It’s Not What You Think

During our focus on Presidents Day, my first graders supposed that the reason children are not eligible for the presidency has little to do with lack of requisite skills that one might hope for in a leader. For them, the reason was pragmatic and quite simple – it is because the furniture in the Oval Office is way too big.

Duh!

They were surprisingly confident about signing reams of papers that would undoubtedly be part of a normal work week as Commander in Chief, and although going to meetings would be boring, that would be grudgingly tolerated as an unavoidable part of the job. Naturally, riding on Air Force One would be a blast, only to be surpassed by unlimited access to the full-size bowling alley and movie theater in the White House.

But the office furniture? Hmmmm…

So big.

So looming.

So formidable.

Hoisting oneself onto that skittish rolling chair to then feasibly reach the adjacent towering, oversized desktop?

Not going to happen.

So close, yet so far…

Who knew?

The nature of this exchange and my proximity to unadorned perspectives of six-year-olds brought me back to my own premature conclusions about requisite job skills and possible employment hurdles.

By mid-first grade, I had unwaveringly decided that I was to be a teacher. I loved everything about school and most especially my teacher, who let me cry on her lap each September morning while I adjusted to our family’s late summer move to a new town, new home, and new school. Miss Meade was utterly kind and patient, and her compassion made a lasting impression; I was determined to be like her and do what she did – for a lifetime.

Once my career choice was cemented, I concluded that success was merely a matter of observing her and making sure that I could do everything that she did in the classroom each day. Within days, I felt I was qualified for the job.

Teach reading? I was currently one of the better readers in the class.

Handwriting instruction? I prided myself on neatness and accuracy.

Spelling? Not a problem – I was one of the go-to spellers in the grade.

Math? Um…well… that one was going to be a bit of a struggle, but I was sure I could brush up on my skills to make them passable.

Recess duty? Just stand there and dodge wayward kickballs every so often – that seemed easy enough.

Only one obstacle remained as a looming barrier between me and my dream job.

Tearing paper.

Yup, tearing paper. And this was not going to be an easy one to master, by a long shot.

Miss Meade could fold a stack of ten, yellow lined papers in half, and miraculously tear them in straight line down the middle every Friday for our spelling test – without fail, and probably with her eyes closed, (although I had not seen her do that). I was thoroughly mesmerized by this feat of dexterity and precision, and knew for certain that it was an obvious necessity for the job. After all, one cannot always rely on the convenience of scissors, can they?

At home, I practiced tearing paper in a straight line weekly, daily, hourly, to no avail, balling up one failure after another. Sure, maybe once in a while I might get a straight cleave part of the way down the fold, but to make it appear as though the test papers were cut by scissors when in fact they were expertly sheared by hand? Well, my samples didn’t look like that at all – they weren’t even close. My scraps were raggedy and haphazard and my futile fingers were not strong enough to gain proper purchase for expert shearing. And besides, I was running out of paper. At the job interview, would they let me get by with scissors instead? I doubted it, and I was too worried about the answer to ask.

I was doomed.

Months of uncertainty rolled by, and before long months softened into years and eventually time smoothed out the worry. I am not sure what came first, my ability to tear paper in a straight line, or my realization that this was probably not a job requirement after all.

What didn’t change was my dream to be a teacher. I followed that course to fruition, and here I am today, still tearing straight lines and loving most of the rest of it as well, just as I thought I would.

I suppose that – in years to come – our potential presidents will realize their vision by following their dreams as well. But they’ll have to grow into the furniture first.