Messes

Artwork by one of my talented students

I teach in a middle school. My eighth graders will let me know – whether in word or a glance – if a hair is out of place, a pair of shoes is out of style, or a zipper is down (thankfully). I'm surrounded by 13 and 14 year-olds straddling that world between childhood and adulthood; they know everything, yet are dripping with insecurity.

I avoided teaching for a long time. I've had a slight stutter most of my life – it mainly comes out when I'm uncomfortable or self-conscious, almost always when I'm on the spot, and often when I read my own writing out loud. I think I always knew I wanted to teach English, but I worried about all that speaking, all that reading aloud. And so I avoided it – tried to squelch that quiet voice whispering.

When I took a poetry class in college, I couldn't get through one poem without getting stuck, without losing my breath, without struggling and stammering through. Those words I was sharing were important to me, and it was hard work saying them out loud. But that class changed me. The students and teacher gathered around the table allowed – and even encouraged – me to be imperfect and to stop pretending.

I'm so thankful.

When I decided to teach (after several years in a cubicle pretending I didn't want to), I knew I'd stutter and stammer. I still imagined the laughter and eye rolls when I'd get stuck on a word or the shame of someone finishing a word for me that I almost had out of my mouth. Yet, I was convicted that I needed to move toward the fear rather than run from it. I once heard that people are most likely to change when the fear of staying the same outweighs the perceived fear of the change. For me, pursuing a teaching degree had more to do with faith and grace than motivation and courage.

But now, seven years later, the realization of  what happens when I'm honest with my students might be one of my favorite parts of teaching. When I get stuck and I simply acknowledge, "I stutter sometimes, and always have. You'll have to be patient with me," the room changes. The students are with me; I'm with them. There are fewer eye rolls than there are shoulders that relax. There is surprising power in admitting that we're all a bit of a mess. That we're all in need of grace.

A few weeks ago, some of my students were writing personal essays. And in an effort to be a good model, I read aloud a piece I've written about stuttering. Even with a room of adolescents, those are nerve-wracking moments, opening up like that.  It's almost always easier to say, "Because I said so," than it is to say, "Let me show you."

But when I was done reading – when my heart slowed a bit – I had kids waiting to talk to me after class, students who dared to whisper what they really wanted to write about – mom's cancer, brother's down syndrome, a friend's death.

I'm so thankful I teach. But I'm even more grateful that none of us need to stand in our messes alone – and that vulnerability is heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time.


** (Speaking of heartbreaking and beautiful...this song says it better than I can.)