Abraham Lincoln said, "Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power."
Since I began as a teacher, I've tended to compare power to a sword.
When I began, I brandished it uselessly for my students to ignore. They
scoffed, and did what they pleased. Power, at this time, was novel.
As a result, I later overcompensated, swinging it recklessly and punishing any without regard to students' motives or backgrounds. Power, then, was an expression of fear.
Learning to use it more carefully, I later became selective in how it was wielded. I became aware, slowly, that the punishment needed to fit the crime, and I learned degrees of consequence. The sword was to be used only when it truly mattered. Power, at this time, became a skill.
Finally, the sword became more a symbol for protection, intended to guard others' well-being rather than solely guard the one who wielded it. Power, here, became intentional.
There are times when I still swing the sword for my own benefit rather than for that of the students. There is a logic to that, I suppose, for if one student does not regard his or her teacher appropriately, then others will fail to take that teacher seriously, as well. Still, I've learned over time that power must be used carefully, and if I still swing my sword recklessly at times, it's because I'm still-- and will always be-- learning. I have learned, though, that misusing one's power-- even if it's because you don't yet know how best to use it-- leads to mistrust, and this mistrust undermines the authority of the person wielding it. Ultimately, and in accordance with what the Founding Fathers knew at the inception of this country, genuine power comes from the consent of the governed, from a place of trust. If power is used for one's own benefit alone, that power is a hollow power, a power in title and name alone.
As a result, I later overcompensated, swinging it recklessly and punishing any without regard to students' motives or backgrounds. Power, then, was an expression of fear.
Learning to use it more carefully, I later became selective in how it was wielded. I became aware, slowly, that the punishment needed to fit the crime, and I learned degrees of consequence. The sword was to be used only when it truly mattered. Power, at this time, became a skill.
Finally, the sword became more a symbol for protection, intended to guard others' well-being rather than solely guard the one who wielded it. Power, here, became intentional.
There are times when I still swing the sword for my own benefit rather than for that of the students. There is a logic to that, I suppose, for if one student does not regard his or her teacher appropriately, then others will fail to take that teacher seriously, as well. Still, I've learned over time that power must be used carefully, and if I still swing my sword recklessly at times, it's because I'm still-- and will always be-- learning. I have learned, though, that misusing one's power-- even if it's because you don't yet know how best to use it-- leads to mistrust, and this mistrust undermines the authority of the person wielding it. Ultimately, and in accordance with what the Founding Fathers knew at the inception of this country, genuine power comes from the consent of the governed, from a place of trust. If power is used for one's own benefit alone, that power is a hollow power, a power in title and name alone.
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