In my English class freshman year, I am sitting in my chair staring at the whiteboard as my English teacher writes down a question about our summer reading, “The Old Man and the Sea.” As soon as the question is asked, students begin to blurt out their ideas, shouting almost incoherently. I, too, gather up my thoughts on this matter. As my thoughts float around my head, I think about whether my ideas are developed enough to make any kind of sense. I dislike the idea of tossing out half-formed ideas because it feels too much like handing in incomplete work. I listen to my classmates and take in their ideas. I decide to let my thoughts stew for a moment longer, until the bell rings.
“Your problem is talking, Ryan. You’re too quiet.” Mrs. Uzupis, who was my advisor since freshman year and my biggest supporter, tried to reason with me. She was afraid that I could be doing more to put myself out there. She knew how much time I spent on each of my ideas and she was worried I wasn’t showing my full potential. Each semester, she made the same comment and I always stopped to analyze myself.
I have always been cautious about presenting an idea half-formed. I would not want to present my idea without my best effort, so I choose not to speak out about my ideas until I am sure I know what I want to say. One of my elementary school teachers used to scold us for incomplete work. He would say, “Your work is a representation of who you are. When you put your name on something, it comes to represent you. So if you hand in less than your best, you are representing yourself as subpar.” While he might sound cruel, he never ridiculed a student for work that was his or her best. If the best work you could do was a B-minus, he still praised you for turning in 100% effort. I was surprised to find that his philosophy had stuck with me all these years, as I contemplated my participation in class.
It wasn’t until my World History class during freshman year that I stumbled across a topic I was well versed in. Our class was examining the morality of dropping the atomic bomb. This topic was one I had researched thoroughly. Suddenly, all the thoughts that I carried around in my head coalesced into script. I took a deep breath, raised my hand, and joined the conversation. This time, nobody was shouting out ideas. This time, everyone was looking at me as I spoke, the familiar historical references I had so meticulously catalogued in my mind fluent on my tongue. From that day forward, I knew I had found my own method for learning. Being quiet did not mean remaining silent. I had bided my time, gathered my information, and reorganized it into an easy to understand format.
After three years of worrying about my participation, Mrs. Uzupis wrote me a letter at the end of my junior year. She is an English teacher, as you can tell from her Ernest Hemingway quotes: “Ryan’s quiet nature is working just fine for him. As Hemingway says, men like quiet.” While people may see me as a quiet person, the truth is that there is more lurking beneath the surface. I take the time to painstakingly assemble my ideas so that when I do open my mouth, they are easy to understand. I appreciate how Mrs. Uzupis refers to Hemingway because his writing style seems quiet and simple, but with a deeper meaning just beneath the surface.
“Your problem is talking, Ryan. You’re too quiet.” Mrs. Uzupis, who was my advisor since freshman year and my biggest supporter, tried to reason with me. She was afraid that I could be doing more to put myself out there. She knew how much time I spent on each of my ideas and she was worried I wasn’t showing my full potential. Each semester, she made the same comment and I always stopped to analyze myself.
I have always been cautious about presenting an idea half-formed. I would not want to present my idea without my best effort, so I choose not to speak out about my ideas until I am sure I know what I want to say. One of my elementary school teachers used to scold us for incomplete work. He would say, “Your work is a representation of who you are. When you put your name on something, it comes to represent you. So if you hand in less than your best, you are representing yourself as subpar.” While he might sound cruel, he never ridiculed a student for work that was his or her best. If the best work you could do was a B-minus, he still praised you for turning in 100% effort. I was surprised to find that his philosophy had stuck with me all these years, as I contemplated my participation in class.
It wasn’t until my World History class during freshman year that I stumbled across a topic I was well versed in. Our class was examining the morality of dropping the atomic bomb. This topic was one I had researched thoroughly. Suddenly, all the thoughts that I carried around in my head coalesced into script. I took a deep breath, raised my hand, and joined the conversation. This time, nobody was shouting out ideas. This time, everyone was looking at me as I spoke, the familiar historical references I had so meticulously catalogued in my mind fluent on my tongue. From that day forward, I knew I had found my own method for learning. Being quiet did not mean remaining silent. I had bided my time, gathered my information, and reorganized it into an easy to understand format.
After three years of worrying about my participation, Mrs. Uzupis wrote me a letter at the end of my junior year. She is an English teacher, as you can tell from her Ernest Hemingway quotes: “Ryan’s quiet nature is working just fine for him. As Hemingway says, men like quiet.” While people may see me as a quiet person, the truth is that there is more lurking beneath the surface. I take the time to painstakingly assemble my ideas so that when I do open my mouth, they are easy to understand. I appreciate how Mrs. Uzupis refers to Hemingway because his writing style seems quiet and simple, but with a deeper meaning just beneath the surface.