I had an epiphany this week: I am fearful
of following my heart.
After 20 years of presenting research at conferences
the same way: preparing the method, analysing the data, and presenting the
findings in a powerpoint, I was tired. Uninspired. I wanted my participants’
voices to be the centre of the research, to have their authentic words be what
people left remembering.
No more boring powerpoints. This time, I
was going to represent their findings
entirely in their voices. I was going
to write my entire paper in narrative, a story of their world.
I spent weeks on the writing. It was more
difficult than I realised, like exercising and expecting a muscle you had never
used to perform. I revised again and again. I admonished myself for breaking
back into the same old expository form that I was trying to shatter. Then it
was time for the conference presentation, presenting these voices, in an
unconventional narrative, to colleagues I wanted to belong.
I had not thought about how to convey the
same voices to a traditional academic audience. No powerpoint. Would I simply read the stories? Shouldn’t something
visual be up on the screen? How long would it take to read the 15 page paper
aloud? Wasn’t that going backward to the 1950s? Just reading?
I panicked on the day. I had nothing! The chair asked me to load my
powerpoint. I said I didn’t have one; I was just going to read the narrative.
She looked at me with scepticism. I felt fear. My session was scheduled at the
end of the day: 17.30. Surely no one would be there? It would be a good time to
experiment with this form. Why not try it? What did I have to lose? Aren’t I
always asking my own students to take on Dweck’s ‘growth mindset’? Who was I if
I could not even risk modelling the mindset: Just risk, try something new; learn from the failure.
More and more people arrived for the
session. People came that I did not want to fail in front of: the editor of our
national journal, a professor from our largest rival university, the chair of a
research group I wanted to be part of! Why were they all there? For goodness
sake, why did they have to come to this one?
I was announced, and began to explain the
paper I was about to give. I explained it in expository form! My face felt hot.
It was red. My chest tight. I started to read from the paper, but then realised
there was no framework for them to put it in – only the words. I explained
again. My face went crimson. I lost my place. I searched for the next section,
the next narrative. I continued to read, to stutter. I looked at my watch and
my time was almost up. I looked at the chair. She shrugged.
I gave another explanation and tried to sum
everything up, ‘well, that is a taste of
the narratives within, and the important thing here is that…’ I stopped
embarrassed.
It had not gone well.
‘Are
there any questions?’ the chair asked.
An older professor, not sure of his name,
but everyone seemed to know him. Quantitative I think…
‘Where
are the statistics about the students? Your title says you were going to be
presenting on students!’ he accused me.
My face went red again. I was taking it all
in. He didn’t like it. I could tell he didn’t like it. No one in the room said
anything. There was stunned silence at the assault. At the question? At me?
Humiliated publically, I stumbled
awkwardly, ‘well, it’s a narrative, I
mean, it’s presented, or written, as one narrative. There are no statistics on
students. It is just the voices.’
‘Okay,
that’s all we have time for at the moment,’ the chair said. Either saving
me from further humiliation, or admitting defeat.
Hurt, I retreated to a table at the far
side of the room. I wanted to cry, but simply pretended to be busy. I have ruined my career, I thought, what will these people think of me now? Why
did I do this?
I went over and over the session on my way
home, and none of it good. I should have
done this,…if only I had said this… In the end, living through the failed
attempt made me realise what my own students must feel. They want to belong as
well, and yet I have far less to risk than themselves. If I cannot reflect upon
this, and overcome such adversity, why in the world would I expect them to?
Why did I hate myself so? Who is more
important? A room full of respected strangers, or my own heart?
I went for a walk that evening, and
happened across a set of stain glass windows in the lady chapel in Bath Abbey.
I sat and continued to reflect upon the
day. I looked up at the windows. In them, was a familiar reformation scene
(even though the windows were not created until the 20th century).
The King’s guard or soldiers look as if they are ready to seize control of the
church (the knight has his hand on his sword; there are keys with the sword
between), and the priests are standing on the other side of the altar with the
‘word of God’ open in defence, golden slippered feet slightly off the ground in
the stars. The caption below states: ‘In
memory of Sydney Adolphus Boyd…faithful guardian of this church.’
It must have been courageous indeed to
stand up against armed men in defence of the church as you believe it should
be. You could have been hanged, burnt at the stake, your very church and all
you have worked for desecrated. I have always believed this to be the very
epitome of integrity. And yet, on this day, looking at that window, I thought, But why should there not be change, once and
while? There must have been an underclass who suffered under the church as
well. Why and what are these men guarding? Why should the people not have a say
in reforming their church, their own spirituality?
It struck me that there are men guarding my
profession as well. They stand with ancient ways in defiance of difference and
opposition as well. And these are the men I most fear. I always thought it
would be the soldiers I would fear, taking away my church. But as I sit here
tonight, my church lies within my heart. It is the traditional guardians I fear
more. I fear that they are not open to new members; that myself and my
divergent ways are unwelcome.
I fear the opposition to the path I feel,
in my heart, is the right way (for myself, if no one else.)
In the end, following one’s heart may be
more fraught with fear. Yet, that is why the path less travelled is so
rewarding.
In the weeks to come, this series will
reflect upon those children’s stories that have guided me in my life. Perhaps
the guidance is not always what was originally intended, but a message has
assisted me, nevertheless, in the telling.
