March 1, 2023
Dear Leland,
You gave a presentation at school yesterday. This was your first school presentation (though you did give a short speech at your kindergarten ‘graduation’ ceremony). Your teacher invited parents; I asked if you wanted me to come, and you ultimately decided that you did.
Your presentation did not go well. I was standing at the back of the room and could barely hear you, and could rarely make out what you were saying. Your teacher prodded you multiple times to speak louder. You mostly mumbled to yourself, looking down at your content and not at your audience. Your classroom had an iPad which allowed you to put pictures or pages under it to project to the class via a TV. You fumbled with how to use the projector; sometimes you showed your pictures, sometimes you showed the words you were reading, and sometimes nothing was very clearly laid out under the projector. Your teacher intervened a time or two to help you put content under the projector. Altogether the presentation was difficult to follow.
Your teacher was magnanimous, recognizing how hard it is (especially for shy or introverted kids) to get up and give a presentation to their peers. I talked to her briefly, and she generally accentuated the positive: that this is hard, that it’s important to get the experience, and that you will learn from it.
My first reaction to your presentation was shock and surprise. We had practiced! We had practiced speaking loudly, to the folks in the back! We had practiced showing your pictures while you read your words! You had even explained to me that there would be a projector, so we practiced placing your pictures under your projector while you read your words off to the side! Maybe it was the kid before you, who similarly mangled his presentation. Maybe when you saw him, you forgot what we practiced and decided to mimic him? Or maybe the girl before him so nailed her presentation that you didn’t think you could compete?
My afternoon was a wreck. I couldn’t focus or concentrate on anything. I struggled even to meditate; I just couldn’t focus and presence myself. Ultimately I just realized that I was very, very sad at how poorly your presentation went. I can’t exactly explain why: a 2nd grade presentation isn’t exactly life-altering. You are shy and introverted, so I never anticipated presenting to be your natural strong suit. And yet, I was just sad.
On the way to pick you up, I coached myself not to show my disappointment. I didn’t want my opinion to color yours, and I didn’t want to shame or embarrass you. Alas. After a couple minutes, I asked “how did you think your presentation went?” You responded with some version of “fine”, and then said “I only saw you give me the hand signal to talk louder once”. That was all it took: I couldn’t contain myself. I said “buddy, that’s because you weren’t looking at me. I was giving you the louder signal the whole time. I could barely hear you”. Later I asked why you put your text under the projector rather than the pictures, like we practiced. You said you didn’t remember that we practiced keeping the pictures under the projector.
I’m not proud of how I handled the car ride home. Ultimately I did want your perspective on how things went, and where you thought it went wrong (if at all). But I don’t think I hid my disappointment very well.
When we got home, I showed you and your mom a brief clip (I had recorded your presentation). Your mom asked you how it went. I was preparing dinner, so didn’t see precisely what happened next, but the next thing I knew you were hiding and crying. You didn’t want to be comforted or consoled, you just wanted to be alone.
Your mom and I got dinner on the table; you reluctantly joined us. But you didn’t eat. I don’t think you’ve ever skipped dinner, but you did last night. You sat in my lap and melted into my chest and arms. You didn’t talk and you didn’t eat, you just sat. You were so, so sad.
Ultimately I was able to get out of my own way and appreciate that you and I just needed to be sad together. We had prepared for your presentation together, and it hadn’t gone well. And we just needed to grieve. So we sat, for a long time, not talking. I held and hugged you, and checked in periodically, but mostly we just sat with our sadness, together.
I tell this story mostly to celebrate our eventual, if reluctant, emotional awareness. Both yours and my tendency is to blame others or make excuses for our failures. We both did some of that yesterday, but fortunately got past that and focused on what really mattered, which was the sadness you and I were both carrying. We needed to be with that sadness in order to let it pass (and not get stuck in our psyches, souls, and bodies).
You and I will learn a great deal from yesterday’s experience. You will learn the difference between a good presentation and a bad presentation. I learned that you need more prep than I anticipated, particularly when it comes to presentations. And collectively we will learn how to help you carry your practice into your performance; that’s one of the hardest skills to learn, but we will figure it out, together.
I love you, I’m immensely proud of you, and I am grateful I got to share yesterday with you. Thank you for being my teacher yesterday, and for learning and growing with me.
Love,
Dad
Letters to Leland 