Ruminating on Mistakes

Wednesday, December 2
After talking with Beth about mistakes and how they are a learning tool rather than a format for "I should haves," I thought about my own history with mistakes. My mistake memories begin with the nuns. Mistakes were never lessons from which we could learn. Never "teachable moments" or productive aspects of life.

Mistakes were shameful, akin almost to sin. Teachers had a habit of thinking that public humiliation would spark improvement. Tests were handed back in descending order which allowed the class to know who had the lowest grades. . . an early form of targeting. Kids like brainiac Kathy Heinz or Michael Burke received their tests first and, as I recall, I was usually in the 2nd half or even last few to receive my paper but the days that I was in the closer to the top, boy oh boy, it was a good day. Or sometimes papers were handed back from the front seat and anyone in front of you could see your grade. Or maybe Kathy was given the papers to pass back, walking around class pretending to only read your name.

One of my 4th grade mistakes caused Sr. Saint Ambrose to publicly label me "stupid" in class. It may have been the time that she called on me to stand in front of the class and parse the sentence "Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin." I was a great speller and in the 3rd grade could spell "theological." And I loved to read, but parse? I dragged my feet to the front of the class and dutifully read the sentence but then stared questioningly at others, hoping for help. They were as blank as me. After excruciating hours of silence from me and annoyance from Sr., I was ordered to my seat and another was called up to parse. No better results and Sr. finally realized that she had not yet introduced the concept of parsing. The lesson commenced with no apology; humility and 'fessing up--missed lessons.

Other than being short, plump, older, wearing glasses, and a poor teacher, her only other claim to fame was her precious possession--a map of the Louisiana Purchase. The map was ceremoniously unfurled from the black trunk that Sr. kept in the back closet. It meant little to us but was clearly a treasurer to her. We never saw the map again and I assume that it was unfurled annually from the airless trunk. Where is the map 50 years later and why do I still hold that memory? Have work to do on embedded shame and how, after all these years, I can begin to claim mistakes as a learning tool. Beth and Austin both push the idea of mistakes being tools. I've certainly heard the idea before and fairly marveled at people who showed no shame but might even giggle about their mistakes. Maybe now I can begin to buy into the idea and claim my learning proudly. Bring on the tools. . . .