Moro Reflex

We are wired for trust.

Out of the womb and into the world, as a species, we possess a dearth of protective instincts. Anyone who’s ever seen a startled infant flail his arms and legs has to get that humans are ill-equipped to make it long-term on their own. The Moro Reflex may hearken back to an evolutionary day of falling primates desperately grasping to illusive clutches of fur. But its modern day display makes it pretty clear that babies truly believe that someone will always be there to catch them if they fall.baby

Fast-forward to 21st century maternal instincts and those Neanderthal kiddos couldn’t have gotten it more right. As a protective breed, modern day moms are even better (or worse) than their forebears. They don’t just protect defenseless babies; they follow those babies through developmental stages much further than any of their predecessors. Moms are catching falling children when they stumble in grade school, high school, and even college.

And their kids trust them to do so, to be there, to take care of things, to clean up after them.

Too bad it isn’t made crystal clear to those kids, though, that not everyone is in their corner like mom and dad. That trust isn’t necessarily the natural order of things out in the big bad world and that it may need to be deserved and earned. That flailing about waiting for someone to catch them is a pretty wrong way to wade through life.

After one of my students felt betrayed by her friends, she told me, “I don’t trust anyone.”

An extreme response.

She had been lucky to find a college group where she fit in. It guaranteed her a lot of fun nights and gave her a sense of security wherever she roamed on campus. After the mind-changing incident, though, she reconsidered whom she should call friend. I also suggested that such a large circle of “friends” might be unsustainable.

She came to believe that never again trusting anyone wasn’t the way to go, but a measure of caution might be a good idea.

Ah, lessons learned.

Michael isn’t as quick to trust as his sister is. He’s also more likely to cut someone off when he feels he’s been betrayed. He doesn’t forgive easily. Or perhaps, he’s like his grandmother who claims she’s willing to forgive, but never forgets. Hmmm.

Michael and I have been dissecting the nature of trust recently. He’s young to be in business for himself, young to be learning some of the harsh lessons to which he’s recently been exposed. He’s trying to decide whom to trust and who may—or may not—deserve a second chance. For now, he seems willing to align himself with “partners” while looking to a future as independent contractor. No surprise. Even in preschool, Michael was a bit of an independent contractor.

My kiddos from college, though, aren’t necessarily set up for such independence. Some of them have gotten used to sturdy safety nets stretched beneath them and have become adept cliff jumpers. It’s hard to blame their behavior; past evidence supports their death-defying exploits. Someone has always been there, able to catch them just before they hit rock-bottom.

The thing is, I want my students to take chances, to believe, to trust –in others, but especially in themselves. I also want them to know, however, that flailing about with open arms into a plummeting abyss is no way to start their lives, and certainly could be one that ends it.

Trust can be ephemeral. It shouldn’t be. But too often, it is.

I don’t (usually) ask my students to trust me. Like my son, I believe trust needs to be deserved and earned. But if I were to posit an unearned entreaty to my students, I would plead, trust me: you need to be careful about whom you trust.

Brick walls

Alex’s teacher gave an early, but prophetic warning that family secrets didn’t live long in kindergarten classrooms. In spite of the fact that we had nothing particularly interesting to hide, the Sicilian omertà that must be hard-wired into my DNA left me unsettled at such a notion. Sharing secrets, no matter their insignificance, doesn’t sit well with me.brick walls

Maybe that’s why I’m sometimes still caught off-guard when people I barely know share theirs with me. In my role as long-distance interviewer for our clients’ students and grads, I’m sometimes taken aback by what these interesting strangers are willing to tell the voice on the other end of the line. Tragic deaths, debilitating illnesses, abusive relationships, drug dependencies. Perhaps they sense a cloak of anonymity in the strange area-coded telephone number and it lends comfort like a warm and reassuring blanket that it isn’t. I don’t get it. From the start of the conversation, they know that what I’ll be writing is meant for publication. And yet, they share so much that can’t really be published.

On the other hand, I am no longer surprised when my students do the same. Even in our initial meetings, they spill secrets quickly. I attribute their lightning fast disclosures to their youth and the social-media-tell-the-world-all generation from which they come. And understand that there’s something in the dynamic of even our earliest interactions that creates a layer of unearned trust.

