There we sat in the beit midrash, my havrutot and I, poring over a piece of aggada. It was a very engaging text and we got really into it, tossing around ideas as we explored. Through our discussion, I came up with a way of understanding the text in which I felt pretty confident; not only did it seem to make sense, but it was actually kind of clever. I felt great--here I was, not two hours into being back in the beit midrash, and already I was cracking the aggadic code.
When we went back into the classroom to discuss the text with our instructor, I was eager to participate (unusual for introverted me, but I felt that good about my theory). As the discussion went on, though, it became apparent that the way I had read the story was actually completely incorrect. Very slowly, I inched my hand back down and hoped that the instructor hadn't noticed I had raised it and wouldn't call on me. A thought raced through my mind: Whew! It's a good thing you didn't actually SAY anything!
But then, I noticed other thoughts that followed:
You don't know what you're doing.
You're not smart.
If you don't say anything, at least you'll never look stupid for saying the wrong thing.
I'm not proud of those thoughts, but I am proud that I immediately recognized them for what they were--my critical voice--and my response to them was different than it would have been in the past. In the past, I would have vowed never to open my mouth in that class again. I also would have spent the rest of the afternoon berating myself for being "bad" at learning Jewish texts. Instead, I noticed the thoughts and feelings I was having and managed to come up with some rebuttals for each of the self-critical thoughts:
You don't know what you're doing. Well, in some ways that is technically correct. I don't really know what I'm doing. I didn't grow up studying this material and do have relatively little background in Jewish texts--only what I've cobbled together over the past three summers at Pardes. I'm not supposed to understand this perfectly yet. Everyone starts as a beginner, and that's just what I am--a beginner.
You're not smart. Actually, I am smart. I earned great grades in school; I have a college diploma and a Master's degree; I'm successful at a cognitively demanding profession. I'm just not educated in this particular field. No, I'm not an expert in Talmud or Tanakh. But I do have a great brain that's full of knowledge about other subjects.
If you don't say anything, at least you'll never look stupid for saying the wrong thing. This was the hardest thought to combat, because on some level I do believe it. But I then I remembered what Hillel says in Pirke Avot: "A bashful person cannot learn." That's something I definitely believe as a teacher, but haven't always believed as a student. But it's true...if I don't take any risks, I might not experience public failure, but I also won't grow at all. I have to be willing to ask questions, be wrong, and "look stupid" in order to really learn...and I do want to learn.
Then, of course, there's this gem from one of my favorite go-to websites when I'm feeling down, despair.com:
And the thing is, I am enjoying it. I loved that class and can't wait until it meets again, and I'm excited for all the other classes that I'll experience this summer. I feed off the energy of a buzzing beit midrash and love diving into material that is new and challenging. And being a beginner is okay. Not knowing is okay, and being wrong is also okay. Being scared and bashful and ashamed--that's what's not okay. So I am going to try hard not to be those things this summer. I'm going to go ahead and learn, most likely making some missteps along the way, but I'm going to enjoy it and know that this summer I'll have grown in more ways than one.
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