Boring People

All of my students, the ones who were listening anyway, will have heard me say at least once that “only

boring people get bored”. Typically, this is in response to the whiny commentary of some brutally

honest youngster who claims to be bored, with the strong implication that it is my responsibility to

remedy the problem immediately if at all possible.

They never seem all that happy with my reply, but it does put the onus back on them. It does cause

some reflection on my part though. Boredom is a funny thing. If we don't take responsibility for our

own experiences, we might miss out on some considerably interesting passages of time. It is true,

nonetheless, that we owe it to our youth to give them some effective tools for avoiding boredom when

they are FORCED BY LAW, SOCIAL PRESSURE AND PARENTAL EXPECTATION to be present

in a classroom they didn't necessarily choose. Perhaps these tools start with a new mindset, a new

perspective?

It bears mentioning though, my class is rarely boring, and I take pride in how thoughtful I am about

that. I get tons of feedback on how learning in my class is fun. However, it doesn't just happen, and it

takes more than the lone teacher to create such an environment. I do have to work much harder with

what I identify as an “overly-serious class” versus an “energized class”. I would rather temper them any

day than have to light a fire under their dreary selves. You see, teachers think some students are boring

too.

I recall many situations when the monotone voice of a poor speaker was like a rope around my neck.

Our socialization around manners requires us to remain hostage to this type of lecturing style, and it

can admittedly be painful. Even at the mature and focused age of my 40's, I have thought I might

literally crawl right out of my own skin should I be expected to endure such a person for more than

another full minute.

My middle son once told me he loved math; it was easy for him, but the boring teacher was killing him.

I knew this child to be particularly positive and invested as a learner. He had won more than one award

for a positive attitude and passionate participation. I have to admit, I felt sorry for my son and a bit

annoyed with the teacher. If I'm being perfectly honest, I felt sorry for the teacher too. Surely, it was

common to all the students that this was a kind and smart but boring teacher. Knowing one's subject is

only half the duty of teaching, but they don't tell us that in college. The other half is theatrical.

It would be important then, at this time, to concur that we are all a bit responsible for our level of

mental stimulation inside or outside of the classroom. I find  reality tv boring. In

response, I simply switch the channel. I find certain people boring, so I tend to remain aloof.

But that is where I go wrong.

It took me many years to fully realize that there are a LOT of interesting people cloaked in an image of

boring. I am truly humbled at how easily I have dismissed people as a result of their attributes, such as

simply being reserved, plain in appearance, slow to laugh or dare I say, downright ugly. I'm not

excusing it. I'm not proud of it. But it is the truth. I like pretty and I like fun. It is true too that most

teenagers are shallow and feel entitled to a performance.

Some of my first life lessons were when I was the new girl in school (which I was at least 6 times before I

graduated from high school), and the people I judged as boring were always the first to befriend me.

After I made my way into the dynamic crowd, I faded away from the “boring ones” with a good dose

of guilt. I tired of being the one who made everything happen. I longed to get off the stage for a change

and allow someone else the main role. Sometimes the boring ones literally sat around waiting for me to

do all the work of leading the group and making life happen. That gets exhausting. I didn't understand

that I could have simply refused the role.

When I was allowed into a group of confident, possibly cocky and seductive teens, I could relax. I

could kick back, observe them, soak it all in without exerting so much. I could let them make me laugh

for once. And if they could make me laugh, I adored them with every fiber of my being. Because funny

people are, for me, the stars in the sky.

There was one other life lesson though, one I'm not so quick to share. It involves a girl who still haunts me

today. Her name was Netty. She was a friend of a friend. I always got to school early. I was prompt like

that. Netty was too. All our other friends showed up at the last minute. Thus, Netty would show up at

my locker most mornings and generally presume to hang out with me until the bell rang. This was

awkward.. She hardly said a word. She was a good foot shorter than me, plump with light brown wiry

hair and practically invisible. She was far far too sweet. She tended to wear a gentle closed-lip smile. I

was not sweet. I was tough, sarcastic, statuesque. I was too well-mannered to shun her completely and

carried what I felt was a great social weight most mornings. All my other friends had no problem with

Netty, so this was my secret burden. Eventually, we graduated.

I never saw Netty again. But that is not the end of the story. One day, less than a year after graduation,

our mutual friend called me to say that Netty had died in a helicopter crash.

There is no way to convey the private shame I have held ever since because I clearly did not feel anything and had to feign loss. I never bothered to ask Netty one thing about herself the entire time I knew her. It never even occurred to me to give her some space and time to blossom right in front of my eyes. I didn't understand that she might have had a story if I had taken the time to look right at her. I was too busy looking in the mirror and tucking my pants into my super cool suede boots. The ironic trauma of her death didn't escape me either. “Poor Netty,” my friend exclaimed. My friend mourned her. You see, my friend knew Netty.

All I knew was nothing.