grade you want in the end. And the building block of a graduate experience you want. Which is the experience you'll need to achieve those big, anxiety-inducing goals.

To the university, I said I would be able to deliver on their big goal, but only if I started small. And that meant just six people in a room.

Big goals start with small plans.

To those who feel intense desire to change the direction of our country, to create a movement, to empower the voiceless, to make a lasting positive impact in the world—keep that goal squarely in your mind.

Make your goal as big as you can imagine it. But start by grasping at those things within your reach.

Start with the people in the room. Focus there. And like a rock diving deep into the water, ripples will infinitely extend from the impact.

So impact those in the room. Whether it’s a classroom packed with bright, young minds; a meeting room full of colleagues; an office with one student needing help; or a living room alive with chatter, take care of the people in the room.

And, perhaps most importantly, don’t forget to take note of the times you walk in a room and find yourself completely alone.

Then take care.





megmyersmorgan.com