Good Sense

Guarding the Heart: A Lesson From My Most Embarassing Moment

In her book Run With Me, Jennifer Lutwieler describes a scene from childhood in which she was to be confirmed in the Presbyterian Church that her father pastored. When it came time to be interviewed, one of the church leaders asked her the question: “Is your father a member of this church?” Lutwieler describes the feeling of discomfort that came over her as she considered the question, under the waiting, scrutinizing eyes of the interviewers. She recalls, after a few seconds, realizing that it was “a trick question,” meant, she assumes, to befuddle her and steer her into failure. After trying, unsuccessfully, to get them to clarify the question, she reasons: “why wouldn’t my dad, the pastor, be a member?” Yet, she still suspects they are tricking her. In the end, she answers: “Yes. He is a member.” She finds out later that, according to some obscure by-law of the church, a pastor cannot also be a member of said church. She was confirmed, she says “despite her ignorance,” and yet, she still felt the sting of having been “railroaded” and humiliated by those judgmental, superior powers that be—a sting that impacted her relationship and attitude toward the church for years to come. All this, because some adults chose to ask a difficult question—one that she could have aced, perhaps, had she prepared more diligently, or been trained in the art of religious minutia. She assumes—rightly or not—that those adults had it out for her from the beginning, that they had some deliberate desire to see her squirm, or worse, fail miserably. Maybe. Maybe they were just following rote interview questions from a pre-approved textbook. Maybe they thought she was more intelligent than she seemed to give herself credit for and wanted an accurate measure of her proficiency. And maybe, yes maybe, they were just mean and oblivious—having forgotten what it was like to be an intimidated child sitting in the hot seat.

My own opinion is that adults do this, sometimes. They use their positions of power to intimidate, control, and demean those within their charge. One need only consider the recent Penn State scandal to be reminded just how ugly abuses of power can be.

While not even in the same ballpark as Pen State, I know about trusted adults who take liberties with their power, because I have experienced it myself.

My third year of college, I signed up for a Chaucer class. I have no idea what possessed me to do this. When I picked up the textbook, I thumbed through it and thought there had surely been some mistake. The whole stinking thing was written in a foreign language! What? Did someone expect me to read this? Hello? English major here. On the first day of class, I learned that it was, indeed English—who knew?—but that it was middle English, which basically meant it was one step somewhere between stone tablets and Shakespeare, I think. Anyway, non-technical linguistic definitions aside, I was sunk before I even started.

For reasons, I’m not quite sure, I worked my tail off that semester. I read that middle English, and those positively dumb and ridiculous stories; I took meticulous notes; I highlighted, dog-eared, and otherwise riddled my textbook with all manner of post-its, bookmarks and tears. When it came time for the semester test—which was to memorize—yes, memorize, in middle English, i.e., a foreign language—the first twenty-some-odd lines of the Canterbury Tales, I was ready. I’d written it a hundred times over. I’d read it out loud, whispered it under my breath in the grocery store, played it in my head to the beat of T.Rex playing on my Walkman as I walked, walked, walked, all over campus and beyond, all for the glory of the perfect recitation. For weeks, I ate, slept, and breathed Chaucer. I even had the accents down, thank you.

When test day came, I performed. I nailed it. I was sure to get an “A.” I could feel it. The professor—a short, bald little man with thick round glasses—had other ideas, though. There was to be a pop quiz—a spontaneous reading from the text, just to make sure I’d gotten the lingo. He instructed me to turn to a pre-selected page, and I did so, and began reading. It was going well. I was sailing through it with flying colors. About half way through, the back of my neck started to feel warm. The flush crept up my neck and to my face and I struggled to continue. See, my professor had chosen what could politely be referred to as the “bawdy” parts of Chaucer for me to recite—the surliest, most embarrassing part of the entire Canterbury Tales—apparently, sex and potty jokes were big in Middle English. What was he up to? Why—of all the hundreds upon hundreds of lines of Chaucer—did he choose those? When I came to the end of the assigned section, I nearly gulped for air.

He then proceeded to spew out a layer of praise that would make even the most easygoing, confident person on the planet want to turn and run. You have an extraordinary grasp of the language, you have a master of pronunciation, very impressive—ad nauseum. Which would have been fine, had he not just contributed to quite possibly the most humiliating moment of my life, right there in the sacred halls of Englishdom. But then, the kicker. He said, quite plainly—and arrogantly, I might add—“I suppose you’ve gotten over the fact that you’re pretty by now.”

Excuse me? What the hell? There were so many things wrong with what had just transpired that I couldn’t even begin to list them. First of all, no, I didn’t think I was all that pretty. Secondly, how exactly does one get over being pretty? And finally, what does being pretty—or having come to terms with it, for that matter—have to do with my performance as a student in his class? I wanted to scream. I was pissed—no, I was seething, by the time I left that office. I ended up saying what probably anyone in the same situation would say. Nothing. I simply sucked it up and left without a word.

Do adults sometimes intentionally intimidate? Embarrass? Test? Do they create situations to gauge the limits of their own desires or self-imposed delusions of grandeur? My answer, of course, is, unequivocally, yes. Had I been older, more mature, and not completely out of place in my own skin, I might have reported that professor’s behavior. I might have pointed out, quite eloquently, that I did not have to put up with such treatment. I might have stood up for myself. But I was just a kid, really. And kids sometimes can’t be trusted with their own hearts when they lack the courage or wisdom to know what they need, and what they are worth.

I know now. I will teach my children, particularly my daughter, that those in power are not always right, that she can trust her instinct, and that I will back her up 100% when she is confronted by a situation that pierces her sense of self-worth—whether wounded by the actions of someone she trusts, or some random assault. I will teach her, as written in Proverbs 4:23: Above all else, guard the heart, for it is the wellspring of life.