I just wanted to be popular.
That was a constant thought when I was in eighth grade. I was at Marjorie Post Park, lacing up my ice skates with my friends when a group of the "popular girls" walked in. One of them invited me to skate with their group, and while I didn't leave my group of friends I came to skate with, I was more than flattered to be approached by the "in" crowd of my grade. In high school, this desire to be "popular" seemed to morph. While I matured a bit and didn't care about being part of the popular crowd as much, I wanted to be accepted by as many groups as possible. So, I became everyone's friend. And while that may seem admirable, it never enabled me to have a friend who knew my greatest fears and insecurities, a friend who knew my favorite candy was M&Ms and that in the fifth grade I was asked by my chorus teacher to mouth the line of a song because I was off key. I feared being judged so much that I just tried to let everyone accept me.
I just wanted to be popular.
Fast forward to adult life, and I still grapple with the idea of popularity. When I first started teaching twenty years ago, I was not confident in my lesson plans and knowledge. I looked at the way I taught and noticed it was far different from the veterans I was teaching with who could just open the book and teach. I was reading and rereading; I was writing excessive comments on student papers. I was planning for hours at a time. I was teaching grammar with song lyrics and creating iMovies to introduce the books my students were reading. I don't know if I was judged by other teachers, but I do remember feeling so isolated because of my nontraditional teaching methods, and even though I stood by those methods, I just wanted acceptance among my colleagues. I also craved the acceptance of my students; instead of being concerned whether or not they were truly learning the material, I tended to focus on how much they liked my class. That was important to me (and still is to an extent) because I know that if my students don't buy in to what I am teaching, they become far harder to teach. Yet, I also have learned over time that desire to be liked and accepted shouldn't be the greatest focus of my classroom.
Recently, I've been thinking about this idea of popularity and how easy it is to measure our own self worth against others. It's also easy to judge. I see it all of the time: We judge everything from what others post on social media to what food someone else is eating to what our friends are wearing. Our desire for acceptance runs deep as does our aptitude to criticize. I try not to do either of those things, but it's not always easy.
This summer, I have spent a fair amount of time riding roller coasters at King's Dominion. I hate roller coasters. I keep my eyes closed and my hands gripped so tight that my knuckles are the palest shade of white. Why do I ride them? I know they make my kids happy, and while I might be embarrassed to admit it, I want them to have a mom who is willing to experience things with them. In other words, similar to my eighth grade self, I care about what they think of me. So when I finally confessed to my family that my favorite ride in the park is not the roller coaster but the ferris wheel, laughter erupted. "That's the slowest adult ride in the park, Mom," my son teased. To me, though, the ferris wheel is majestic. At night, as the spokes light up, flashing bright white lights into the night sky, there is nothing more beautiful in the park. It slowly lets people on and off, ascending to the top until you sit for a little while, looking down at the entire park, soaking it all in.
(Images three different nights on the ferris wheel at King's Dominion)
Last week, I forced my kids to go on the ferris wheel at night with me. They complained the entire time in line and then when we got on the ride, they whined about how slow it was. That is, until we got to the top. I glanced across the cart as one of their little mouths formed a circle and a gasp.
"It's so pretty up here at night, Mom," my daughter Katie said.
"I still like roller coasters, but this is cool," Jack admitted. I sat with them and appreciated our view of the "Eiffel Tower," relishing in the moment that I don't always have to be the mom who rides roller coasters.
I'll close by reflecting on a song lyric from "Already Gone" by one of my favorite classic rock bands, the Eagles:
How much this lyric has resonated with me this summer. For much of my life, I felt like I was chained to what was popular, what looked right, what everyone else thought was the best idea. We're constantly being judged about not being smart enough, good enough. My own kids even judged me for liking the ferris wheel.
Let's stop judging one another.
When a tragedy happened this year in the Raider Nation, I walked back to my desk one morning, and there was a note from a student that read, "You are enough." I had seen that phrase a lot, yet no one had ever said those words to me.
You are enough.
It doesn't matter what is popular or right--just that you are enough. This summer I realized I had the key at the top of that ferris wheel all along; I don't have to be chained by what others deem as right or fun or acceptable. I've come a long way from the girl who just wanted to be popular in eighth grade. I now am the person who tries to be worth knowing, not well known. I am someone who works hard not to judge or criticize. And I am someone who will always, always ride the ferris wheel, pondering life at the top as she does.
