One of the 4th graders in the after-school classroom asked me to help with his homework. “Sure, no problem,” I told him, thinking it would be easy. My math might be a bit rusty, but surely I could manage well enough to help with a single homework page.
He pulled out the worksheet and my eyes adjusted to the assignment. I read the instructions, looked over the list of multi-digit problems covering the page, and reread the instructions. There were no directions for completing the problems.
I felt my student waiting for an answer. I’m sure he anticipated a perfectly assured response that could walk him through this page. Certainly he thought I knew what I was doing.
I’m sure he had this confidence in me because that’s how 4th grade Brianna’s brain worked too. All adults – and especially teachers – had all the answers, right?
But as adult Brianna stared at this elementary page, that idea was challenged. As I searched the dustiest corners of my brain for the instructions on multi-digit multiplication, it became clear that I didn’t know how the heck to help this kid. When the multi-digit search in my brain came back void, I knew I had a choice:
- Lead this kid astray by guessing our way through it.
- Admit that I didn’t know how to do this page and re-learn it in real time.
The former hardly seemed like a good style of leadership. Holding onto my pride wasn’t a good enough reason to break this student’s trust in me. He was coming to me for help, and it was my job to provide it.
And then it occurred to me –
You don’t have to know all the answers to be a good teacher.
You don’t have to know all the answers to be a good teacher.
The lightbulb went off and for, perhaps the first time ever, I realized that knowing it all and teaching are not synonymous. I could still teach the guy, even if I didn’t know the material yet.
I told him, “I don’t know about that, but let’s figure it out together.”
Instead of holding onto my pride and missing an opportunity to learn a new thing, I had to stoop low. Like, low enough to admit that I couldn’t do this elementary homework page yet.
And you know what? The kid didn’t even flinch.
We pulled out my phone and watched a YouTube video that walked us through the different multi-digit scenarios. He pulled out his pencil and we worked through that page of homework. He had to ask clarifying questions and I had to refer to that video as I provided correction, but we did it.
We didn’t know what to do at first, but we figured it out together. By the end of it, we both knew how to do multi-digit multiplication again. Our relationship was a little tighter because of that.
“I don’t know about that, but let’s figure it out together.”
I lean on this phrase in the classroom now. Whether students are asking about multi-digit multiplication or about Latin pre-fixes, this phrase stays in my back pocket. It has yet to let me down.
It’s a phrase I repeat daily both on and off the clock. What started as a response to my students’ questions in the classroom has grown into a practice in my personal life as well.
It’s a phrase that admits my smallness.
This response unashamedly admits that I don’t have it all figured it out. And that’s okay. We’re not built to know it all. There’s room for us to grow.
I am not above admitting my smallness, especially if that level of honesty is an opportunity for someone else’s felt safety. If my student is asking a question, they might feel small for asking in the first place. The playing field is leveled when I lead with my smallness. That’s important.
It’s a phrase that invites us to discover together.
Once the playing field is leveled, we can get to work together. Suddenly we have two brains working to figure this out, instead of one. We have two sets of stories, worldviews, ideas, knowledge, and emotion in the game. We’re a team. We’re equally empowered to participate.
And very good things happen when we’re on the same team. Suddenly everyone involved is freed to learn together. There’s space for everyone to grow.
This phrase corrects our posture, bending us to better stand alongside others.
I didn’t realize when I began saying this phrase in response to my students’ questions about English, math, the world, relationships – the list goes on – that it reflected a better posture that I could assume everywhere else in my life.
I wonder who could benefit from hearing your use this phrase. I wonder how you could continue growing because of this phrase.
Maybe the next time your staff ask you hard question in the team meeting?
Maybe in that home project you’re tackling with your husband?
Maybe when you’re in the grocery store and a fellow customer asks you where to find sun-dried tomatoes?
Maybe the next time someone online stumps you with a theology question?
I bet you could give an honest answer and let grace pour from your lips. I bet your heart’s posture could bend to help meet the needs of another person and learn something new along the way. I bet you could invite someone into the process with you.
I bet you could admit, “I don’t know about that, but let’s figure it out together.”