When our kids were in school, I often asked them if they knew why they didn’t get the grade they wanted. I’m sure they found my question annoying to say the least. Yet, I think it’s important to understand whether they were tired, weren’t feeling well, didn’t study enough, misread a question, or just made mistakes. They knew it was not acceptable to say, “the test wasn’t fair,” unless they could point to errors in the test itself. I’m familiar enough with that. I could talk about the test questions I’ve challenged and those some of my students challenged, but that’s not the point here.
When presented with a statement about a late or missed assignment, Mr. Miller, my high school physics teacher, often replied, “That is a reason, not an excuse.” He was trying to teach us that we can’t duck our responsibility with convenient dog-ate-my-homework phrases. The truth often was that we could have planned better, or asked for help, or just paid more attention in class. But we all search for excuses – because it feels good to be excused.
I admire Paralympians and others who have worked hard to overcome challenges. My father-in-law was dyslexic and worked hard to become an avid reader. He was quite successful in life and even had a college building named after him. He clearly didn’t use his disability as an excuse. I have taught a few students who had modest natural ability on trumpet but nevertheless worked hard to play successful senior recitals. Their limitations did not define them.
Richard Bach wrote, “Argue for your limitations, and sure enough they’re yours.” I incorporated this kind of thinking into my teaching. I used to tell the story about a golfer who went to the club pro for a lesson. They went to the practice tee, and he demonstrated his problem. “I have a terrible slice. Look, when I hit the ball, I always slice it into the woods. Like this.” He took a mighty swing. The pro paused for a moment. Then he said, “Wow. That is just about the worst slice I’ve ever seen. Show me how you’d like to swing, if you could.” The golfer teed up another ball. He said, “Well, I’d set up like this, take the club back nice and slow, like this, and follow through, like this.” He hit the ball straight down the middle. The pro smiled. The golfer said, “Wait a minute. What just happened?” The pro answered, “Inside you are two golfers. The one who argues for his limitations, and the one who can hit the ball straight. You must choose which one you want to be.”
We often let labels define us. We think we can’t do a thing because we have been told we are dyslexic, we have ADHD, we are uncoordinated, we are a Visual/Auditory/Reading-Writing/Kinesthetic (take your pick) learner, we have a disability, or whatever the diagnostic world has chosen for us. I did not have prodigy-level talent. My band director said I would march as a substitute unless I switched instruments. But I worked hard and went on to play first chair cornet in Regional Band and Mid-East Band, first chair trumpet in several college and graduate school groups. I earned a Performer’s Certificate and won a Brass Concerto Competition. There are many more like me in the world of music. In fact, just as there are visually impaired golfers, there are hearing impaired musicians. Most of us don’t know how to concentrate like they do!
If labels are helpful at all, they at least let us know that we must put in more effort to improve and succeed. I taught a trumpet player who was told he had ADD. We found that playing trumpet helped him focus his attention. Although he didn’t become a musician, he became successful in aircraft maintenance, thanks to the US Air Force. His diagnosis did not define him. His personal effort did that.
C.S. Lewis wrote about the difference between explaining a thing – offering reasons for it – and explaining it away – minimizing it or avoiding responsibility for it. We can rationalize by saying that our limitations give us excuses for our choices. We can also choose to rise and confront our limitations, realizing that they exist, while refusing to be defined by them. I still admire trumpet prodigies, but I respect the hard-working, never-give-up types who seek improvement, not excuses.
MurrayWorks 