Permission to Be Smart

Liz Norell offered a recollection on Twitter last week of a student in her evening American Government class that bears amplifying.  A student thanked her at the end of the class for being the one bright spot in a difficult semester. Norell responded similarly, offering praise for the student’s contributions and some affirmation that the student had something to say. The student was skeptical at first but then broke down with gratitude.

It’s easy to forget sometimes just how much some affirmation from a professor can mean.

I’ve had a few students over the years who were secretly smart. They wouldn’t make a point of showing off in class, but their work was amazing, and when given the chance, they’d say things that made it clear that they were the real deal. With one, I made a point of telling her early in the semester that a paper she had done was uncommonly good, and that I’d like to see her speak up more in class. She seemed to consider the option, and in subsequent classes, she let it rip. It was glorious. Once she got permission to be smart, she was off and running.

The lesson I took from that was not to be shy about offering permission to be smart. When those quietly great students show up, they may have learned lessons in other settings about the cost of approval. Creating a setting in which approval is an unalloyed good can work wonders.

A few weeks ago, I spent some time clearing out unneeded stuff from the basement. It’s a disheartening exercise most of the time, since it involves being reminded of things once treasured and saying goodbye to them. But I also found a couple pieces of paper I hope to keep indefinitely. One was a letter from one of the subjects of my dissertation. In grad school I had traveled to the assisted-living facility where he was living at the time and spent about an hour talking with him about his work, my work and life in general. The letter arrived a week or so later. It was brief but very much him: gracious, courtly, supportive. He died a few years after that. That letter is a keeper.

The other was a printed-out email from my CCM days. It was from a student I’d taught at DeVry. He was an older student—older than I was when he took my class—from what he described as a pretty blue-collar background. He was also a far better writer than even he suspected. In the email, he mentioned a comment I had made to him about halfway through the class. I remembered him, but had forgotten the comment. According to him, when I gave back some assignment, I made a point of saying directly to him, “You write good stuff.” Apparently nobody had ever said anything like that to him, and it made an impression. He thrived in the class and went on to start a business in which copy writing was a part of the job.

I can’t take credit for his talent; he brought that with him. But I remember him really starting to shine about halfway through the class, which must have been around the time of the comment.

The tap on the shoulder isn’t terribly difficult, but it can work wonders when it’s real. Probably many of us have been in settings in which performing well brought disapproval or even ostracism. Habits learned in those settings can survive long beyond their relevance. A discreet green light from the authority figure in the room can go a long way.

Thank you, Liz Norell, for reminding me again of that student, and of the other students who just needed permission to be smart. It’s worth remembering.