I recently read an article called “Mothers, Let Your Daughters Grow Up to be Travelers,” and it so wonderfully expressed a belief I hold dearly and insistently that I’ve been thinking of its relevance for days now. The article itself was written by a mother who, as one might guess, shares her reasons why parents should loose their children, specifically daughters, upon the world. The author, Barbara Winard, reveals the impossible pull from equally strong, entirely opposite instincts she experienced as a mother: she longed to shelter her daughter and keep her within reach, ideally (if not realistically) for the entirety of her life; simultaneously, she recognized the damage this would inflict and the necessity for her daughter to have space, freedom, and independence. For Winard’s daughter, this launching into autonomy came in the form of a job abroad upon graduating from college and continued even after her return to the United States as she moved to a neighboring city and then settled several states away. Winard realized that her concern for her daughter would exist no matter if she languished in her mother’s basement well into adulthood or if she were building her own life independent from her mother’s financial or emotional scaffolding. What’s more, Winard saw with 20/20 hindsight that had she gone with her gut and allowed fear to lash her daughter to her side, it would deprive her of the pride that comes from facing unfamiliar adventures, new responsibilities, and finding herself capable of handling them and might even have yielded a daughter who was frightened by the world. Winard mused that it was humbling for her as a mother, a job she’d held for several decades by that time, to realize there was so, so much more to know about the job than her instinct had equipped her with.
Winard’s article illustrates something I’ve noticed quite a lot in particular roles and professions; an individual might be in possession of tremendous knowledge and experience in their position, but their ability to apply these in a way that recognizes the impact of their actions is novice level at best, willfully ignorant at worst. Way back when I was in teacher school there was an educator named Guy Doud whose National Teacher of the Year speech was required viewing for any of us contemplating a career working with kids. It was a thoughtful, inspired speech throughout, but what has remained with me for over thirty years is a parting comment of Doud’s: “Kids don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.” Sure, it comes dangerously close to treacle, but the truth of the statement more than excuses its bumper sticker nature. I imagine Doud’s insight could be applied widely, maybe even universally, but there are only several contexts where I can personally vouch for its veracity.
Each semester that I’ve worked with adult students, I ask them in their first writing assignment to share with me their reading and writing histories. Many of these adults have had negative experiences with school, have returned to school after a lengthy absence, or have never really given much thought to how their early experiences have shaped their adult beliefs, about school as well as themselves. Without fail, at least 25% of these students (a conservative estimate) recall in vivid detail times when teachers publicly questioned their ability or performance, or when classmates were unkind and no one defended them. I know these students aren’t fabricating or misremembering these events because I’ve known teachers whose classrooms resemble the ones my students recall. These teachers are not bad people, far from it. Just the opposite: they have extensive training and impressive degrees; they know their content backwards and forwards. What challenges them, though, is an ability to see each student as an individual who drags a whole steamer trunk full of experiences, insecurities, and expectations into the classroom, and who needs and deserves to be known and nurtured. More prevalent at the start of my career than now was the idea that “the train is leaving the station, and if you want on you’d better jump because I’m not stopping!” I think this was borne of the intense pressure teachers felt to teach to the test and deliver acceptable scores in an impossibly brief amount of time. Teachers felt frantic, hearing the clock ticking down to “test time” each year; the luxury of pausing to see each student and provide for their needs just wasn’t in the cards. And yes, there were other teachers who felt that they learned all they needed to about students and teaching during their certification programs. Once the diploma was in hand, they were abundantly prepared to be “good” teachers. But I’ll bet all of us can recall a time we were treated like a number instead of a human in school, and I’ll bet all of us can remember a time when a teacher paused to learn more about us and meet our very human need. I have no doubt that each of these experiences had lasting effects, and that we would be hard pressed to recall how many degrees and years of experience our teachers boasted. We can have all the training in the world, but if we don’t commit to considering how our choices affect the people in our care, then it is ineffective, or worse—detrimental.
For the many years dogs have been in my life, there have also been veterinarians and veterinary technicians in my life. I would have been lost without the incredible care of so many of them. I’ve been fortunate to know these experts who earn the trust of my dogs and me and astound me with their patience. Along the way, I’ve also met veterinary professionals with extensive knowledge of medical ailments that afflict animals but who have little knowledge of the behavioral needs of their furry patients. It surprises me how many times the exam room door opens and a scrubs-clad individual strides in, arms outstretched as they approach my dog. They have schedules that require expedient treatment of each patient, I know, but I always wonder what makes them think an animal they’ve never met, who might be in pain, would welcome a strange new person moving quickly and invading their space. Best is a lot like his human in that he’s selective about who he’s comfortable with, and it takes a little time to earn his trust. In a small exam room with an unfamiliar stranger, he stiffens and eyes them cautiously, but this clear body language is too often lost on the caregiver. Consequently, he has negative experiences far too often, despite the bits of roast beef I reward him with when he responds calmly to uncomfortable stimuli. The last time I visited a new veterinarian, a technician met me outside as I was unloading Best. She moved quickly toward us, surprising both Best and me. He began barking, the hair along his spine standing tall. The tech reached out to take his leash, saying, “I’ll take him inside; you can wait out here. It’s okay, I know he just wants to play.” I thanked her, asked her to cancel our appointment, and loaded Best back into the car. I have no doubt she and her colleagues would have provided the medical care Best needed. My concern was for her complete lack of awareness of what my dog’s behavior was communicating.
So often we find ourselves responsible for the welfare of others, whether it is as parents or professionals. We can read all of the books and collect all the degrees in existence in preparation for this duty. To paraphrase Guy Doud, though, all the knowledge in the world is useless unless or until we listen, see, and respond appropriately to the unique needs of those in our care and allow what we know will be best for them to guide our actions.
PartWolf 