The Box of Minimum Effort

 Once again, I entreat everyone to think outside the box.  Don’t be fooled into believing that it is a luxury only reserved for those born with certain personalities.  Thinking outside the box is a skill that can be developed.  It’s just a matter of removing the right blinders.

In my last post, I stated that “the box” (that stuffy tomb responsible for suffocating pure creativity!), consists of multiple compartments.  I identified the first compartment as fear.  Now I will discuss the identity of the second compartment: Aiming for the Bare Minimum.

Looking back, I think I got my expectations for high school mixed up with college or post-graduate school.  Well, how was I supposed to know the difference?  I’d never been to public school before.  That’s right; I was homeschooled until tenth grade.  Home school is incredible, but, in my case, don’t think that my home-school background gives me any delusions of superiority.  Because even though my older brothers used home school as an opportunity to challenge themselves and to become veritable geniuses, I, on the other hand, took advantage of the situation to be as lazy and smart-aleck as possible.  (I sense that my friends don’t believe me, so I’ll insert an example.  One time when I was about eleven, my mom assigned me to write a one-page report about a famous inventor whom we had just studied.  Well, I couldn’t think of anything to write, so my page consisted of things like, “He was a man.  He was not a whale.  He never dropped an atomic bomb.  He did not invent peanut butter, etc.”)  Why not?  I knew could get away with it.  I knew I’d never be as smart as my brothers, so why even try?  My brothers were born smart; I accepted that fact.  In other words, I aimed for the bare minimum, and I achieved it very well.

But when I was finally sent to public high school (just like all my siblings when we reached that age), I knew the game was up.  I was convinced it was only a matter of time before my classmates figured out how ignorant and unintelligent I was (from years of neglecting my own intellect).  “Maybe,” I thought, “if I work really, really hard for once, then perhaps I can fake it at least enough to blend in with the average students.”

When a new experience is as foreign as a ninja in Greenland, there are bound to be misconceptions.  I was convinced that high school was going to be ten-times harder than home school, convinced that I would be expected to practically memorize every piece on information, and convinced that turning even one assignment in late would doom my grade beyond redemption. 

In my History class, I received my first assignment.  The teacher announced that we would spend the first five minutes of each class period writing a “journal entry” in response to whatever question appeared on the board.  (Questions were usually something like, “What is a civilization?” or “What do you know about Egypt?)  The first few times I wrote such a journal entry, my heart raced, and my adrenaline rushed as fast as though I was taking the ACT. 

You see, I was under the delusion that teachers actually graded based on quality.  Would she give me a B if I only wrote a small paragraph, I wondered?  Would she take off a point for every spelling mistake?  What if my writing was too big?  Would she think I was cheating by trying to take up as much space as possible with as few words as possible?  But if I wrote too small, would she give me a zero if she couldn’t read my handwriting?  Would she research my facts to check for historical accuracy? 

In five minutes, I managed to write about a page of information and personal insights in my neatest handwriting.  I felt a surprising satisfaction; I’d never known before how much meaningful information I could pull out of my brain all at once if I actually searched for it!  Even when working with dry history facts, somehow I had allowed a portion of my heart to bleed onto the paper.  Was that even possible?

I remember looking at the kid next to me and noticing that he had only written about three lines.  “How sad,” I thought.  “I bet he’ll get an F on this assignment.”

That first quarter of high school, I checked my grades online at least three times a day to make sure I hadn’t yet made the one inevitable mistake that would take me down to a B.  In History, we turned in our daily journal entries every two weeks.  When my entries were handed back to me, there was a big, red smiley face on them as well as a series of ecstatic comments scribbled by the teacher.  I sighed with relief; I must have received an A.  All the assignments from my other classes were handled in a similar manner, which is to say, I took them very seriously.  But something wasn’t quite adding up, and I’m not talking about my math homework.  Strangely, my teachers weren't treating me like an average student.  They were treating me as if I was . . . different. 

It wasn’t until about the end of the first quarter that I finally realized that the kids who only wrote a few lines for their journal entries were getting the same grade that I was.  I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I’d known that teachers typically give students full points just for doing the assignment! 

  I had only been trying to meet the standard that I thought everyone was supposed to meet.  But by the time I realized my “mistake,” it was too late to relax back into my former lazy habits, because by that time I had built a reputation.  My teachers, and all of my peers, thought that I was an overachiever to start with.  I’d fooled them.  And I was reluctant to give up such hard-earned respect.  So I kept it up that year, even though all the attention made me feel guilty because I knew I wasn’t naturally smart like everyone thought.  My brothers were smart, not me.  They’d always been the smart ones, the ones that could instantly figure things out or come up with their own ideas or correct their teachers’ equations.  Not me.

Yet if that was true, then why was my ability to understand concepts suddenly increasing?  Why were the sealed chambers of my mind finally opening?  Why were wheels finally turning?  As the year went along, why could I connect the dots faster and faster?  Why did I suddenly find myself able to think outside the box?  It made no sense.  I’d never been smart.  But then again, I’d never attempted to put forth my best effort before, either. 
That’s when I realized . . . putting forth effort was being smart. 

I felt sort of like this baby robin (from my own yard, I might add).  I was still inside the box (or next in this case), but my head was clear at last.  And there was just a chance that I could someday fly.

If I had only done the bare minimum (that is, the bare minimum required to receive and A), my grades would be the same.  But that wouldn't be thinking outside the box.  If you think outside the box, you have enough perspective to see that that piece of paper isn’t just homework; it’s you.  It’s your inner light, your gateway to express yourself, your chance at discovery, your paw-print of personality.  Homework is for you, not your teachers.  You can only cheat yourself. 

If I had aimed to meet only low expectations, as I had done before, I would still be stuck in a box compartment, unable to grow.  But when you look outside the box by giving assignments a personal touch, you reach the perspective to be able to see homework as more than just something you have to do.  Honest effort makes homework something to teach you to be.

I haven’t always stayed true to this lesson.  My homework efforts during my senior year have been tardy, sloppy, unmotivated, average, and lacking sincerity.  (That hasn’t affected my peers’ perception of me, though.  Amazing how first impressions can stick!) 

This blog is the exception to my senior pattern.  I know this is just an assignment for an easy Journalism  class, but I want to put forth extra effort because I long to feel that same level of growth that I once felt as a sophomore.  Once you get accustomed to the thrill of thinking outside the box, that feeling can be addicting. 

I’ve got to find that feeling again.

Please, tell me how I can be better.  I've still got some blinders left.  I can feel that they're there, but I still havn't identified them.  As you'll notice, the little bird still can't see.  I still don't know what I was born to be.  Think, Audzey . . . think . . . think . . .