Excuses, excuses...

“What are you doing?” I asked lightly, entering one room full of freshmen doing Physics experiments from another across the hall. I was in my senior year of undergrad, at a medium-sized university near where I grew up. I started assisting with labs as a sophomore – soon after changing majors – and had been ever so flattered to be asked. It was rough in the beginning, but I got better with practice. I’d never been much on discipline though – limiting myself to disapproving frowns for the most part as students dropped rolling carts or played computer games rather than dutifully graphing distance vs. time.

This, though, was uncalled for. My least favorite of the groups – and they were all ranked in my mind, providing further evidence that teaching is not my niche – hadn’t even begun to build their set-up and the female sat doing some knitting. She barely glanced up when I approached, and I raised my eyebrows at the 2 guys who completed the group. They abashedly looked down at the sheet of instructions I’d carefully printed.

“I don’t understand.” She said, still focused on her craft.

“Knock it off.” I said, clipping my words and settling into a glare. She didn’t, and I huffed with surprised indignation. “Look.” I continued sharply. “Do the work or go home.” I pulled out the appropriate equipment, helped the guys get started, and resisted the urge to kick the stool out from under the knitting girl.

“I’ll be back to check on you.” I warned, and the other groups glanced up with surprised smiles.

“Getting tough?” One student asked as I headed out the door to check on my other room, and I gestured with irritation, then returned his smile.

I liked these students. Found them to be earnest and sweet for the most part, and even when they were difficult or pushed a bit, I generally could let on that I was mildly bothered, and they’d back off. In reward for their good behavior, I was an easy grader. My girls - the roommates - would get irritated with me for cutting them too much slack.

“It’s bad to reward those kids who don’t work hard enough!” Rachel would insist as I carefully marked papers and suggested improvements yet scored them highly regardless. “It makes the ones who do try feel like it's not worth it!” I frowned when I realized she was right, and adjusted the scores accordingly. Now mediocre reports would receive 16/20 rather than 18, I decided happily.

My method worked, I insisted to them. The students were learning – I could see improvement in the lab reports. Plus, it’s not my personality or teaching style to tend toward grading hard. I rolled my eyes at those professors and lab assistants, making faces and calling them names. (Self-important, pompous, you get the idea.) For me, it’s just as easy to not try hard enough because you know you can’t do well as to lack motivation because grades are too easily awarded. So I went with the latter and was generally well-liked.

It was with great shock that I returned to the room to find Knitting et al. gone.

“Where’d they go?” I asked loudly as I walked in the room, and all faces turned toward me.

The guy near the door winced theatrically. “We told them you’d be mad.”

“I’m surprised! How could they just leave?!” But I laughed with the rest of them, answered questions, stayed late so they could write their reports and get them turned in right away, then headed down the hall to the professor’s office. We talked and he decided to take care of it himself.

The story should end there. I could say that I just prefer to look at people in the most positive light possible – offer help, give breaks – but when they push too far, I hold my ground. I’m better now than I once was. But then? I caved. Joe, one of the guys, sent email apologizing for his behavior, saying that the professor had allowed them to complete the work for half-credit, but they didn’t understand the write-up.

On my walk back from his dorm room to help them sort it out, I wondered if I’d chosen correctly. Not demanded enough respect. Let them slide too easily. That’s just me, I thought lightly, and didn’t think much else about it. They were good kids overall, and even if they weren't, my helping them out one Thursday evening wasn't likely to change their lives. I liked that I had taken time to do it - didn't that move me closer to being a good person?

I’m so incredibly far from perfect. I’m selfish. Make mistakes. Hurt people unintentionally. Ignore phone messages and email when I don’t feel up to being friendly. But I’m still a good person, I think. I care about people – certainly don’t mean any offense or harm. They should therefore understand that sometimes I falter, but overall, I’m delightful. Honestly.

In return, I will gracefully accept the flaws of others. Try to decipher motives rather than just taking an action at face value. That lab group? They got overwhelmed. Knitting girl had failed two exams and just zoned out. The guys didn’t want to overrule her, and knew I was getting frustrated with them, so they decided to leave.

Wicked struck me in much the same way. I found dear Elphaba to be a very sympathetic character, and find myself coming up with all sorts of reasons for her behavior when I talk to anyone about the book. I feel badly for her because her efforts were largely in vain. When she did hurtful things or made bad choices, there tended to be reasons. If not that spell then her childhood! The world pushed her! If people had loved her more, or if the world had been more fair, if the educational system had been different… After all, if she didn’t really do anything all that bad, and if she started out with good intentions, then doesn’t she deserve a break?

Convinced I was right, I’ve continued to think about it as I follow Liir’s story. And perhaps I’m a bit off. Then, as I continue to work through my illness here (whimper, moan, blink pathetically as I ask for more sympathy), I’ve had nightmares. I had a dream that there was this sad man. People were mean to him – took away his job, his family left, threw things at him, wouldn’t be friends with him when he was living on the street. I felt so sorry for him as I tossed and turned, finally getting up to moan as I wandered down the hall in search of pain medication.

I fell asleep again and the man was chasing me. I kept yelling over my shoulder that I understood why he was angry. I’d be angry too! But senseless violence is hardly the answer. “Stop chasing me!” I finally said, turning a corner and searching for an avenue of escape. “Damn it! Bad behavior with a good excuse is still bad behavior!”

I woke up gasping, and hurried through the house checking the locks to ensure that no understandably-crazy person was going to get me. Isn’t it better to understand pain? I thought. Wouldn’t it be better to have my sister-in-law try to kill me because I’m so catty to her than to have some random person lose it and hit me with a car? Is it better to have someone angry at me because I did something wrong rather than being dismissive just because he's having a bad day? At some point, does it matter? The brain chemistry and childhood and environment? If you hurt me, isn't that your responsibility regardless of the motivation?

I guess I’m too achy and tired to come up with an answer. But how far is too far? When do you stop being understanding and empathetic and start being pathetic and sad? Do people take advantage because I allow it? Or is it worth it to forgive mistakes because I make them myself? Because I see myself as loving in my gentle understanding?

In grad school, I would shake my head at Carrie when she was mean. She’d snap at people, berate them with any small provocation, not allow any sort of intrusion on what she considered to be disrespectful behavior.

“Grad school will do that to you. I used to be nice!” She informed me when I tried yet again to soothe after she insulted one of the boys. “Eventually you’ll get tired of being sweet and accommodating! You’ll want people to pay attention to you, stop asking you for favors because they know you’ll accept, start dumping work on someone else for a change. You’ll see.”

Have I? And if not, will I?