Mistakes are beautiful

Listening to Brené Brown in her presentation, Daring Classrooms, I found myself unconsciously raising my hand every time she asked the audience a question. In many of the examples she used, I could see myself reflected as a student, teacher, colleague, and more.

In Spanish, the word “courage”, or “coraje”, has two meanings: bravery and anger. When we perceive that we are mistreated, when we feel hurt, or find it difficult to achieve an important goal, we feel anger.

Anger is an emotion present in conflict situations, whether with others or with ourselves, and it is usually perceived negatively. However, well-managed anger can also be beneficial. Anger energizes us and provides strength to undertake tasks that we find difficult. It helps us defend our rights and points of view. It helps us resolve conflicts. It provides us with information about situations and people. Anger informs us of unfair, threatening, and frustrating situations, helping us find alternative plans of action. It seems, then, that the two meanings of courage in Spanish are not connected, but they are. Anger can put us in a place where we become courageous. Identifying these emotions to manage them adequately brings us to Social Emotional Learning, but this post is not about that.

In her speech, Brené makes it clear that every single act of courage requires absolute vulnerability. It is not easy to be vulnerable. We are educated to do the opposite: be strong in front of others, wear a shield, build a wall, or fake it until we make it.

I will never forget when I started teaching Math for the first time in Middle School. I wanted students to feel safe to participate, take risks, share their thinking, and answer even when wrong.

Then it hit me. I had been preparing myself so hard to teach a perfect class that there wasn’t coherence between my everyday practice and what I expected of my students. I wanted them to be vulnerable, but I wasn’t modeling that behavior.

Let’s be clear. Me trying to teach a perfect class doesn’t mean that I didn’t make mistakes. I was far from that. My issue was not being vulnerable enough to accept the mistakes, to embrace them, and more importantly, to take advantage of them.

I clearly remember having this conversation with a colleague and friend. At the end of our talk, he took me on a walk to an Elementary School classroom. He explained that the teacher of that classroom had dealt with this exact scenario in a very creative and easy way, while pointing at a bulletin board at the top of the classroom’s front wall.

Mistakes are beautiful.

The idea was to provide students with a piece of paper and ask them to write on one side some things that they were afraid of doing. Then they would crumple it up into a ball and throw it to the front of the classroom, all at the same time. It was a symbolic act of throwing away all of their fears. After that, they picked the ball of paper up and tried to mark the seams that the crumpling left on the paper. The result was an improvised piece of art. We used the drawings as a class to create a bulletin board.

This activity and the conversation we had about it started changing the way we all participated in class. It was a simple yet powerful experience. Since then, I have been more conscious of the power of vulnerability as a teacher.

My then-boyfriend, the same colleague who showed me the bulletin board, worked in the Elementary School. Some students found out we were together and were curious to know more about this. As we apparently looked similar (I still have some students and colleagues calling me Mr. Eduardo), they started asking if I had taught in Elementary School before. I knew where this was going, and I was terrified. Even though our school has a policy on inclusion, it was unclear if it was safe to share. We even have parents complaining to the ministry of education to shut down LGBTQ programs created by students.

When I was getting ready for my first day of school as a Math teacher, I created a Google Slide with facts about me. I wanted to include a slide with my partner, just as many teachers do in their standard “about me” introductions. I asked my principal if I could include my partner in my presentation, and the answer was something like, “I don’t know.” I then inquired with Human Resources and was discouraged by a similar reply from them. Feeling frustrated, sad, and unsupported, I gave up and deleted the slide.

When students started asking about my colleague, I decided to share with them that he was my boyfriend. This act was a turning point in my teaching. I was consciously vulnerable. I didn’t feel like I would have any school support if something went wrong with this, and still, I did it. Luckily, it turned out to be not only the right thing to do but something that my students and I needed.

The interactions students had with me starting that day were so genuine. They were so real and empathetic. As a school, we have little representation of LGBTQ staff, and when I decided to be brave and honest with my students, it made it real for them. If I could share this, they could communicate without the fear of being judged. It didn’t take long for some of my students to start openly talking about themselves during my class time, and that was worth every piece of vulnerability and courage that it took for me to share with them.

We can teach courage. We can learn to be courageous and model it so that we develop daring classrooms. We can be vulnerable by being real humans in front of our students, colleagues, and administrators.

I am vulnerable every day that I show myself as I am, and every time I leave behind the facade created during so many years of my life.

This post is an example of that.

Brené Brown shared this when talking about daring classrooms:

“If you are brave enough, often enough, you will fall. If you are brave, in your classrooms, in your life, with your partner, with your kids, with the people you care about, if you are brave, you are going to get hurt.”

I am ready to fall.