I’ve adapted to this strange world order so readily that I’m now confused when students don’t tell me everything from the get-go.

One of my students let down her guard early on, but then did her best to rebuild the wall she tries so desperately to keep between us. For all the times my students—and even my own kids—have shared stories I didn’t need to hear, hers is one I’ve worked hard to unearth. Because I think she really, really wants to share it. Needs to.

We play a game, she and I. It’s a push-pull relationship, the kind with which I am too achingly familiar. Michael and I did this sort of dance for years and it was at times excruciating. But this young friend of mine isn’t my kid. She stepped into my world as a fully formed person with whom I never would have interacted, had it not been for this odd position that I now hold in her life. We’re sort of stuck with each other. We don’t have to be, though, not really. But when I gave her the option to fully bolt, she couldn’t. Like I said, I think she wants to share; she’s just not comfortable with the premise. And that I do understand.

For a whole lot of reasons, I find I have little in common with most of my students. It’s not just the generational divide; that’s too obvious. It’s a lot of other stuff about where we come from and what we consider as life’s priorities. But my sharing-adverse student and I are on the same page, in at least this one regard. I could actually teach her a thing or two about avoiding tough conversations. Instead, I’d rather she learn that the crushing weight she’s carrying would be less of a burden if she’d only share a little of it. It doesn’t have to be with me. I’ve told her as much. But it does need to be with someone she can trust.

She trusts me. On Tuesdays. Not always on Fridays. I get so close. We get so close. And then we’re not.

People often tell me I’m crazy for straddling two worlds, two jobs –both pretty demanding on my time and my psyche. I can’t fully explain why I do it. Except to turn to the metaphor of an incomplete building I can’t leave until finished. Although in my case, I’m not laying bricks, just trying to break a few down.

 

 

Tigger Teacher

tiggerOn her first trip to Disney, we searched high and low for sightings of her favorite character. Unfortunately, Pooh Bear wasn’t nearly as ubiquitous on location as he was in our own home.  I knew how desperate we were becoming when
daddy considered greasing palms for access to the furry fellow.

Pooh was finally sighted, at first from parade distance, but later at a breakfast where the dreamed of full-fledged, flesh-to-fuzz hug could be completed. We could have left Mickey and company right then and there with mission accomplished euphoria.

Who doesn’t like Pooh?

But really, I wondered, why wasn’t my little girl seeking out the character with whom she most clearly identified?

Watching my exuberant toddler bouncing around the office one day, I asked Alex if she was Tigger.

She looked at me with a “duh” expression more befitting a teenager than a two-year-old. Then, with a thumb in the air gesture to her back and rapidly nodding head, she said, “see my stripes?” as if, how could I not?

Alex has always been a Tigger.

I love that about her.

To say she’s had reasons NOT to be would be a full recoloring of her personal history. But from the moment she emerged healthy from Brigham & Women’s NICU, Alex has always managed to find a way to bounce back. Over and over again.

I wish I could say the same for the other kids in my life. I think I know way more Eeyores, or perhaps more likely Piglets –a mass of fretting fatalists, feeling small, ineffectual, and always worrying.

Convincing them that there’s less to worry about than they think can often be one of the most challenging parts of my job. Interestingly, I don’t do it by telling them all’s right with the world and that everything’s going to be okay. I can’t always make that promise. Instead, I ask them simply to consider –what’s the worst thing that could happen?

It’s an exercise not all of them embrace. For the zero-to-ninety few who escalate too quickly, having them consider the worst imaginings of their mind can set them in a tailspin. However, for a few of my overly anxious kiddos, walking them through the unlikely steps of their worst case scenarios is an exercise in reality. It helps them pause, step back and understand that the worst stuff doesn’t usually happen. And sometimes—when the worst thing is a bad grade or missed assignment or even a failed class—maybe it’s not so bad, after all. Even when the bad is really bad, I can sometimes get them to step outside of their insular lives and understand that they still may have more to be thankful for than most.

Pooh Bear might be a pretty apt philosopher. His simple-minded, but kind musings stand clear as a reminder that being nice is pretty good way to go. However, when the one person the kids have trouble being nice to is themselves, I’d opt for a little Tigger tutelage. Because when the
going gets tough, what they really need to do is –bounce.

