Teach & Serve II, No. 7 – Don’t Waste a Good Laugh Being Too Professional
September 21, 2016
… how often are we wound tightly by the seriousness of our work? How often are we so taken with the gravity of the job that we forget to smile? How often, each and every day, do we laugh.
When I first began teaching, I didn’t laugh. Isn’t the oft repeated adage “don’t let them see you smile until Christmas”? I thought that good advice. For a very long time, I tried to rein in the impulse to laugh, to joke, to be humorous. Later when I became an administrator, I thought it all the more important to be serious – to treat administrative jobs with as much gravitas as they deserved.
And, for a very long time, the very last thing I would laugh at publically was myself.
True story. I once applied for a job I didn’t get and, for me, it was kind of a big deal.
I had served a year as acting principal of my alma mater, taking over the role after the individual who preceded me was let go in late May. It was not a part of the ways that was terribly well orchestrated or planned out, in my opinion, and, though I was hopeful to have a principal job at some point in my career, stepping into this one this way was not how I had drawn it up.
In the spring of the ensuing year, I had applied for the position, eager to get the term “Acting” removed from the title, anxious to hold the position without asterisk. I interview. I thought I had done well. I received signals indicating I was the horse to beat. I heard from my direct supervisor that I could rest easy.
I didn’t get the job.
Some of the hardest months of my professional life were those immediately following that decision. They may well have been some of the hardest months of my life in general. At this point, most of those days have slipped into the comforting obscurity of memories I’d rather not remember. I am, however, afraid that a particular memory will never leave me.
In truth – and this is not hubris – most people thought I would receive the position. When I did not, there was some surprise and the faculty had to be told. I thought they needed to be told by my supervisor. He agreed and we determined that the faculty would be informed at the normally scheduled faculty meeting which was only two days after I was told I wouldn’t be staying on.
I didn’t want to be there.
We agreed that I would wait in the hallway outside the library while he gave the news and I would come in after he was done. We calculated that 10 minutes would be more than enough time for the news to be conveyed and, when 600 seconds had passed, I opened the library doors and walked through them.
… you know the electronic sensors most libraries have at their doors to prevent books growing legs? Our library had these and, while I wasn’t carrying a book of any kind, those sensors decided that announcing my presence to the gathered faculty at that particular moment was the right thing to do.
I came in. The alarms blared. The faculty turned to see what was causing the sound and there I was.
“Perfect.” I said, laughing. “That’s perfect.”
And it was.
I laughed. I laughed loudly and deeply. I laughed perhaps the most real laugh I had been able to muster since hearing I wasn’t the choice for the job because – what the hell? – it was pretty damned funny.
When I laughed, the room broke up as well.
Perfect. It was the moment we all needed.
What we do is serious work. We hold the future of children in our hands. We are trusted to do hard and good work with them. This is a pursuit none of us should take for granted or lightly. But how often are we wound tightly by the seriousness of our work? How often are we so taken with the gravity of the job that we forget to smile? How often, each and every day, do we laugh.
And how often do we allow others to laugh at us?
As teachers and administrators, we have to give our colleagues and our students our permission to laugh at us. Sometimes, they even need our permission to laugh with us. Please, please, give that permission because what we do is serious and it often is hard and challenging. We are, in fact, shepherding the future.
It’s a pretty awesome responsibility.
Let’s not make it a grave one, as well.
Let’s laugh and let’s allow people to laugh with us.
And laugh at us.
If we don’t, when the library alarm sounds, we might be scared, embarrassed and broken instead of smiling.