That was a constant thought when I was in eighth grade. I was at Marjorie Post Park, lacing up my ice skates with my friends when a group of the "popular girls" walked in. One of them invited me to skate with their group, and while I didn't leave my group of friends I came to skate with, I was more than flattered to be approached by the "in" crowd of my grade. In high school, this desire to be "popular" seemed to morph. While I matured a bit and didn't care about being part of the popular crowd as much, I wanted to be accepted by as many groups as possible. So, I became everyone's friend. And while that may seem admirable, it never enabled me to have a friend who knew my greatest fears and insecurities, a friend who knew my favorite candy was M&Ms and that in the fifth grade I was asked by my chorus teacher to mouth the line of a song because I was off key. I feared being judged so much that I just tried to let everyone accept me.
I just wanted to be popular.
Fast forward to adult life, and I still grapple with the idea of popularity. When I first started teaching twenty years ago, I was not confident in my lesson plans and knowledge. I looked at the way I taught and noticed it was far different from the veterans I was teaching with who could just open the book and teach. I was reading and rereading; I was writing excessive comments on student papers. I was planning for hours at a time. I was teaching grammar with song lyrics and creating iMovies to introduce the books my students were reading. I don't know if I was judged by other teachers, but I do remember feeling so isolated because of my nontraditional teaching methods, and even though I stood by those methods, I just wanted acceptance among my colleagues. I also craved the acceptance of my students; instead of being concerned whether or not they were truly learning the material, I tended to focus on how much they liked my class. That was important to me (and still is to an extent) because I know that if my students don't buy in to what I am teaching, they become far harder to teach. Yet, I also have learned over time that desire to be liked and accepted shouldn't be the greatest focus of my classroom.
Recently, I've been thinking about this idea of popularity and how easy it is to measure our own self worth against others. It's also easy to judge. I see it all of the time: We judge everything from what others post on social media to what food someone else is eating to what our friends are wearing. Our desire for acceptance runs deep as does our aptitude to criticize. I try not to do either of those things, but it's not always easy.
This summer, I have spent a fair amount of time riding roller coasters at King's Dominion. I hate roller coasters. I keep my eyes closed and my hands gripped so tight that my knuckles are the palest shade of white. Why do I ride them? I know they make my kids happy, and while I might be embarrassed to admit it, I want them to have a mom who is willing to experience things with them. In other words, similar to my eighth grade self, I care about what they think of me. So when I finally confessed to my family that my favorite ride in the park is not the roller coaster but the ferris wheel, laughter erupted. "That's the slowest adult ride in the park, Mom," my son teased. To me, though, the ferris wheel is majestic. At night, as the spokes light up, flashing bright white lights into the night sky, there is nothing more beautiful in the park. It slowly lets people on and off, ascending to the top until you sit for a little while, looking down at the entire park, soaking it all in.
(Images three different nights on the ferris wheel at King's Dominion)Last week, I forced my kids to go on the ferris wheel at night with me. They complained the entire time in line and then when we got on the ride, they whined about how slow it was. That is, until we got to the top. I glanced across the cart as one of their little mouths formed a circle and a gasp.
"It's so pretty up here at night, Mom," my daughter Katie said.
"I still like roller coasters, but this is cool," Jack admitted. I sat with them and appreciated our view of the "Eiffel Tower," relishing in the moment that I don't always have to be the mom who rides roller coasters.
I'll close by reflecting on a song lyric from "Already Gone" by one of my favorite classic rock bands, the Eagles:
How much this lyric has resonated with me this summer. For much of my life, I felt like I was chained to what was popular, what looked right, what everyone else thought was the best idea. We're constantly being judged about not being smart enough, good enough. My own kids even judged me for liking the ferris wheel.
Let's stop judging one another.
When a tragedy happened this year in the Raider Nation, I walked back to my desk one morning, and there was a note from a student that read, "You are enough." I had seen that phrase a lot, yet no one had ever said those words to me.
You are enough.
It doesn't matter what is popular or right--just that you are enough. This summer I realized I had the key at the top of that ferris wheel all along; I don't have to be chained by what others deem as right or fun or acceptable. I've come a long way from the girl who just wanted to be popular in eighth grade. I now am the person who tries to be worth knowing, not well known. I am someone who works hard not to judge or criticize. And I am someone who will always, always ride the ferris wheel, pondering life at the top as she does.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDelete