If you talk with me for very long, I will probably find a way to work my neighborhood library, the Hamline Midway Branch in St. Paul, into the conversation. As my friend Danna once explained to another friend who didn't know the extent of my library love, "She's totally obsessed with the Hamline Midway Library." I think she meant that affectionately.
If you've been reading this blog all along, you know that early this year, our mayor proposed closing our 80-year-old neighborhood branch in response to the city's budget crunch. Along with many of my neighbors, I found myself compelled to get involved in fighting for the library. The good part is that all the community effort led to the library being spared, at least for 2010--but the work of preserving the library is really just beginning.
A few days ago, I was part of a presentation to the library board, which is actually just the city council with a different name. We were reporting on a task force that met this summer to try to find partnerships that might help the city save or make money on the library. My part of the presentation was to try to give the community side of things. If you have ever tried to speak for "your community," you know this is a rather hard thing to do. And ever since my presentation, I have been agonizing about the things I didn't say, the things I said that I wished I hadn't, and on and on and on. As my fellow neighborhood activist Julie GebbenGreen kindly told me, "It's scary to tell the truth to people in power. We really have to overcome a lot of 'how dare you speak like that to your betters' voices inside of us." I think it's important to remember that. It's part of what makes it hard for ordinary people to get and stay involved in politics.
What I regret most about my library presentation is that I said that the crux of the problem this year was that our leaders didn't appear to be listening to us and that they met our heartfelt concerns with sound bites. That's true, but what I wish I'd focused on more was this: when you close a library that's been in a neighborhood for generations, the damage you do will far outweigh any cost savings. I think I thought I didn't have to say that, that it's obvious. But it's important enough to bear repeating. I wish I would have spent more of my very limited time telling stories that show how people depend on having a walkable library. I wish I would have told them about the woman I met this year who had a stroke after her daughter's premature birth. Her husband lost a lot of hours of work caring for her and their daughter, and money was tight. She told me that being able to walk to the library (she couldn't drive after her stroke) was a crucial lifeline for her as she recovered from her stroke. She learned to read again reading library books to her daughter. That's the kind of story I wish I would have spent my time on, and it twists my guts up that I didn't. What a missed opportunity to connect people's stories to our leaders! But I didn't remember her story until after I'd done my talk.
I also wish I'd done a better job of acknowledging that many of the city council members I was talking to were really supportive of our community. I think I ended up venting some of my rage at the mayor at the wrong people, and I regret that. All those times I told my old writing students how important audience awareness is--and still I forgot once I was standing at that podium in the big intimidating council chambers.
I wrote follow-up notes to the city council members saying I wish I'd acknowledged their help and support more in my talk. The only response I've gotten so far, other than from my own councilman, was from our sole female councilmember.
She finished her email, "Ah, women. We are always thinking about the one tiny little thing we forgot (completely unintentionally) and ignoring all the other great things we got done." Those words from an experienced woman leader were absolute balm for my soul. And again, it's a good reminder of why it might be even more challenging for women to get involved in public life and stay at it for the long haul: we are so damn good at picking ourselves apart, the burnout potential is extremely high.
"Try again. Fail better." Those were playwright Samuel Beckett's writing instructions. Zen master Dogen called Zen practice "one continuous mistake." As I move out of my safe, private home life into public life, I'm making mistakes all the time. I hope to learn how to learn from them, fail better next time, and not agonize so much about it all in the meantime.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Mistakes
A few days ago Bridger was doing some equations in a math workbook. We're not doing math in a systematic, now-we're-going-to-sit-down-and-do-math way, but he had expressed interest in doing more math, so I'd picked the book up for him, along with a preschool math book for Cass which she tore through with relish.
Bridger realized he'd made a mistake on one of the equations, and because he was using crayon, he couldn't obliterate the offending error.
"That's it. I've ruined the whole page. I might as well rip it out and throw it in the trash," he said.
When he is so hard on himself about mistakes, it's hard for me to stay calm and relaxed, in part because I can so relate to that kind of either-or, all-or-nothing, it's-either-perfect-or-it's-shit thinking. I can see from my own experience that life is so much easier and more productive, so much more fun, when I can see mistakes as a natural part of any learning process, any life experience, really. I wish I could wave a magic wand and give him the perspective on mistakes I'm beginning to have at 40 so that he doesn't have to suffer through mistakes so much.
