Learning can require a leap of faith

In my desk drawer I keep a photo of myself jumping off the high board at the Palmer High School pool. In this secret photo, my arms stretch over my head, and my legs search for land. I keep it as a memory not of my great accomplishments, but of a little spit of a girl who reminded me of challenges that require greater courage than mine.

Years ago, the Community Schools Program offered swim lessons to elementary students. For two weeks during the end of winter, our fifth-graders boarded an icy bus, rode across town and learned to swim.

One final day of a session, the fun day, a fellow teacher dared me to jump off the high board. Never one to turn down a dare, I climbed up and stood on the board’s edge. It may be important to realize that I am not a good swimmer and also afraid of heights. As I peered at the endless space between myself and the steel colored water I thought of my mother’s admonition, “If your friends told you jump off a cliff, would you?” Evidently, yes, I would.

My toes ripped into the rough surface and my knees shook uncontrollably. I laughed nervously and called out Uncle; I quit.

It was then I caught Jennie’s eyes. Jennie — a tiny waif of a fifth-grader — struggled in school. Every lesson presented a challenge, but that little girl never gave up.

Jennie kept coming to school, trying and trying and trying. Her story would not make the local paper or even “Dateline” No disability, no dysfunction, no distress plagued her. Learning simply did not come easy.

And everyday tiny Jenn came to school and took the leap of faith that today it might just stick.

I saw her by the edge of the pool, still working on her last set of swimming skills. She wiped her wet bangs from her eyes and waved at me. Even at that distance her brown eyes shined eagerly. Their earnestness mocked me: Go ahead. Quit. Your small jump can never be as scary as not being able to learn how to read. Consider that.

I felt foolish to be so paralyzed by my own insignificant fears when Jennie never stopped giving her best effort. The daily chore she faced in school — and the rest of life if she didn’t learn to read — dwarfed my own insecurities. Her task required courage. All I had to do was jump.

My knees rested. The board ceased to vibrate. One step forward and I was in the air. Somehow, I did not drown.

Neither did Jennie, though I confess I was never able to teach her to read well. But, something in her sincere face that afternoon helped me leave the fiberglass beam in exchange for air.

So, in the top drawer the image rests of me flailing in mid-air, inept and clumsy. It reminds me that learning is sometimes like that for kids, a leap of faith into the steely depths of the unknown. My job is to make it real and doable for them so that one day they, too, can take the leap.

Emily Forstner is the professional development coordinator for Mat-Su Borough School District. Opinions expressed in Chalk Talk are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of the Mat-Su Borough School District.