Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Stop Talking

"You're so interesting," my students said to me today.

"I'm not," I said. "Not compared to the person sitting next to you."

"You are," they said.  "You are the most interesting person in the school."

Only in the moment when perhaps I'll tell a story rather than opt for barreling through the curriculum objective I planned for the day am I interesting to my students.  I might tell the story of the time I got in a car wreck the night of my junior prom.  Or the time I stayed up all night with a tow truck driver I'd just met until we jumped a junkyard fence and stole an alternator for my car so I could get going again. Anything would be better than building a thesis statement telling how motif reveals theme in order to support a ten-page paper.  I mean yawn.

Most of the time when I decide to lecture, my students pretend to listen because they are well-mannered young adults.  Old children. But when I can I shut the hell up.  Let them do the talking, little bird.

One Sunday at Mass my youngest daughter disliked the priest.  A babbling type he was.  After too long of listening to his slightly insulting jibber jabber, Margaret took my hand and opened it.  She wrote STOP TALKING into my palm with her finger Helen Keller style.  She closed my hand and the priest stopped talking.  Just like that.  Maybe wherever he is the man still finds himself at a loss for words.  That would be awesome.  Let someone else stand up and do the talking for once. Maybe a little girl for once.

What is your story, I ask my students.  Write it down first.  Then open your mouth and talk. Shut me up entirely.  Make me obsolete. Your turn is now. 

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