I was never a terribly good student. The only subjects I excelled in were those that encouraged my creativity, like art and, well, art. Not that I was an intellectual loser: I found myself engaged by ideas and concepts much of the time. It was all the practical stuff like math and English that I found difficult. It wasn't until recently when I was abruptly corrected that I came to realize “upon” is not also spelled “a-p-o-n” in certain grammatical contexts. Likewise, I remember cursing under my breath at the math teacher who stuffed equations in us until we burst. I used to say at the lunch table, “I'm never gonna use this stuff when I grow up anyway. What's the use?”
I was truly a daydreamer, and, to the frustration of many of my teachers, I was also a doodler. I drew on almost anything that didn't move: my desk, my book covers, and inside my books. My 4th grade teacher actually slapped me for coloring in the football helmet on the cover of my Jr. Scholastic magazine. Some of my classmates laughed. They didn't have a clue to the delight that doodling gave me, the inspiration that drawing-while-listening instilled. I was odd, and, in a way, I never really “fit in.”
In retrospect, fitting in was one of the most painful expectations of the schools I attended. If you did not fit in you were invisible, insignificant. People who didn't fit either carved their own niches or dropped through the cracks. I was not one of the popular people; consequently, I was often lonely. My efforts to merge with the “in” crowds often proved fruitless. I tried to be the class-clown, but there was always someone funnier. I wasn't one of the “really bad” kids either, although I did my share of the pranks. Tim was cuter; Jim was smarter. It seemed all my classmates had their own corners, but I didn't fit anywhere.
I survived grade school and junior and senior high. College was terribly difficult, although the teachers there didn't care much if we doodled. I have since been able to carve a niche out of life for myself: I am a teacher. Like my colleagues, I try to be aware of the young people who, like me, struggle to find identity amidst peers who seem to have it all. I know I have students who are lonely, who don't feel they fit in. I used to look at those same eyes every morning in the mirror.
At a recent parent-teacher conference, several parents expressed concern over their quiet children. They were especially worried that their children's grades would be affected if they did not talk in class. I told them that my students weren't graded by the amount of talking they did. I said that many students talk a lot and say nothing while others have a hard time verbalizing but say more by their posture or by their eye contact with me. There are many young people who are wonderful, non-verbal participants.
The moral to this story? Quiet kids are most often fine, just quiet. Maybe they are doodlers, content to process by drawing. It seems that it is more important to allow young people to be who and what they are without setting up expectations of what they should be. An important part of the educational mission is to meet students where they are and call forth growth, helping them to create their own niche, not forcing them into it.