But deep down, I'm realizing that he's going to have to come to his own reckoning with imperfection. All I can do is hold him as compassionately as possible through his struggles and successes and try to remember to model healthy ways of dealing with mistakes (I am, after all, the woman who said the other day, "I feel like a dummy" when I realized I'd made a scheduling mistake that was going to inconvenience another person. And I said it in earshot of Bridger. Oops.).
When Bridger was feeling frustrated about the math book, I put my hand on his shoulder and said, "You know, the whole point of doing equations in a math book like you're doing is that it gives you opportunities to make mistakes, and that's how you can learn. If you don't ever try them, you don't get the chances to make mistakes."
He didn't have any "A-ha!" moment that freed him from perfectionism forevermore. At least, I don't know if he did. As I once remarked to him, he and Cassidy are sort of like icebergs for me--I see only a small fraction of who they are, and so much of who they are is a hidden mystery. He did close the book without ripping out the page and throwing it in the trash, though.
It struck me later that if there's any gift our homeschooling choice offers our kids, it's that attitude, or at least my heartfelt attempt at that attitude: that mistakes can be opportunities for learning and growth. At school, I suspect, many good teachers try to welcome mistakes, but the pressure to see mistakes as road blocks to learning, as obstacles to be gotten around, as faults to be corrected, is systemically so great. The pressure to correct mistakes within a certain time frame makes it hard, too, to relax when mistakes come up.
I don't think homeschooling is perfect. I can't offer my kids a foreign-language immersion experience, or state-of-the-art science and art materials, or daily contact with lots of other children from a variety of backgrounds, or a feeling of being part of a school community. What I can offer is lots of reassurances, repeated over many years, that mistakes are not something we have to fear, but something we can learn, if we let ourselves, to welcome.
Bridger realized he'd made a mistake on one of the equations, and because he was using crayon, he couldn't obliterate the offending error.
"That's it. I've ruined the whole page. I might as well rip it out and throw it in the trash," he said.
When he is so hard on himself about mistakes, it's hard for me to stay calm and relaxed, in part because I can so relate to that kind of either-or, all-or-nothing, it's-either-perfect-or-it's-shit thinking. I can see from my own experience that life is so much easier and more productive, so much more fun, when I can see mistakes as a natural part of any learning process, any life experience, really. I wish I could wave a magic wand and give him the perspective on mistakes I'm beginning to have at 40 so that he doesn't have to suffer through mistakes so much.
But deep down, I'm realizing that he's going to have to come to his own reckoning with imperfection. All I can do is hold him as compassionately as possible through his struggles and successes and try to remember to model healthy ways of dealing with mistakes (I am, after all, the woman who said the other day, "I feel like a dummy" when I realized I'd made a scheduling mistake that was going to inconvenience another person. And I said it in earshot of Bridger. Oops.).
When Bridger was feeling frustrated about the math book, I put my hand on his shoulder and said, "You know, the whole point of doing equations in a math book like you're doing is that it gives you opportunities to make mistakes, and that's how you can learn. If you don't ever try them, you don't get the chances to make mistakes."
He didn't have any "A-ha!" moment that freed him from perfectionism forevermore. At least, I don't know if he did. As I once remarked to him, he and Cassidy are sort of like icebergs for me--I see only a small fraction of who they are, and so much of who they are is a hidden mystery. He did close the book without ripping out the page and throwing it in the trash, though.
It struck me later that if there's any gift our homeschooling choice offers our kids, it's that attitude, or at least my heartfelt attempt at that attitude: that mistakes can be opportunities for learning and growth. At school, I suspect, many good teachers try to welcome mistakes, but the pressure to see mistakes as road blocks to learning, as obstacles to be gotten around, as faults to be corrected, is systemically so great. The pressure to correct mistakes within a certain time frame makes it hard, too, to relax when mistakes come up.
I don't think homeschooling is perfect. I can't offer my kids a foreign-language immersion experience, or state-of-the-art science and art materials, or daily contact with lots of other children from a variety of backgrounds, or a feeling of being part of a school community. What I can offer is lots of reassurances, repeated over many years, that mistakes are not something we have to fear, but something we can learn, if we let ourselves, to welcome.
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