Courage

"I love reading your blog," she said.  "I think you're so brave."

Saturday night, I ran into a friend from high school that I see from time to time around the city, and who I keep up with a little bit on Facebook.  She's one of the many readers of this blog, and one of the many people who have told me in the last nine months of the blog's existence how "brave" I am for the things I write.  For my honesty.

I mulled the compliment as B and I drove quietly back to his house that night.  I opened my mouth to say something about it at one point, and at that same moment, he spoke up.  "I wish I lived somewhere else," he said.  "I hate New Orleans."  We've had this conversation before, but it still catches me off guard each time.  I kept quiet.  New Orleans has always been a place of refuge for me.  It has always been a place where I feel accepted.  Where I feel safe.  "It's just so dysfunctional," he said, "and people just accept it because of what they think excuses the dysfunction: the music, the food, the culture, whatever."

In a sense, he's right.  New Orleans is certainly not the most functional of places.  Anyone that drives down a city street, or that reads a local (or often national) newspaper, can tell you as much.  Despite the fact that my neighbors and I pay our taxes, the roads near my house are not in great condition.  The streetlights don't work.  The police are slow to respond, at best.  And I have a fairly decent amount of money.  I live in a fairly decent part of town.  I can only imagine what it's like to live in the tougher parts of this city.  Or to be stuck here, with no options other than to stay.

Personally, I'm not stuck.  I don't leave because I don't really want to leave.  At least that's what I tell myself.  But B's soapbox rant on the drive down Esplanade avenue Saturday night got me thinking.  Just how brave am I?

I used to travel alone all the time.  I used to do things without knowing anyone, all the time.  Camp in Minnesota.  College in Virginia.  Study abroad trips in France and Morocco.  Tours in Italy.  Jaunts in various European locales.  But after a while, doing things alone ceased to be a challenge for me.  It ceased to be uncomfortable.  I welcomed it.

And I started going back to the same places over and over again instead of new ones, learning them and their people and their culture and their language and their ways.  And those places--once a source of personal growth and challenge--ceased to be uncomfortable.  I welcomed them.

In the last few years, I haven't been to a single new place that speaks a language I'm not fluent in.  And while I love speaking and practicing French, and while I love being understood and understanding, it doesn't push me much.  It isn't what I consider to be brave.

So, as I listened to B's thoughts on the state of New Orleans and our role in it as young professionals and people looking for opportunity, I wondered whether I'm just staying here because it's safe.  Yes, I love it.  Yes, I love living close to my family.  Yes, I love the people I've met here and the communities I've become a part of.  Yes, I love the food and the history and the architecture and the music and the festivals.  But I've begun to ignore the dysfunction.  To tolerate and then accept it.  And as such, I've done very little to improve this place that I love.  True, I pay income and property taxes.  I vote.  But how much do I play into the stagnation that this city suffers from?  And what do I sacrifice personally by staying?

It's a question I ponder as I reflect back on my seventh year of teaching, as well.  In Charleston, I visited my cousin's marketing/design firm, and above everything else, I envied their capacity for creative output.  I envied the opportunity to make something.  To be challenged instead of creating challenges for others.  My friend Nicole and I discussed this very issue on Folly Beach, outside Charleston's city limits, on the last day of our trip.  She was a teacher until recently, and then she found something she liked better, something more personally fulfilling for her.  What is that for me?  Design?  Engineering?  Organization?

My mom likes to say, the problem with having lots of options is that you have too many choices.  It's hard for multi-talented people to pick just one path and stick with it.

I think--similar to choosing laundry detergent in Walmart--I stay in teaching partially because I'm overwhelmed by alternative choices.  And I'm intimidated by the idea of going back to school for something totally new.  I have two degrees, but I'd probably end up starting with 18-year-old freshmen all over again.  There's always night classes, but I'm kind of an education snob.  If it's not considered a top-notch school, I kind of don't think I belong.  It's pretty shitty of me, but in my defense, I really do need a challenge.

