The weather is warming up, the sun has started shining a bit brighter, and my sleeves are now rolled up as I drive to school. There’s been a buzz throughout campus these past many weeks, with spring sports teams operating in full force and teachers scrambling to squeeze field trips and other special outings into the semester.
The change in any season always brings a breeze of fresh opportunity into my classroom, but it also reminds me that the school year is coming to an end and my students will soon be transitioning out of my classroom and into their own futures. As I sit down and create their final exams and prepare final report cards, I try to be mindful of their progress, thinking about who they were when I first met them and the individuals they’ve grown to be over the past bunch of months. As inspiring as this is, I know I’ll also have to have difficult conversations with some of them – the handful of students whose grades aren’t at par with provincial guidelines and won’t be passing the course.
Our Twofold Identity
As a social worker-turned-educator, the subject of identity fascinates me, particularly how it continuously evolves over time (or is supposed to). In my clinical spaces, I was fascinated by human development and how we grow as individuals. And now, within my classrooms and learning spaces, I continue to marvel at my students’ resilience and how they choose to show up (and when they show up, if class is first period and they somehow missed the five alarms they had set for themselves the night before!).
Psychologically, the quest for identity officially begins in adolescence – the exact developmental phase my students are journeying through right now. More accurately, however, it’s a pursuit that actually commences from the very moment of conception and follows us as we develop across the lifespan – well beyond our teenage years and, if done right, well past our middle-age years as well.
To simplify things, our identity is twofold. In the first instance, it’s something we’re given, a byproduct of the families in which we were raised, schools we attended, neighborhoods we lived in, and our social circles. In many ways, this identity is passive, and the period of adolescence is when we strive to take ownership of our story and somehow generate meaning therefrom. Don’t get me wrong – this hand-me-down identity is crucial to our development. To decide where we’re headed in life, we first need to know from where we’ve come and appreciate those who sacrificed so much so that we could be who we are today.
Ayeka
We can trace this first identity back to the opening chapters of the Book of Genesis, to one of the first conversations between the first humans and the Creator of the newly formed universe. Adam and Eve, basking in the glory of the Garden of Eden, mistakenly eat from the tree they were cautioned against and become embarrassed and ashamed of their behaviors. G-d, fully aware of what they did and where they are, strangely asks them: “Ayeka?” – “Where are you?” Obviously, Ayeka can’t be a question about physical presence; rather, it’s a psychological search so many of us partake in daily. How did we get here today? Where do we stand in relation to the world around us? How do we measure up to society’s baseline of normal? And, in the case of academics, how do my grades compare to other students’?
But answering where we are forever depends on others and on causes beyond our control. Simply put, Ayeka can only take us so far – from the past into the present.
There is, however, a second question of identity asked about later on in the text, which is far greater and more anxiety-evoking than how our progress compares to others. This question is posed in the opening chapters of the Book of Exodus and is an adventure that emerges from within.
Mi Anochi
Akin to Adam and Eve in the solitude of the Garden of Eden generations earlier, one day, Moses, who would later become our nation’s greatest prophet, finds himself alone in the barren desert, shepherding his father-in-law’s flocks. He encounters the famous sight of a burning bush that isn’t being consumed by its own flames. G-d instructs him to remove his shoes and gives him the mission of being the catalyst for redeeming his brethren from slavery. But he protests: “Mi anochi?” – “Who am I?” Who is he to achieve such a task? Up until now, Moses’ identity has consisted of the fragmented pieces that everyone else has helped him construct about himself: his parents, his siblings, Pharaoh’s daughter, and even Pharaoh himself. He’s measured himself, his worth, and his capabilities against everyone else’s. Until now, it was always and only about Ayeka.
The question of Mi anochi begins where Ayeka ends. All Moses understands about himself is that he’s a simple individual with a speech impediment. He now needs to embark on the journey of discovering who he is and, more precisely, who he wants to become. Who’s he going to identify as? Is he going to measure up to his own greatness or to the greatness displayed by others around him? Is he going to identify with the aspects of himself which are difficult or is he going to rise above them? Is he going to remain a simple shepherd or is he going to actualize his calling of redeeming the Jewish nation from slavery despite everything (and possibly everyone) telling him that he’ll fail in the process?
Removing Our Shoes
Sooner or later in our lives, we’re going to have to confront ourselves and begin the journey of Mi anochi. We’re going to have to decide who we are and the people we’re capable of becoming. This can only happen when we give ourselves time (and space) to listen to, and get in touch with, the core of who we are, which lies buried beneath the many layers of social stigmas and identities that others send our way.
G-d doesn’t tell Moses how to achieve greatness, per se, only that he is – and can become – great. Because Mi anochi is something that only we can decide; it has to come from within ourselves. The only thing G-d tells him to do is to remove his shoes – to remove the barrier between himself and the ground beneath him. It’s always easier to tell ourselves (and others) that we can succeed if only we were living in a different city, or had gone to a different school (or had a different teacher), or had different friends. Until we realize that so much of the time, all we need to achieve greatness is already locked up within ourselves, we’ll never be able to unleash it and use it to fuel our lives. Until we remove the “shoes” from our feet that separate us from the places we’re in, we’ll always find a reason why we can’t be our fullest selves. G-d doesn’t ask Moses to change himself or the many variables of his life. He asked him to be himself.
Each of us, regardless of cultural background, upbringing, or current affiliations, will encounter challenges in life. To various extents, sometimes we might have to rely on the kindness of others to complete even the most basic tasks of daily living. Some days we’ll thrive, yet on others, surviving might be all we can handle. As much as our community and society at large help shape our identity, we need to give each other space to author our own narratives. Yes, we should still continue offering support when we think someone else could use an extra hand, but we must know when to take a step back and allow others to let us know how we can be most supportive – in ways that they need and want to be supported.
Beyond Grades
And so, how do I tell my students that they don’t measure up to their peers? How do I share with them that they’ll have to repeat the course because they don’t meet the academic standards of the education system under which they study?
When I speak with my students, I remind them that academics only tells us so much. Yes, it can indicate how well we can structure an essay or whether we can memorize the components of plate tectonics or the different forms of precipitation in relation to other students in our class, but it can’t define who we are as people. Indeed, we need to master certain academic skills, but we are so much more than the grades we achieve (or don’t achieve) as a result.
Maybe we won’t succeed on our first attempt. Perhaps it takes repeated tries until we achieve our desired goal. Success is up to us – because as long as we decide to keep picking ourselves up after every slip, can we ever truly see that mistake as a failure? We can all achieve greatness in life, but it doesn’t come from conquering others; it comes from conquering ourselves – by getting to know ourselves and the individuals we can aspire to become. It comes from how we show up – both to ourselves and to others. It comes from the kindness we share.
We began the long walk to freedom many years ago, when G-d first spoke to Moses from within that burning bush. But we need to remind ourselves to respect and appreciate that we’ll each cross that finish line (or get the grade) at our own pace and against our own clock – today, tomorrow, and the day after that. We each deserve the time and space to add our own chapter to our shared narrative.
* * * * *
It’s another beautiful spring day today, and the sun is shining brightly. My sleeves are rolled up and the halls are abuzz as I walk through the front doors and pass the main office toward my classroom. As difficult and as disappointing as these conversations might be, regardless of their academic success and their final grade (or lack thereof), I hope my students can ask themselves how they grew in our time together. How did they take further ownership of their personal stories? And how can I, their teacher, in the remaining days we have together, empower them to keep authoring it in the months and years that follow – well beyond our classroom and well beyond their grade?
