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Once a month my family mows the long summer grass around our cabin in Jackson Hole to protect against fire hazards during the fall. This July I volunteered to take a turn, but just as I was about to haggle off one last unruly thistle, the machine predictably ran out of gas. As I bent over to unscrew the gas cap, a stranger wearing a bright orange T-Shirt hailed me across the sagebrush. To a local like me, his garish outfit flashed: "dude vacationing in Jackson Hole," and I wished I could duck behind the cabin out of sight. But he had me trapped. "Please," the man asked. "Where is the river?" I could immediately tell from his accent that this was a foreigner. He looked my age, carried a fishing rod in one hand, and appeared anxious for help. I considered getting rid of the guy quickly by sending him due east through the aspen trees, thinking that would be the most direct, least complicated route. But then I remembered the barbed wire fence. "Follow this road into our camp and then head that way through the gate." I kept stabbing my arm toward the mountains, pointing him the direction he needed to go. "You'll run right into the river." "Is far?" he asked. I could have explained it was only another five hundred yards, and that he surely couldn't miss it, but his comprehension was bad, so I left it at a simple, "No. Not far." Then as I watched his fishing rod bob out of sight, I thought, "Good. I'm rid of him." But within five minutes the man came timidly back up our dirt road, still lost. This time I took pity and escorted him the short distance to the Buffalo River. On the way he told me his English wasn't very good; that he was from Italy; that he liked it better here. I asked him where else he'd been vacationing. "Cahdy," he said. "Where?" "Cahdy. Cahdy. Is very nice." "Oh! Cody. Yes." I agreed. "It's nice" When we reached the river, the Italian--now embarrassed that he hadn't been able to find it from my directions--exclaimed, "Is easy!" "Yes," I thought. "Is easy." However, in spite of my slight agitation I understood how this fisherman could have had difficulty finding his way through an area completely unknown to him. And besides, I didn't actually mind showing him the way because his plight reminded me of my own in Paris this May when I and several other tour members discovered the metro wouldn't be going directly to Versailles, which meant we had to figure out an alternative route. By combining group courage with my broken French and several exaggerated hand gestures, we finally reached King Louis' palace via slow bus. Memories of my own dependence on strangers whom I could only marginally communicate with compelled me to extend compassion toward this man--no matter how silly he looked roaming bewildered through the sagebrush in a fluorescent T-shirt. Before leaving him, I decided to offer an extra, unrequested fishing tip by suggesting that he cast his line along the river's west bank for the deepest fishing holes. Again, I directed him with an outstretched arm toward the proper bank, just in case he misunderstood me. After smiling and nodding through these instructions, the Italian shook my hand and said, "Thank you very much. You are very gentle." Then he ignored my advice and crossed a shallow portion of the river, headed toward the east, not the west bank, where I'd assured him he ought to go. Rolling my eyes and heading back to our cabin, I figured it didn't really matter where he fished, since he wasn't carrying a tackle box, and I hadn't seen any bait on the end of his line. Of course I went home and told my family the story of the wandering Italian. They all laughed, especially over him calling me "gentle." Although brief and mostly humorous, the incident has remained important because I had recently experienced this man's vulnerability in France where I had wished my proficiency in French were better, and later, my forgiveness of the impatient Parisians much greater. Although a number of French people offered me help gladly, there were many who only provided curt, cryptic assistance--even when I was venturing a few "Pardonnez-moi's," and "Merci's." I admit my French is . . . well . . . not good enough. I admit I should have brushed up a bit before going, but the majority of individual's disdain for tourists made me feel personally victimized, and soon, I became wary of them all. Growing up in Jackson, Wyoming, I had abundant familiarity with irritating sight-seers, and I knew intellectually that Parisian's behavior could be attributed to living in a city and to dealing with foreigners who not only expected them to explain simple things like, "What's on the menu?" but to explain it in English, three times--slowly. I suppose that would irk me too. Afterall, when tourists in Jackson ask me absurd questions like, "Where is Jackson's hole?" or "How do you get to the Grand Tetons?" I can at least answer them through gritted teeth in our common native language. Just this summer I lost my patience when a tourist shamelessly turned left in front of me in the town square. He then continued blocking my right of way while waiting for a mob of gawking tourists who had ignored a red "Don't Walk" sign and were ambling across the