When I went to the MVA (Maryland’s DMV) in Baltimore to change over my Missouri driver license, the person taking my papers asked me what I was going to be doing in Baltimore.
“Teaching high school,” I said.
He looked at me–a skinny, blonde, middle-class, 23-year-old, do-gooder–and said, “I used to be an administrator. You should do something else.”
He had immediately, and, to a large degree, accurately assessed what the outcome of my teaching “career” in Baltimore would be. I’d fail, burn out, and quit.
Now, I’m a scrappy little blonde, middle-class, do-gooder, so it took three years instead of say, three months, for his prediction to come true. But don’t get me wrong. I did fail.
Still, if I’m honest, I’m prouder of my failure as a high school teacher in Baltimore than I am of anything else I’ve ever done. For those three years, I put in long, hard hours and made no “measurable” difference in student achievement (i.e. test scores). I would come into class excited about a genius lesson plan to have it thwarted by a massive fight. Or to find out it just didn’t engage my students at all. I would think I was making progress with a particular student only to have her curse me out—or simply stop showing up. I’d read a chapter from my favorite book, and half the class would fall asleep.
I had gone into the whole affair with a faulty set of assumptions and with a false confidence brought on by my privileged upbringing and Ivy-League education. These assumptions were fairly quickly and very painfully corrected. Before I could make any progress, I had to learn about the world my students were dealing with, which felt so different from the “reality” I knew. And even when I started to understand and started to find more effective ways of communicating with them, it always felt like two steps forward, and 1.99 steps back. I was pushing myself to my limits—and hitting them hard. I had to expand my framework for the entire world, and I had to figure out who I was again. And, after three years, I ran out of steam.
After a brief recovery period, though, I was back to failing again. This time, pursuing a career as a musical theatre writer. This is an industry where very few of the enormously talented artists “make it.” And of the shows that do make it to Broadway, 80% of them are “failures” in the box office.
Every once in a while, when someone hears what I do, they’ll ask if they might have seen anything I’ve written. And as well-meaning as the question always is, I cringe. Truth is, if you’d seen something of mine, you would know because there would have been about twenty other people in the tiny theatre that you probably accidentally walked past twice before finding it—and I would have been one of them. And I would have been so grateful that you attended (and surprised that someone I didn’t know was there) that (shy as I am) I would have talked to you—or at least smiled widely at you. And if, when I smiled at you, I somehow felt that you hadn’t liked the show (a completely fair reaction), I would have been crushed. See, I can’t even imagine a hypothetical show that you might have attended—or feel hypothetical post-show afterglow–without anticipating and steeling myself against the almost certain failure. And I’m an optimist.
Other writers (and artists) know this feeling. Failing is a fact of life. All writers send in application after application, draft after draft, piece after piece to various fellowships, contests, producers, and publishing houses and receive rejection after rejection. It becomes hard to push the submit button. But we push until we can’t push it anymore.
Why do we do these things? Why, when we know that failure is almost certain? I can’t answer for everyone. For me, though, it’s because I believe in what I do. I believe that I can connect to other people in a deep, positive way—and that connecting with one another is what gives meaning to our lives.
I understand that others get their meaning elsewhere. I’ve had Christians tell me that the problem with me is that I’m trying to find meaning in this world instead of waiting for the next one—that I’ve put my hope in people, who will always let me down, instead of in God.
And it’s true. I am trying to find meaning in this world because I believe it’s the only world we’ve got. And every once in a while, people don’t let me down.
This year, I began working as a teaching artist for a program that brings opera into public schools. I spend eighteen weeks working with elementary students on writing, composing, and performing their own operas. I’m thirteen weeks in, and I have no idea how these operas are actually going to turn out. They are hilariously wacky and could go terribly wrong. But another part of the program is that I had the chance to go with the kids to watch a dress rehearsal of the Magic Flute at the Metropolitan Opera. When I went into the next class, I asked students what they thought of it. And sure, a few said it was boring or that they fell asleep. Most commented on the cool costumes and the building itself. A few were into the story and the music.
But one student, a student who was usually a bit shy, looked up at me, eyes wide and bright, and said with a slight lisp, “It. Was. Magical. The MUSIC!”
I had to hold back tears. His genuine reaction to this piece of art blew me away. His teacher said that he had insisted on watching the video of a prior production of Magic Flute several times since seeing it live.
I thought, yes. This is why I teach, and it’s why I write. For these moments of connection. It’s hard to comprehend how much collective failure had to occur for this particular moment to exist. How many failed drafts of the 226-year-old piece had been written? How many rejections had each of the singers and musicians and designers faced? How many bad reviews? I, myself, had applied to the same organization for a teaching artist position the year before and had not been accepted. And I know I only played a tiny part in this student’s experience, but I felt enormously fulfilled.
In one simple moment, with one student, every failure felt justified. And small. And unimportant.
That’s why I will persist in failure. That’s the reason I will continue to fail and learn and adjust and fail again—the reason I will continue to put myself out there, knowing that people are rolling their eyes, shaking their heads, and wondering why I insist on filling their Facebook feeds with essays and comments and writings and ramblings. For some, growing up means giving up on idea and ideals that are nearly (if not entirely) impossible to achieve. And I am not immune to these comments. I am not immune to failure. Each and every one hits me hard. But I’m also bolstered by every moment of connection and inspired by every teacher who goes back to her classroom each day, every artist who puts herself out there, and every protestor or politician or perpetual questioner who won’t stop trying to communicate honestly.
I will keep pushing the send, submit, and publish buttons. Maybe I will exhaust myself. Maybe I will quit. But even if I do, I will start failing hard at something else worth failing at.
I may never have a measurable success in my life. But I will have meaning.
