Once, in the third grade, I was having a day. I don’t remember exactly why — most likely, I was tired and fatigue had hot-wired my brain, resulting in hyperactivity that boosted the energy of an already overly energetic kid. We had a period of quiet work time over a story that felt way longer than was absolutely necessary, the packet loaded with basic literary analyzation that felt so easy that my usually academic, focused brain couldn’t even force itself to work. I was seated next to my best friend at the time, and god, was I giggly. I could think of a joke for every other word listed, and I made sure to point them out, nudging her in the side to grab her attention. At lunch, I had bought one of those water bottles with the pop cap, and I occupied myself with pouring water into it and sipping like the Mad Hatter. I was terribly annoying, but I was also a third grader: most third graders are.
Eventually, while most of the students had already finished their work, I managed to turn in my packet. My third-grade teacher was an all-time great, an Italian-American of the New York breed and a man who truly adored working with kids. His sense of humor was on-par, and it always felt as if he were rooting for me. I walked up to him, and his mouth was thin. His dark eyes looked at me over his glasses. I felt my blood pressure drop just at the sight of it, and then he opened his mouth. “You’re being really disruptive today, Grace. Please calm down a little.” His tone was not particularly harsh, but regardless, it was a death-blow. The rapid-fire energy I had amassed seeped out of me. Replacing it was a heavy sense of embarrassment, and I padded back to my seat, feet dragging and face red with shame. I clearly remember staring at my textbook. I had already finished my work, but I needed something on which to focus my rapidly misting eyes.
There was nothing vicious about my interaction with my teacher in the third grade. In fact, you can barely call it a reprimand. However, it led to a series of incidents in the years to come — refining my reading taste after my fifth-grade teacher called it “Hollywood-ed,” recalling with a burst of red hot embarrassment the single time I was asked to “Refocus” outside of the classroom in middle school, the way my heart still palpitates thinking about the rather vicious mentor I had throughout high school and how she had me wrapped around her finger. Those are simply the highlights of my experiences in school that culminated in me, sitting in the office of the head of my selected major’s department, fingers gripping the wires of my earphones to prevent the shakes of my hands from being seen.
It was then that it occurred to me: I think my academic self-esteem might be contingent on my authority figures.
The thought was brief, and after a short conversation I had with the professor, I left the building with that heavy sense of mortification I felt back in the third grade — nothing particularly wrong had happened, but there was nothing right either. I made her laugh, but something within me told me I wasn’t enough. Despite being a legal adult, I still succumb to the pressures of impression.
Since having that initial thought, I’ve really been pondering over it. There’s no root for why I’ve always been so desperate for affirmation from my teachers. I just always have been, my interaction in the third grade existing as a prologue for a long line of trips and victories, both. There are perks too — just days after the experience with the department head, I introduced myself to a teacher I had assumed hated me due to her lack of enthusiasm. That wasn’t true; she told me immediately that she enjoyed having me in her class and sat me down after finding out my goals of writing and going into academia, picking out opportunities for me to follow over the next semester.
I’ve been gliding on air for days because of it, but there’s a lingering sense of anxiety — I can’t let her down now.
After all this retrospection, I wonder if letting myself down should be more important. Thoughts and opinions, after all, are subjective, and teachers and professors are in no way perfect. I’m a smart girl, and I know that. I’ve gotten this far, and I have a work ethic that could power me through anything. I’m intelligent! And yet, upon a single, slightly negative interaction with anyone in a position of authority, I demean myself to the point that I’m scared to go to class the next day. I drop hobbies and change portions of my academic studenthood to meld with what I believe they would like best.
I’d like to say, with getting these thoughts out in the open, my worthiness will from now on be defined by myself. Professors will exist to help me, not to create me. Still, I know that when I go to class again and a professor tells me that my interpretation of some 200-year-old event is incorrect, my confidence will tank.
And that’s okay because I’m still growing and learning, and now I’ve learned something new. I’m still worth being instructed. I’m still worthy.