“The truth will set you free. But first…”

In my fourth year of university, I met my nemesis.

Children’s Lit.  Large lecture hall.  Professor Fussypants* presiding.

(*Note:  Names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.)

By this point, I had been an English major for three years.  At 6 English courses a year, that’s about 75-ish papers written, countless detailed analyses performed, and more literature read than the average person would ever hope to encounter.  I knew my stuff, I thought.  English was my wheelhouse.  I could craft a phrase, deconstruct a character, and apply literary philosophy with the best of them.  I transferred from a big-city college to a small-city university with a 3.8 GPA, a letter from the college announcing I’d made the Dean’s List, and a massive chip on my shoulder.

Don’t get me wrong; I hadn’t always been this confident.  As a kid – and even more so, as a teenager – I had struggled with self-image and self-worth.  But if there’s one thing I had never questioned, it’s that I was smart.  Not necessarily math-smart, or street-smart, but the kind of smart that gets you good grades, and that gets people to look the other way when you screw up under the impression that you’re a “good kid”.  I was the kind of smart that got me recognized for my maturity and overlooked for my bad choices.  And so far in my life, it had worked.

When I went to college, I continued along the same leisurely jaunt through my education, digging deep when I was interested and going through the motions when I wasn’t.  But, hey – it was working, right?  My grades were good.  My skills were good.  Life was, well, good.  Little did I know, “good” wasn’t nearly all there was to life.

Enter Professor Fussypants.  Despite moving into a university setting, I found myself confidently entering my Intro to Children’s Literature class, finding a familiar face to sit beside, and settling in to what (I thought) would be an Easy A.  This was children’s lit, after all.  Like, for kids.  After analyzing Joyce, Blake, and DeLillo, this would be the proverbial walk in the park.

Fast-forward to essay time.  I wrote a paper on Peter Pan, or Treasure Island, or some such text.  (The fact that I can’t even recall the subject of the paper should illuminate my level of dedication to the task).  I proofread it.  I submitted it.  I waited to get it back.

And then, I nearly hit the roof.

My paper.  My paper.  Covered in red ink.  Professor Fussypants had left no paragraph untouched, no idea unquestioned.  Didn’t she know that this was my voice?  How dare she question my casual turn-of-phrase, my pithy insight?  Devaluing my work because it wasn’t what she would have written seemed spiteful, and I cursed her spiteful, essay-hating, children’s-lit-analyzing face.

All of this, of course, happened among my friends, my boyfriend, my fellow students.  Not once did I consider approaching her to discuss her comments or to seek additional feedback.  This woman had an advanced PhD in Children’s Literature, for Pete’s sake.  Surely, I could found something to learn from this published, esteemed, and altogether-authoritative literary expert.  But my self-image was wounded, and in that pain, I failed to see the incredible compliment and opportunity of her commentary.

This eloquent, educated young woman took the time to engage with my ideas, with my words.  She had disagreed, but she had seen my ideas as worthy of disagreement.  And this is what I wish I had understood before: that engagement with one’s ideas – even for the sake of refutation – is an acknowledgement of their inherent value.

Looking back, I’m glad that I had this experience.  While my initial reaction could fairly be characterized as hostile and defensive, it did eventually lead me to a sense of humility.  Yes, I am intelligent, and yes, my many of my ideas are worthy of engagement.  But I am not infallible. I am not always right.  And, I have discovered that I learn more about myself as a writer, as a thinker, when I defend and debate my point of view.

In the end, I’ve come to see, it’s not from others’ constant approval of others that we learn, but from our willingness to entertain the criticism and commentary that will inevitably come.  Gloria Steinem’s dictum that “The truth will set you free[,] but first, it will piss you off” rings true for that 21-year-old version of myself.

Maybe Steinem had Professor Fussypants, too.