uncomfortable understanding. I continued, “Being number one has its merits, Matt, but so does a life of contribution. To be a real contributor, you have to take chances, and as soon as you do that, you’ve risked status. It doesn’t have to be today, but you’re going to have to make a choice for the long term.”
Matt stayed in the class, but it was an uncomfortable fit for him. Too often he saw students whose insights and skills he thought outstripped his own. Inevitably, those moments made him pull back—made him sulky. Being number one had become something of an addition. School wasn’t about learning. It wasn’t okay to be a very good student. He needed to be the best.
Teacher Discomfort
Matt wasn’t the only person uncomfortable that year. His teacher was uncomfortable, too. I didn’t like watching Matt withdraw from discussions. I didn’t like seeing him finish an assignment half-heartedly. I didn’t like seeing the look on his face when a paper came back with an A-, which, to him, was an indication of failure.
I tried lots of approaches to bring Matt along that year. I talked to him, wrote to him, used examples from well known people, paid extra attention to him, gave feedback with opportunities for revision before grading work, encouraged him to focus products on topics that interested him, assigned him to work with students who were more interested in learning than in grades and alternately to work with laid back students who just didn’t care about grades.
He stuck it out. At rare times, he seemed to engage with the work. Mostly, however, he continued to hate that he wasn’t clearly the best in the class. We were both glad when summer gave us a break.
What I Wish I’d Known
Despite its miseries, the year with Matt was good for me. It helped me identify and put a very human face on a problem that is endemic in our schools. It takes on one shape with very bright kids like Matt and another with kids who struggle in school—and even those who do “okay.”
in school—and even those who do “okay.”
Carol Dweck, a noted scholar and researcher, has given a professional lifetime to looking at the problem. She writes about it in a book called Mindset. She has found that early in life, people develop one of two mindsets about what leads to success—what it means to be smart. Some people develop what she calls a fixed mindset, believing that people who are smart succeed, and that being smart is determined by genetics. If you’re smart, you’ll be successful. If you’re not, you won’t.
Other people develop what Dweck calls a fluid or growth mindset. Those people come to believe that effort is what determines success. People who consistently try hard, they believe, become smart and ultimately succeed.
For people with a fixed mindset, there’s not much you can do about your fate. Hard work can’t trump biology or economics or family status. For people with a fluid or growth mindset, your fate is in your hands. As Dweck explains, this mindset concludes that just because one person can do something easily and quickly doesn’t mean most other people can’t do it given time and effort.
Schools, sadly, can be very fixed mindset institutions. Whether through sins of omission or commission, we set about to figure out who is smart and who is not. Once we have data that make us comfortable, we sort and teach kids accordingly. We give smart kids rich, complex curriculum that demands critical thinking. We expect them to address real issues through real products for real audiences. We set high expectations for them and become their partners in achieving those expectations. We teach them with humor and energy. By contrast, we give the not-smart students low-level, drill-based curriculum in highly structured classrooms—often delivered by the newest teachers. We set low expectations expectations for them and are not surprised when they fall short. We teach them with resignation. After all, what can you expect given their backgrounds?
Helping Kids Define Success
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