The Power of Butterfly Wings
by Dr. Karen E. Dean
You’ve heard the idea, I’m sure, the one that says that when a single butterfly flaps its wings in your backyard garden, it can put into motion countless actions and reactions that can ultimately cause a typhoon on the other side of the world. They call it the “butterfly principle,” an off-shoot of the grander chaos theory that seeks to explain all things. I may be shaky on the science part, but I know I believe in the power of butterfly wings.
I also know that I was put on this earth to do what I do for my living. Even more importantly, I know how lucky I am to know this. Now, that does not mean that I am always (or even mostly) good at it. I want to be. Every day. In every class. But there are people who will read this who will attest that I often fall short of the mark. Nevertheless, that is the commitment that I have made to myself and my students. Somehow, in some way, I want them to catch the wave, to share my passion, to understand that learning in general and that learning about politics in particular can make such a difference in their lives. In graduate school it was easy to believe that my naïve enthusiasm could counter any obstacle that a student might put in my way. But graduate school is far behind me. I have faced down the blank stares, the groggy faces, the slumping postures and, I must admit, they have sometimes won. “Just how far can I go?” I think. “What can I really say to the dozing Donnas or the lazy Lyles?” Surely, they’ve heard it all before, “you’re wasting your future… your money… my time.” In multiple choice fashion, choose one—or all—of the above. So, I wasn’t ready for Ryan. He showed up in my class his first semester, totally unprepared for college-level work and far more concerned about making friends and fitting into a social network that left no room for books and papers. He flunked. Big time. When he called me over break to see if I might reconsider his grade so he could pledge the next semester, it was all I could do not to laugh in his face. When he continued to dog me with emails, I quickly learned to ignore them. But when he confronted me on the quad once classes resumed, whining that I was ruining his life, I guess something snapped. “Get out of my face,” I have been told that I said, “until you are ready to get serious.” I have also been told that some degree of volume was involved. I honestly don’t remember this exchange. Not a bit of it. But Ryan does. Today, he recounts this story with humor and affection. But I still wonder if, as I walked away, I mentally dusted my hands of the nuisance this young man had become. If I did, I could not have been more wrong. I did not know—I could not have known—that my “in-his-face, out-of-my-face” declaration was exactly what he needed. Somewhere, years before, a butterfly had flapped its wings and let loose a typhoon on Ryan’s life. By every possible predictor, he was not supposed to amount to anything. For most of his life, he did not know who his father was. His mother was lost in a haze of alcohol and drugs. A flock of younger brothers had all been fathered by different men. His mother attempted suicide on more than one occasion. Learning was difficult and often beyond him, due to an undiagnosed learning disability. While Ryan had been plucked from this nightmare of a home life by a grandmother who loved him deeply, the butterfly had left deep bruises and Ryan struggled to know how he was to live. Without even intending to, I had given him a simple and clear roadmap. “Get serious,” I had said, “or get out of my face.” Go figure, but that boy wanted, needed, even craved my face. Ryan’s butterfly must have had an amazing sense of humor. He started small. He finished a book. He had never done that before. Never. Then he became a fixture in the Writing Center. He asked what else he should read. He put together study groups. Along the way, he made friends with other students who had plans for their futures. And he started to believe he had one of his own. Once he sat in my office, teetering on the edge of self-pity. “Why doesn’t it ever get easier for me? It’s just not fair,” he protested. “I have to work so much harder than other people.” “You do,” I agreed. “So just get on with it.” Today, I give thanks for what Ryan taught me. I did not know it then, but I do now. He is, quite simply, the reason I became a teacher. Ryan may not have become the best student I have ever had, but he has put all the rest of them in context. Today, I really do know how lucky I am. You see, not all of us get to meet our butterflies. Or to watch them fly. |