a little less conversation

(Original Post - November 2012)

Pulp Fiction. Jack Rabbit Slims. Mrs. Mia Wallace and Vincent Vega. There’s nothing better than Tarantino dialogue, because he hits so many truths. I love the scene where Mia and Vincent are sitting in the diner, and Mia notes how ridiculous it is that we feel the need to constantly fill silence.

I’m not the chattiest of chaps, but I noticed recently that I can ramble on from time to time, especially with kids; the kids I teach, the kids I counsel, the kids I raise.

A while back, I noticed something while myself and my kids were at the playground - I didn’t shut up. From the moment we arrived, I made suggestions, offered cautions, voiced concerns and raised questions. “James, do you think that you should go up there? Norah, be careful. Careful, Norah! Watch out, those steps are wet. Hold on, James, let Norah go first.” And so on. I only realized how much I was talking when I suddenly began to annoy myself. The kids, to their credit, didn’t complain or tell me to relax, though it would have been well within their right to do so. I guess they realized that I was being protective. Norah had only recently had the cast removed from her arm, so I was pouring it on a bit strong. But when I made the realization that my droning voice was likely permeating their fun, I stopped. I just stopped talking, and replaced the words with a smile. I still kept a close watch, but I didn’t fill their heads with my unnecessary comments. It was amazing how our time at the playground changed after I did so. They laughed harder, talked more to each other, talked more to me, and genuinely had a great time.

And they didn’t crack their skulls.

There’s a great line in the Jack Johnson song, Angel, from the Sleep Through the Static album. It goes “She gives me presents, with her presence alone…” Sometimes, being present is all kids need from us.

This applied to my work with a non-verbal student also. Now, if ever there was a situation in which you might try to justify how much you talk, it would be working one-on-one with a non-verbal student on the autism spectrum. At the end of the last school year, we were doing our usual routine, I had a number of activities to get through, laid out on the table before us. And it was the usual, “Come on now, buddy. First we’ll do _____, and then we’ll do ________.” I’d explain that we had to do 3 activities. I’d exclaim how fun they’d be… Then, I’d try to coax him into coming back to the table. Like the playground, I noticed myself going on and on and on (Kind of like I do in these blog posts from time to time.) Then, I just stopped. I figured the poor little guy must be sick of listening to me, so I simply stopped. He continued to do his own thing, moved around the room, looked at me from time to time. And then he came back to the table. Without a word, he initiated one of the activities. The silence was enough to bring him back. I often recall the words of one of my favorite professors from university (who incidentally, passed away a couple of weeks ago). I can still remember where I was sitting in that classroom. He was walking around us, his hands clasped behind his back, and he said in a quiet, unassuming voice, “As a teacher, you are not the sage on the stage. As a teacher, you have to be the guide on the side.”

Perhaps the most powerful example of this short thought happened a couple of years ago. I was counselling in a high school, and had just finished speaking to a student that visited me regularly. She’d told me that there were real issues between her and her friends in recent days – conflicts, misunderstandings, bad feelings, cruelty, and so on. On top of this, she was going to have a brutal exam that afternoon in a subject with which she was seriously struggling. I chatted with her a while, and then set her on her way to face the day.

She returned a couple of hours later. Walked into my office, shut the door, put her back to the wall, and slowly sank to the floor where she buried her head in her arms. The instinct to run over and comfort her with whatever thoughtful words I could muster was overwhelming. But I refrained. I walked over next to her, put my back to the wall, and sank to the floor next to her. We sat there for about ten minutes. Absolute silence. After this time had passed, she looked up, took a deep breath, and said ‘Thanks’. She later told me that this was one of the fondest memories of hers from our time working together, and I always thought this to be incredibly interesting. One of my best moments in counselling that year consisted of me not opening my mouth. But it worked.

A little less conversation can be a powerful thing.

Just a thought – The next time you’re talking with a kid, take note of whether you’re doing more talking, or more listening. Find times where the ‘presence alone’ is what’s required.

“The most profound statements are often said in silence.” - Lynn Johnston

“It is a great thing to know the season for speech and the season for silence.” - Seneca Click HERE if you've got that Elvis song stuck in your head too...