Quondam

Yesterday I had a moment of sledgehammer empathy.

To begin with, I was a very mediocre debater. I had to work incredibly hard to rack up what little competitive success I did finally wind up with. And since I was on one of the very best college debate squads in the nation, that meant I was reminded on a daily basis how far below most of my teammates I was in talent and skill. In part, this was healthy, because all my life I'd been one of the smarter kids, and things had come to me easily, so this showed me how small a pond I'd swum in, and gave me more realistic measures of how I stacked up against the rest of the world. It also lit a fire under me to work harder, which revolutionized my daily routine: since I'd been very young, I'd gotten by despite underperforming. Now there was something I craved, and all the effort I could possibly devote to it resulted only in inching progress. In many ways, that matured me, and made what I do today possible.

Those were the nice parts, but there were dark and painful parts as well. I remember how it felt not to measure up. I remember being a junior, and then a senior, and still not making the elimination rounds at the major tournaments, or winning big debates against good teams. I remember what a ripping, tearing sensation it was to grapple with the reality that my best simply wasn't good enough, that this was something that just wasn't in me. I could put everything else in my life aside and do nothing but debate, but I would never be anything but mediocre. I remember fantasies and daydreams that on particular occasions shriveled up and died, as I figured out that they were out of my reach no matter how hard I tried.

So where does the empathy come in?

Yesterday I had a student visit my office who'd done badly in one of my classes. The student is on academic probation, and is now facing academic dismissal from the school. In the past, I've been pretty clinical about this: college is not for everyone, and if someone's combined maturity level and intellectual chops don't, after repeated chances, produce the calibre of work required, then it's appropriate and even healthy to remove them, to steer them onto another path. But too often I pull back, brace myself for the tears and obvious grief, go robotically into my soft, gentle voice and relaxed eyes, and simply try to wait them out. Too often I judge them, condemn them, sit still and attentively while they speak their piece, and wonder in my head how much longer it will take.

Even if what I do is necessary and proper, and I do believe it is, the detachment from real pain and real grief is not acceptable. I have been guilty of it, and I repent of it. It's not enough just to put on a display of sympathy. It's not enough to show "appropriate empathic concern." If I'm not willing to endure the hurt, to call to my mind exactly what scars that hurt left on me, then I don't have enough motivation, enough passion, to tackle the teaching enterprise and give my all to helping them find a way to grow into and through the challenge of college. I do have to keep firmly before me the reality that the pain grew me, that the pain was necessary, but if I fall into the trap of becoming too blithe, too flippant, too much of a spectator and not enough of a participant, then I can't be the teacher I want to be.

And yes, effectively what I'm writing here is "Bring on the burnout." This is a recipe for shortening my teaching career. But no one ever said I should return what God gave me unmarked and undamaged. If I don't guard myself enough, then I can't be available to students in years to come, but if I make the converse error of guarding myself too much, then I become complicit in cruelty, and as far as I'm concerned, the proper direction to err is obvious.