 

 

Got your back

 

The job title of one of my peers is “reputation manager.” Her responsibilities include a host of duties but her big picture task is to keep an eye (ear, nose, computer) out for potential problems that our clients might encounter with regard to their brand image. She’s their first line of defense
against online insult.  She offers them sound counsel and guides them toward good decisions. But she’s in their corner regardless of the choices they make.

kittyShe’s got their backs.

I don’t know her well, but I think her career focus probably says something about the kind of friend she might be: a good one.

She probably watches out for her friends the way she watches out for our clients.

I understand the premise. My own friends get to make fun of my idiosyncrasies, call me out when I make mistakes, laugh at me, as well as with me.

Because they’ve also got my back.

Over the years, my friends have literally stepped in-between me and perceived threats. Even when I don’t need protecting, their instinct is to protect.

It goes both ways. I’ve got their backs, too. And they know it.

I wish the kids I know had such assured relationships. They don’t. This isn’t my perception; it’s what they tell me all the time.

One of my students turned to me in a medical emergency. She had lots of roommates she called friends, but none of them stepped up when she needed them. She defended their inaction; I couldn’t.

There’s a give and take, of course. I don’t know that the kiddos with whom I become so very close necessarily have what it takes to be really good friends themselves. With blinders on, I want to believe they do, but I’ve seen evidence to the contrary.

The milennials have universally been pegged as lacking the work ethic of the generation before them.  This may go hand-in-hand with their dearth of binding friendships. Relationships take work –lots of it. And if their instinct when the going gets tough is to get going in another direction, they’re missing out.

On the other hand, I sometimes side in their corner with regard to self-preservation. Friendships—particularly those among women—can present a rocky, messy mass. My instincts on their behalf often err on the side of caution, my own sort of protectionism kicking in. While part of me is urging them to put themselves out there, take a chance, make a friend, I’m secretly hoping that they don’t get hurt. Even those with inner resilience can only take so much being knocked down before they no longer have the strength to get up. And once rejected (or twice, or more), it’s super hard to be super forgiving.

The road to lifelong friendships is littered with landmines and I don’t know if these young travelers have the agility to make safe passage. I’d suggest some protective armor, then, but still a forward progression. Because the risk of a bit of flying shrapnel is more than worth the territorial reward.

 

Guilt trip

The parenting book admonished not to use threats, bribes or guilt in childrearing. I jokingly told a friend: she’s taking away all my best tools.guilt

While I occasionally used the first two (but preferred to call them consequences and rewards) I shunned guilt as a go-to strategy –most of the time. In tree-to-apple fashion, though, guilt may have unintentionally seeped into the repertoire of my parenting modus operandi. Interestingly, it worked not at all with Michael and all too well on Alex.

Apparently, it (sometimes) works on students, too.

A student told me the other day that I was making her feel guilty. In a too quick response and not one of my proudest tutoring moments I said –good!

The truth is I don’t want my students to feel guilty. What I do want them to feel is responsible. And not to me, or their professors, or even their parents –but rather to themselves.

I think we do our kids a real disservice when we give them a pass on many of the responsibilities we shouldered when we were their age. A lot of kids are assigned too narrowly focused roles that handcuff them and their ability to mature. They’re required to maintain their grades, but not their rooms. They need to show coaches respect, but not necessarily their teammates. And if they happen to be good students and athletes, then part time jobs are virtually off the table –which means whatever money they have, they must be given.

Taking away their need—and right—to earn their own money may give them time and focus to earn good grades, but it also robs them of their independence. And it keeps us hyper-involved in their lives long after we should be. It’s one thing to hand them an occasional twenty for gas; it’s another thing for them to have to come to us for every penny.

It’s tempting to give to our kids, especially when we can afford to do so. However, if we want our kids out of the nest—and believe me, we do—feathering them too warmly in our protection isn’t the way to get there.

Sure, we can teach financial responsibility by modeling it ourselves, but earning their own money gives kids the opportunity to make good—and bad—purchasing decisions. It teaches them about their own values and priorities –and a lot about themselves. Earning and spending come with reward and regret and the tastes are both sweeter and more bitter when the kids are the ones picking up the tab.

Some parents use money and its attached strings—there are always strings—as one more lengthy umbilical cord. While it certainly can ensure a constant connection for mom and dad, those strings can be strangling to the kids trying to break free.

