Dear Friends,
This weekend, between holding
hot cups of ginger and honey potion in one hand, covering my mouth with the
other (yes I do cover my mouth when I cough, even when I’m alone), I managed to
line up my long-range plans for the new school year and my curriculum handout
for parents. As I filled student-timetable, I couldn’t help but think about
our school’s upcoming “review.” I must admit, I felt butterflies dancing in my
stomach. Not the kind that harbour excitement, but the kind that breed anxiety. Self-doubt made me hope for a more potent bug
than the February blahs - an exotic flu, perhaps?
I remember, when I was in
school in Tehran, every Saturday, (the beginning of the week in Iran) our principal
inspected our nails. We stood by our desks, arms stretched out, palms
down, our clean white handkerchief and folding plastic drinking cup wobbling on
top of our hands, “Not white enough!” The principal reproached poor souls whose mother had run out of bleach.
Every month in boarding school, our head-mistress inspected under our bed, and inside our closet. “Shirts to the right, shoes to the left!” She rebuked the absentminded girls.
When I got married and had my own home, every time my mother visited, she inspected the fridge, “Too much dairy, not enough greens.” She wanted our grocery lists to match. My mother-in-law never visited empty-handed. She always had a mouthful of suggestions.
Every month in boarding school, our head-mistress inspected under our bed, and inside our closet. “Shirts to the right, shoes to the left!” She rebuked the absentminded girls.
When I got married and had my own home, every time my mother visited, she inspected the fridge, “Too much dairy, not enough greens.” She wanted our grocery lists to match. My mother-in-law never visited empty-handed. She always had a mouthful of suggestions.
Although there is concrete evidence that I'm competent, creative and caring, inspection
continues to make me feel like a small person, with big insecurities.
I hope on
that auspicious day, if my flu doesn't fly in on time, my eighteen unsuspecting little minds and bodies, not always as predictable as
the content of my fridge or as organized as my closet, decide to be on my side.
Until then, I acknowledge and
accept that review (aka evaluation, examination, inspection, appraisal and assessment) of my live performance does bring out the impostor syndrome in me!
I also admit, so many others being in the same shoes, doesn't really slow down the churning in the pit of my stomach.
What have you accepted and
filed today?
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