Day 2 writing challenge
When teaching, I find myself both assuming and then shedding an outer layer to reveal an inner strength that fosters growth in others. Professional development courses are generally two days, leaving little time to engage and impart new skills. It's why the initial impression and gestures matter, along with securing necessary feedback.
This boils down to lessons learned as a child about self-presentation and preparation: appearance and intention, good grooming, manners, and posture. My parents emphasized that outward representation includes conversational courtesies and firm greetings. The buttoned-up look was, we were reminded, for our own good.
On one level, it assured we didn't stand out or be singled out. Our behavior was expected to be exemplary, courteous, and polite. On another level, the idea was avoiding anything that would reflect badly on the family. We were encouraged to feel pride in our family and identity without drawing attention to differences in our cultural identity.
Growing up in the 1960s in suburban Chicago, I never felt outwardly different. We felt like normal kids, going to school and playing with everyone in the neighborhood. Sure, Saturday mornings meant Sabbath School instead of cartoons. As one of five siblings, our family was larger, but our neighbors included other large families too.
My parents sent subtle messages that we were special and should never feel embarrassed or anything short of pride in our family, background, and religion.
My parents ensured we were well-groomed, schooled, mannered, and appropriately dressed. My brothers were taught to dress and behave like gentlemen; girls were expected to be ladylike. Violations met with loss of privileges—sent from the table, canceled parties, or more chores.
My mother would say "let boys be boys," but there was no corresponding understanding for my sister and me. Household chores divided conventionally: heavy, dirty outside maintenance for boys and inside housework for girls.
As a kid, dress codes were everywhere—school, synagogue, visiting others. As I got older, dress codes liberalized in the 1960s, but not my parents' standards.
The irony was that my father had always been a bit of a rebel. My parents had eloped and left the city for Glen Ellyn. I was raised in a house known as "the house without windows"—industrial exterior walls with an inner courtyard featuring floor-to-ceiling windows enabling inner reflection. Here my parents, unwavering in raising independent thinkers and financially self-sufficient children, modeled independence. Everyone was expected to read; no topics were off-limits. The range of reading materials made clear that being informed was as important as social democratic engagement. I learned to check all sections of the Sunday New York Times and to stand my ground on differing views.
Over time, I discovered that the outward polished look opens doors but not minds. That requires good manners, kind words, and genuine warmth. This framing has served me well. The old-school lessons from my parents transcend their era. We all frame expectations, and appearing buttoned-up puts others at ease, allowing my thoughtful, considerate, strong independent self to reveal itself—a nice, welcome surprise.
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