 

Teaching Children

(Thinkstock)My boss is a teacher. Not the one who works at the college and who is an actual teacher. The other one.

I doubt, though, that he lists that title or its corresponding skillset on his CV or resume. He probably doesn’t pitch it to clients, either.

Maybe he should.

Because it may be that single talent that serves his clients better than all others.

When he plays Socrates to his young staff, he isn’t just teambuilding; he’s inducing them to think more critically and to be more creative. At the same time he asks them to think inside the box—to use analysis and numbers—he also encourages them to step outside of it, to take a chance, ask a question, find a new answer.

He’s a teacher—and an effective one—even though his job description
doesn’t allude to it.

When we do our jobs right, whatever those jobs may be, we all have the opportunity to teach. Whether we’re educating those who report to us, our coworkers or clients, there’s much to be said for imparting a little of our own hard earned wisdom unto others. It robs us of nothing and has the potential to enrich those with whom we share and ourselves.

I think many of my students have figured out that the real stuff I’m teaching them has little to do with what augments their readings and assignments. They do like that I can often pull from the trove in my head to quickly solve their academic queries (I’ve got a few of them snowed –they don’t understand that it’s less intelligence and more age that gives me such easy access to answers). They like it even more when I can settle a life crisis with a tempered response, although I know that the blasé been-there-done-that mode with which I operate sometimes frustrates them. They’re used to
drama-matching-drama so when I meet their crazy with calm, it takes some
getting used to. Many of them do –not all.

It’s taken me awhile to acquiesce to my role as teacher, but my resistance makes little sense. After all, as parents, the first time we see our bad habits on handy display at family functions, we know exactly from whom our offspring got it. For better or worse, we taught them.

We are forced to be teachers as parents; we should embrace the role as people.

In any encounter, there is opportunity to teach –and learn.

I’d be kidding myself if I thought the teacher-student paradigm only went one way. I learn a whole lot from my students. They keep me connected, both figuratively and literally if you count how often we text. And they allow me access to their sometimes foreign mindset and a generational world I would otherwise only see from afar.

I’ve always liked foreign travel—once upon a time I did it a lot—so now even if I never leave our eastern shores, I’ll willingly take passage on the
sometimes rocky ride my students provide and be thankful for some pretty awesome tour guides.

 

Misguided Confidence

In answer to a prompt I asked early on last semester about what they “believe” one of my students alluded to the success he would
achieve because he had confidence.

Awesome.

number one

Self-confidence is a great trait to own.

On the other hand, I couldn’t help wondering if he wasn’t putting the proverbial cart before the horse. It was great that he could
display confidence on that internship or job interview, but about what, exactly, did he have to be confident?

Now maybe at the ripe old age of 18 he’s already scaled great
heights of which I’m unaware but he didn’t hint at any. The only thing it seemed he was bringing to the table was that confidence.

He’s not alone. 

According to last year’s survey by the National Association of Colleges and Employers, 57% of hiring managers say the millenials come off as overconfident in interviews.

While I know this can’t be shocking news—we’ve been telling
the members of Gen Y they’re wonderful since the day they were born—when I interact with these kids one-on-one, the story is a bit more complicated.

Some of them are indeed confident where they don’t deserve to be. But many of them use the guise of confidence to mask gripping
insecurities. They’ve donned the illusion of self-confidence to shirk
self-reflection. They’ll act the role of confident applicant, but deep down they don’t believe it.

But they also won’t let on.

I’ve run afoul of new students more than once when I critique
their work. They act indignant when I suggest that maybe they could do a better job, or worse still, when I tell them that they’ve missed the point of the assignment, altogether. They do not like being told that they’re wrong –especially from someone they barely know. Interestingly, once they get to know me, they crave a bit of my criticism. They want some honest feedback –even when I tell them they could do better. Maybe, because they know they can, too.

The flip side to their thinking-they’re-wonderful-when-they’re-not,
is that sometimes they don’t give themselves the credit they deserve. Somebody, somewhere has saddled them with a label or two and they cling to it like it’s their only identity. When I suggest that maybe they’re better, more capable than they think they are, that’s when they truly doubt me.

Really, it doesn’t take me long to convince my students that their papers aren’t as good as they think. It takes me way longer to show them that they are a whole lot better than they think they are.