Convicted
May 13th, 2009Convictions.
My dictionary has it as, “a firmly held belief or opinion.”
As I point out to my kids over and over again, a belief cannot be proved—it’s quite possible to have a wrong belief. Still, we all have them, and there’s a simple reason why: They’re a comfort. Our beliefs allow us to justify and to act as we do in a world where meaning is sometimes hard to make. We take action based on what we believe—and through those actions, through those steps we take, we make our beliefs known to the world.
On Monday, I ruminated on the importance of belief to our students. I talked about three students, two of which did very well in high school and continued on to fine college careers—and one assumes, a fine and successful career in the world later.
I also talked about another, who had a harder time finding her road—until she found a professor who believed—who held the absolute conviction—that work in psychology was her calling and her talent. That, it appears, made all the difference.
A postulation: It’s not possible to hold a conviction that any individual student will be successful in any given career. I don’t think it’s possible to believe that a student will achieve their dreams, will do what they want to do—if only because the students don’t always know what they want.
Why should they? I’m twice their age and don’t always know what I want.
A postulation: It’s quite possible to believe that every child can do amazing work.
I’m certain we might not be able to see a student do a particular task, a particular job, but we can see any student do excellent work. We can set high standards, we can set high goals, and we can see them achieve them.
I would argue we have a duty to do so. I think the moment we start believing—even allow the thought—that some of our students aren’t capable of something, we make them incapable. If a conviction that a student is capable is a powerful motivator, something that stays with them for years, then a conviction they’re not is devastating.
I think that’s one of the wonderful things about the senior project—it’s the great equalizer.¹ It doesn’t matter who the kid is, it doesn’t matter their native ability every student who graduates from MRHS can say they met the same requirements. We don’t have a “super senior project,” and we don’t have a “normal kid” senior project.
We do recognize high achievement—both because these are public, and everyone can see the work (every kid knows who did well and who skated by) and by the product that is created. It’s public, and it’s well known—and it lifts all students to higher achievement because of it.² We do the same thing in innumerable ways—from the Principal’s List to the Honor Society to the annual awards night to many more. I wouldn’t mind seeing more chances to honor and recognize kids—when I was in North Carolina, there were a few students (they know who they are…) who were so loaded down with cords and medals they could barely walk. When a student is involved, show it.
But what we do shows what we believe, and when we believe in “ordinary” and “special” levels we deny the chance for every student to achieve. We tell them some are winners and some aren’t. But we’re not judges of the race, we’re teachers: It’s our job to hold the conviction that the student is capable even when they don’t believe it.
Whenever possible, believe in a kid’s dreams. When it’s not, believe in the kid—and demand they excel. If Danielle, Hetty, and Jina have shown me that, then I would say I’ve learned more from them than they ever have from me.
1 And becoming stronger all the time. ↺
2 We can recognize extraordinary achievement in many ways—but not in holding two different sets of standards. We set a standard, and they all meet it. I was having a conversation with a special-ed teacher the other day who pointed out that the need to write what they do for the senior project has demanded more from every kid—and that’s a great thing!↺