road on their way to take pictures of themselves smiling below the elk antler arches. I honked loud and long. However, the minute I started honking, I knew I was behaving badly--just like the people who had wounded my pride in France. I am glad to have had the experience with both this tourist and the Italian because each encounter reminded me that my knowledge often determines my power, and that when I am in any analogous situation, say as a teacher or a student, I may often be at someone else's mercy or they will be at mine. This is certainly the case in the classroom where students not only lack my knowledge and skills, but are also nearly helpless when it comes to affecting classroom procedures or grading policies which may either aid or hinder and humiliate them. Each year that I teach I sense greater confidence in myself, and the distance between me and my students' knowledge of literature and composition grows. Considering this widening gap, I am more and more wary of my own strength. To me, one way to avoid abuse is by subjecting myself to situations similar to my students. That's why I write myself and seek critiques from colleagues or publishers who help me remember what it's like to read, "Awkward passage. Can't you rephrase this for better coherence?" or "I'm lost. What do you mean?" Similarly, those of us who attended a two day workshop in our English Department's new computer classrooms also felt a humbling dose of powerlessness as we struggled through foreign territory and discovered we too still have a lot to learn. As a teacher, I believe such ongoing struggles are invaluable because in order to become a truly fine teacher, it cannot possibly be enough just to know how students feel. I must also feel what students feel. Any purely objective analysis of students' behavior--no matter how exasperating--will not move me to act in the same way that both objective and subjective understanding will. For example, once when I was a graduate student instructor at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, a good-looking young man with white-blond hair who had been writing carefully edited and well-thought out essays started skipping my class and failing to turn in his assignments. Paul finally came to my small orange carrel and, through tears, explained that he'd fallen behind because his girlfriend had broken off their relationship. The trauma was making even the smallest tasks difficult for him to complete. At the time, I thought I had offered compassion by allowing Paul his excuses and instructing him on how he should try to separate his personal life from his school life and maybe even study just fifteen minutes at a time before thinking sad thoughts about his girlfriend again. Even though I was sorry for Paul, he disappointed me by allowing this problem to ruin his otherwise excellent work. I wanted him to straighten up and fly right. To forget her. There'd be other fish in his sea. Then, within a month of this brilliant lecture, I experienced heartbreak for myself and suddenly felt paralyzed over graduate studies which had been easy enough to deal with before my own personal disappointment. Although I think I coped better than Paul because I had the presence of mind to keep going (there really would be and still are more fish in my sea too), I knew, after the fact, that I had not felt this young man's pain properly. Rather than sympathize and allow him to provide the best answers for himself, I preached. From subsequent student/ teacher encounters, I know I extend greater understanding when I combine my knowing and my feeling skills before counseling anyone else or taking action. This does not mean I spend more time commiserating with students. That's what counselors are for. But it does mean that I try to listen more intently, and when I make decisions, I try to do so only after I have "known" and "felt" a student's particular circumstance. Just as when I honked at the tourist this summer, I knew he was being stupid and he probably knew it too. But if I had also felt what he was feeling--trapped at an intersection for every car merging from the north, south, east and west to see his mistake--I would have at least stayed off my horn since he probably learned his lesson without additional punishment from me. Yet even if he hadn't, who was I to chastise him so severely when he was a foreigner in a strange land full of equally lost people trying to find their way at the mercy of insensitive drivers like me who offered more criticism than assistance. Certainly as a teacher I want to provide my students challenge, to push them beyond what they think they are capable of accomplishing, and to provide honest evaluation of their progress. I think I do that for the most part. However, I am in the division of humanities because I care about humanity and humane behavior. Consequently, I am committed to balancing the rigor with the feeling. I'm sure that when the lost Italian thanked me, he meant to say something like, "You are very kind," rather than "You are very gentle." But I'm glad he said "gentle," because true gentleness is a virtue worth cultivating, and one I am grateful for others to extend, especially when I'm the one exposed. Original Publication Information |
