My Teacher Carried a Shotgun

My teacher for grades one through eight brought a “shotgun” to school every day.  It contained a mysterious white powder and rested on her big, wooden desk at the ready.  She appeared as a terrifying specter in my young life:  demanding, critical, and sometimes physically abusive.  In that one-room schoolhouse in the idyllic Canadian countryside, she towered.  She was tough and unquestionably in control.

Whether it was sweeping the hardwood floors, printing, coloring in the lines, cleaning the fish tank, singing in the choir, nothing was ever good enough.  She required perfection.  I was not, however, a perfectionist and so I lived in terror of her criticism.  I was one to find art in the process more than the outcome, and so my insecurities under her tutelage grew.  I always felt inferior.

My supportive parents did much to soften the psychological blows on my sensitive nature, but one day some of that insecurity melted at school when Mrs. _______ announced to the whole class that I had written a wonderful spring poem.  She had contacted the newspaper, and they were going to publish it; which in fact, they did.  I can’t say all was completely rosy after that, but I realized that my gift with words was valuable, something worthy of even the tyrant’s praise.  It was a turning point in my young life. 

There were other defining moments.  When I got to high school, I was intimidated by the much larger school.  Walking the lunchtime gauntlet, being sized up by peers, was terrifying.  My old insecurities and natural shyness kept me from really stepping out much and expressing myself creatively.  I had a small group I was comfortable with, but taking risks was scary business.  Then, I learned to play guitar.  Suddenly, my songwriting was off and running, and you can sound really good with only a few chords.  Best of all, I had something to do with my hands, and I had this big chunk of wood sitting on my lap to hide behind.  And piano, even bigger!  I re-created myself in the image of Lilly the Folksinger / Rock ‘n Roller.  I was able to express myself, my fears, my faith, my humor, in ways that I was too inhibited to do before.  The more praise I received, the more my confidence grew.  The more my confidence grew, the more opportunities opened up for me.  Being able to share what I had written, that part of my vulnerable self, gave me a sense of power, a sense of significance.  And when others were moved, encouraged, or just simply grooved to my tunes, my old fears of inadequacy and inferiority started taking a back seat. 

It makes me realize how important affirmation is.  It’s easy to be critical, and I have to watch that in myself because I have a tendency to see flaws first.  I look for things to fix.  But my desire to “help” must be tempered with the awareness that, just like me, a fragile self is only waiting for the right encouragement to blossom.   

By the way, Mrs. _______ really did love me and only wanted what was best for me as her student.  I saw that later . . . much later!   She had some pretty weird ways of showing it, but she was proud of me and was spurring me on to do well.  And the shotgun?  I realize now that what she called her “shotgun” was really an inhaler.  She was asthmatic.  So the big, bad tyrant had weaknesses after all. 

Blogspot Sounds Like a Childhood Disease

Blogging does seem very attractive to me; however, there are so many voices out there hoping that what they say and do is somehow significant. I don’t want to add to a meaningless cacophony, like those I have seen who track their weight loss or workout progress. Like, who really cares? Others I read have meaningful religious, political, and philosophical value, but who spends the whole day ploughing through tons of even meaningful stuff?


Since this is an assignment, I will go for it; and who knows, I may become addicted and inundate your in-box with my latest revelatory drivel.

What does critical thinking mean to me? What I hope to do as I read or listen or interact with another is to think and react actively and thoughtfully. What I do, in fact, is not always so. Critical thinking would seem to indicate that you are looking below the surface, always thinking profound thoughts, looking for deep meanings, discerning. But often, if the writing, for example, has an expressive lilt, if the words are transporting, tension-building, or riveting, I forget to be critical and kind of get swept along. It is only after, I may find that I am in disagreement or agreement with the underlying message. The language itself has been enjoyable.

For a history assignment recently, I read an excerpt from a book by Vincent Harding. I so enjoyed the sing-song text and the powerful metaphors and emotion, that I went to Amazon.com and got the whole book. His perspective is a different view on the subject of slavery, which is interesting and provocative, but it’s more the language itself that drew me in. I mean, listen to his opening paragraph:

"It began at the edge of our homeland, where the verdant forests and tropical bush gave way gradually to the sandy stretches of the Guinea coast. It began at the mouths of the rivers, from that northern point where the Senegal and the Gambia pour their troubled streams into the waters around Cape Verde, down the thousands of miles of coastline to the place where the mighty river Congo breaks out into the ocean. On these shores near the mouths of these rivers, we first saw the ships."

Doesn’t that engage you? So with some texts, it’s often the language that draws me in, and the thinking happens after the words have settled.

Other pieces are so obviously biased or poorly substantiated, they force you to talk back to the author immediately. I remember one book I was reading that made such a wild conjecture pertaining to the source text that I threw the book across the room. I was angry. I never did finish the book either. It obviously was not for a class.

I listen to talk radio a lot while in the car. I want to think that I am listening critically, but the pace does not allow for a completed thought before you are on to the next point. The bombardment of sound—the bits and pieces that make talk radio addicting, stifle contemplation because you are on to the next caller, the next point before the information is completely digested. I also hate how the host is so in control that he or she doesn’t allow the callers to present their whole argument. The host only gleans enough to keep the pony show going, incite or inspire the audience, and sell ad space. Yet I listen.

Other informative radio, like NPR, moves at a slower pace and invites more thought. I often disagree with the commentary. And if I need to put my two cents in, whether for or against, I can email them with my comment and actually get a human being to respond. And I feel no guilt at not contributing to their pledge drive. Well, maybe just a little.

So I guess the medium, the environment, the language, my own constitution or momentary mood all determine the extent to which I, at any given time, am able to scratch beneath the surface of what I read and hear. What I hope to do in this class is continue to develop skills in hearing other voices and, whether agreeing or disagreeing, stretch and expand my perspective of the world. I hope to sharpen my analytical skills so that I can catch more quickly the cues an individual might throw out there that show where their ideological feet are planted.