As I push my grocery cart through Safeway, a song from The Killers pipes through the speakers:
Are we human
Or are we dancer?
As a former dancer, I am forever intrigued by those lyrics. Why can’t we be both? This song brings me back to the early 80’s when I was a dance major in college. Picture leg warmers . . . an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt . . . a super-high ponytail on just one side. The movie Flashdance came out during my sophomore year. Yeah, I was a “manic, maniac!”
After just two years of twirling in academia, though, I changed my major to education and went on to teach kindergarten through college for the next 34 years. Yet, who I am as a teacher now is greatly shaped by my college dance professors who embraced both their art and their students. From them, I learned the importance of consistency, enthusiasm, and genuineness in teaching – qualities I didn’t learn in any formal education course.
First, there was Sybil. She may have had a last name, but she was simply Sybil to us. She piled her white-blonde hair in a bun and her flowy scarves trailed behind her. Most humans walk to get from one place to another, but Sybil glided. Her interactions with her students also had that same smooth quality.
My personal tendency is not-so-much to glide as to sprint through the day. But, when I think of Sybil I slow myself down. My students have stresses of their own; there is no need for me to compound what they are going through. In fact, I now recognize what Sybil was doing was co-regulating with her students. In slowing her speech and deepening her breaths, she encouraged students to do the same without uttering a directive.
Sybil was consistent, which provided stability for all of us. She once advised us to “check your troubles at the stage door.” In other words, have boundaries between the emotional drama-du-jour and the work of being a dancer. In my teaching, I release my problems at the classroom door à la Sybil. I have a much better day as a result, and I can always pick up my worries again after class if I want. More importantly, my students have a steady force in me, too.
Then, there was Donna. Donna didn’t glide, she bounced. My visions of her involve her leaping, twirling, and smiling all the while. She was tiny with sassy-short hair, but it seemed like she could stop an oncoming train if needed. Her passion and strength were and are inspirational to me. I remember what it felt like to be on the other side of that enthusiasm, and it is something I strive to bring to my class every day (even when teaching my stats students about “failing to reject the null hypothesis”).
Finally, there was Patty. Patty defied the pressures to be uncomfortably thin as a dancer. Rather, you had the sense that she could really enjoy some good barbecue. But no matter, she could launch herself through space like no other. And she used her body to not only fly but to ground herself deeply to the earth. Patty loved dance, and she wasn’t about to let anyone tell her she wasn’t doing it right simply because of her size. She was confident and true to herself, and this is something I strive to bring to my teaching.
To be sure, not all my dance teachers were inspirations. The professor who told me to lose weight when I was already thin. The TA who literally threw a book at me when I forgot to bring mine to class. The ballet teacher who ruled cruelly . . .
In all, I learned from my dance professors that the person who is the teacher is just as important as any teaching technique. Author Parker Palmer wrote, “We teach who we are.” Sybil, Donna, and Patty were the most human of dancers, and it is that humanity I want to bring to my teaching each and every day.
