A couple weeks ago, the basic training for my school began.
I had gone through this training a year before, but this year I volunteered to work. I wanted to help people grow and get good things out of the experience. Someone had trained me who I respected for being firm but kind in the midst of other wild and messy training styles— I wanted to pass that on to the next group of incoming people, or candidates. I hadn’t exactly enjoyed my time in this training, but I had grown through it.
On the first day, when I heard candidates yelling responses to officers, I immediately felt a pit open up in my stomach. Why am I here? Why am I a part of something that obviously causes so much distress? This isn’t me.
I had volunteered for this, so I would do the work. Everyone else could yell and be mean. I’d yell, but only so far as it kept them moving, kept them learning, and got them closer to the point where I didn’t have to yell. As things went on, I began to realize a couple things. One, they were only yelling because they were doing the best they could. They weren’t used to it, and when you yell without planning to it sounds like a scream. Two, they were distressed, yes, but with so many people around showing them where to go, that didn’t matter. Even if they tried to make the wrong turn, we could point them in the right direction. We’d point loudly, but we’d still point.
Three, they were learning. They were learning fast. It was like drinking from a fire hose— too much knowledge and protocol to digest all at once. They got what they could, tried again if they messed it up, and learned to tune out the yelling around them and yell louder.
Wouldn’t it be better, you might ask, to just sit them down, calmly explain all of this, and let them figure it out step by step before throwing them into this mayhem? Why so much conflict?
A couple days into training, I realized something as I was reading a book. Especially those first few days, I had mistaken conflict for evil. Read the full post »