Which is exactly the reason why I wonder if teaching is right for me.  Yes, it is absolutely a difficult and absorbing career.  I have to think on my feet, and the social challenge (helping to form independent, contributing citizens of the world while teaching them loads of information and skills) is formidable.  But in terms of intellectual engagement, I feel like I'm losing a few IQ points each year.  That may not seem fair, but I suppose every career has benefits and sacrifices.  I am satisfied by the relationships I build and the social impact I have.  I am disappointed by how much of my intellect is potentially being wasted.

That old French professor I'm sure I've written about before would be screaming an "I told you so" right about now, if he had access to this blog.  "I've never seen a better candidate for a masters in French," he told me in his office one day after a successful presentation.  "Teaching won't satisfy you," he said.  "Yes, it will," I countered, appalled by his audacity.  "I give it five, maybe ten years," he responded, coolly.

He might just be right after all, in his own twisted way.  I don't think an advanced degree in French is the answer (because I'd probably only be able to teach with it), but he might have been on to something.  I'm a do-er.  I like to design and build and create and structure things.  I like to make things happen.  In teaching, it means the kids respect me, my classroom is organized, and I contribute to the greater good of the school.  But all of that feels pretty easy.  The hard part is the tedious grading and paperwork, the kids who aren't putting in adequate effort, and the parents who won't make the tough choice now to save themselves grief later.

And yet, I thrive in that classroom most days.  I'm damn good at it.  Every year, students leave my room loving a subject they never really loved before.  They tell me they're going to be doctors and teachers and engineers and better people, and my optimism gains an extra life.  They're going to be do-ers and thinkers in a world that needs both, and I'm helping make that happen.

Which brings me back to the question of courage.  What is more courageous: leaving something you're good at to try something you might be better and happier at, or staying in something you've been doing because you love it and because of the long-term effect it has on people and communities?  What is more courageous: staying in a city you love even though it may not challenge you, or moving someplace new that's not home but might help you discover something new about yourself?

I don't know the answer to either question.

The truth is, I'm not so sure that I have the courage everyone keeps insisting I have.  I stick to places I know, people I know, jobs I know, and things I know.  I put myself out there more than most, maybe, but just enough that I'm not too nervous about it.  Just infrequently enough to avoid any grand revelations.

I think I'm scared that I'll change careers and like it better, and I'll fall into that ever-growing statistic of teachers who didn't make it.  Or move to a new city and like it better, and I'll fall into that brain drain phenomenon that plagues our state and parish.  As much as I'm afraid I'll hate the change, I'm equally afraid that I'll be happier somewhere else, doing something else, and that the decision will have been a selfish one.

And so, I pledge that this summer, I will do something uncomfortable.  Not just stare at the cockroach  that's roaming my ceiling tonight (though that is definitely triggering some serious anxiety).  Instead, I commit to doing something bigger, different.  Maybe I'll travel someplace where I don't know anyone.  Maybe I'll visit a group I've never heard of before and whose mission I'm not sure I agree with.  Maybe I'll try a new workout routine.  Maybe I'll tell B I love him (if I ever figure out if what that means).  Maybe I'll try a DIY project I'm wholly unqualified for.  Or go skydiving.  Or go on a cruise.  Or go on an overnight hike.  Or sign up for a sport/game that I'm really, really bad at (which is something I really, really hate).

Like most people, I am a creature of habit.  Perhaps some days I am brave, but most days, my life rests in blissful complacency.   Life has not forced me into huge changes, and so I haven't pursued them.  Sure, I bought a home recently.  I joined the leadership team at work.  I have a new boyfriend (who I adore).  I'm training to excel in a sport I've only just started within the last year.  But those are small things.  Maybe that doesn't give me enough credit, but in my mind, they don't push me as far as I can be pushed.

It reminds me of a famous poem that my dad used to read to me as a kid:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

I'll finish with a definition, a writing ploy that I've used a million times in my life as a student much to the chagrin of my English teachers, a glimpse into how extremely terrible my technical essay writing is.  Or more accurately, I'll finish with two definitions.  Both for the same word.  Both seemingly equivalent in their meaning.  But I'll ask you to ponder with me: what if what scares you and what pains you are not the same?  What if they're opposites?

cour·age

ˈkərij/

noun

      the ability to do something that frightens one.

      strength in the face of pain or grief.