Month: July 2017

I soared through academics throughout my elementary and middle school years, and seldom had to try hard to get straight A’s.  That is, until I met Geometry my freshman year of high school.  Naturally, it was an AP (Advanced Placement) class.  My teacher was Mr. Zuniga, a man in his mid-forties with a salt and pepper flat top.  Thin-framed, he wore glasses, slacks and a tie most days.

An intelligent man, he loved math and all things numbers.  He also loved the sound of his own voice.  It sounded factual, with an air of, “I’m God’s gift to integers.”  Something would happen when he began his lectures (which usually lasted the whole class period).  My mind was magically transported to a place where I knew and recognized nothing.  He literally sounded like he was speaking a foreign language.

This continued for the rest of the semester.  Each week, I stayed after school for tutoring (also led by him) at least three times.  I took notes diligently and missed nothing that came out of his mouth.  My grade fluctuated every marking period from passing to not, and it tormented me.  I didn’t get it.  The end of the year arrived and I eagerly anticipated what my final Geometry average was.

Progress report in hand, I glanced over all the numbers solely searching for one.  And there it was.  69.  My end of the year average is a 69?!  Indignant, I never understood why he didn’t give me the last point I needed.  “Can’t he see I’ve worked my tail off?!”  I fumed.

Ultimately, Mr. Zuniga and I ended on good terms.  I wrote him a reflective letter on how I was thankful for having been in his class, and the invaluable lessons I learned through failing.  Which, looking back, was quite mature for my 14-year-old self.  My attempt at turning the other cheek.

Thus began my mental block with math.  I would go on to take courses up through Pre-Calculus in high school and do fine, but things were never the same.  I loathed mathematics, and I would never be good at it.

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The Christmas Piano Recital is an event my students and their parents look forward to all year.  It is also one of my highlights.  I get especially excited for my four and five-year-old students to play a song by memory in front of an audience for the very first time.  It is not an easy feat.

The fall semester of 2016 was going along like most, except that I now had three young children under the age of 5.  Between keeping up with all of them, my husband, and our home; teaching piano sometimes felt overwhelming.  Still, I powered through because I love my students and appreciate the extra income.

For the big show, we found a venue that already had a baby grand, and I jumped at the chance to book it!  Most years we find a recital hall and rent the instrument separately.  This was more cost efficient for our families and easier for us, too.

The afternoon of the performance arrived and everyone was looking and playing their best.  And then it happened.  One of my precious, most hardworking little girls choked at the piano.  I watched her from a small distance as she began to cry.  I went to sit next to her on the bench, solely for comfort, and placed my hand gently on her back.  Choking back tears, she finished her songs and finished them well.  But she was crushed, and my heart hurt for her.

The four students that followed also had trouble playing, even towards the beginning of their songs, with difficulty finding their hand positions—concepts we had covered time and time again—something they had never struggled with at recitals before.  I kept my composure on the outside, but on the inside, my heart raced.  5 of my 15 students had made major mistakes, and I was baffled as to why.

During these annual presentations, I often feel like a chicken with its head cut off.  I try my best to be a gracious hostess, doting piano teacher and mother (because I also teach my own children), and master of ceremonies.  It was not until the end of our time together that I realized there were stickers on keys C, D, E, F,  and G on the baby grand, exactly one octave lower than where Middle C is located.  I keep one sticker to mark Middle C on my piano for the younger children.  For all you non-musicians reading this, some of the students placed their hands where the stickers were on the instrument the day of the performance, instead of where they belonged.  Confusion ensued, and thus, the results.

I felt like a complete failure.  Nothing anyone said (or didn’t say) consoled me.  As an educator of many years, I have always felt that my students’ success was my success, and their failure, my failure.  I had overcommitted myself once again, and it was painfully apparent (to me).

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As an ambitious firstborn, I did not like the idea of doing anything I wasn’t good at for a prolonged amount of time.  As I have grown older, and hopefully wiser, I realize that failure is a necessary part of life and an excellent teacher.

My mathematical mental block lasted for many years.  It remained so until the second semester of my senior year of college when I took Teaching Mathematics for Elementary School Students.  “How hard can it be?” I thought.  While it was certainly not Rocket Science, it was also not as easy as I anticipated.  I found myself attending every tutoring session offered, constantly practicing and reviewing my notes.  I would pass the class with a hard-earned high C.

Numbers and I are friends now.  Thanks to my husband’s influence, I enjoy creating a budget and sticking to it.  I have been contacted twice in the last couple of years to write for financial institutions (read those entries here and here) as a result of crunching figures.

I often see myself in my students, too.  I remember the little girl and adolescent that feared failure, and did her best to avoid it.  Recognizing it is inevitable has helped me fail forward—the idea that our perception and response to failure is key to success (a concept made popular by John C. Maxwell).

Remembering the little feet and eyes that follow closely behind has also inspired me to shift my perspective.  Here’s to fully embracing future inadequacies, learning from them and moving forward.