Captain's Log: Final Words of Wisdom

It was the last lesson of Wacky Science. You could say I saved the best lesson for last, and I'd tell you it was coincidentally a fun-sounding lesson: making homemade kaleidoscopes.

It was also accidentally harder than I thought it would be.

I had most of the materials - the cardboard rolls, the rhinestones, the tap and mirror paper, the rubber bands, the plastic wrap, and even the scissors and the tracing paper and the markers. I even had my own kaleidoscopes, because I had to make this before class to demonstrate how to make one, and have a little fun with it. But in the process of building my kaleidoscope, a problem arose: the rhinestones in my possession were not translucent, but had a silver backing to them. Not quite the kind of object you'd be able to shine a light through and have pretty stuff happening like a kaleidoscope promises. A quick message from my boss conveyed that these rhinestones will work for their intended purposes and I just had to figure it out.

So I did. It took me way too long, with so many hours pondering over this problem. I had to think about the angles and brightness of light hitting the mirror paper, and how it could bounce off the rhinestones to make the pretty sparkles, but also how to make the sparkles variable with moving rhinestones, and how to keep the rhinestones in the kaleidoscope tube without losing any, and how to keep the lens of the kaleidoscope clear, and how to fold up the mirror paper for the best results, and how to keep to one sheet of mirror paper - they were rather smaller than regular paper and they were unfortunately quite limited in quantity - for testing and working on this problem myself. I got started on this project Sunday afternoon, and I still hadn't finished by the time it was evening. I went to bed thinking about this, and lost sleep as my mind cycled through ideas, designs, and frustration. It couldn't be this hard. It shouldn't be this hard.

I have a master's degree from Johns Hopkins University in science writing, a bachelor's in biology with a focus on neuroscience, and my best friend has more than one degree as well. We still struggled for hours over this. I only found the solution an hour before I had to pack up everything and drive to the school!

But for the kids, I had my standard kaleidoscope and my rhinestone kaleidoscope, and I had stained and unstained coffee filter paper from the last two classes, and I showed them how to do craft them. I tried my best to explain angles and light and photons and how to build this thing and look through it and what those reflections mean and answering the students' questions. I watched as they used the dyed coffee filter papers and drew their own designs on the tracing sheets to look through with their own little kaleidoscopes, trying to figure out when I could inject some knowledge into the moment.

But there was an error in my system: I hadn't cut out everything I needed to beforehand. While I was 100% confident in how to make a kaleidoscope, I hadn't prepared the materials to be easier for the kids so they could make one within the hour and a half that we had, and part of that time was to be filled with instruction and cleaning.

Luckily, I had a helper: a little girl wanted to be my helper for the day, and they were an angel - of course it's a girl - cutting things, passing things around, helping their fellow classmates. Other girls and some boys wanted to help as well, but she was an MVP.

But in not having prepared all the materials, I made another fatal error. I had used up too much of the mirror paper for the kids of that class, so the next class would have a very small, very limited quantity of the mirror paper. What could I do? Well, Google did say that I could use aluminum foil instead, so I prepared some sheets of that for the class. Definitely not as reflective though. This particular problem could have been solved with matching one piece of mirror paper to one kid, so I told the boss that next time the activity occurs, I should have in my wacky science supplies enough mirror paper to prevent such a shortage.

I blame the hardness of the cardboard rolls as well - they weren't the toilet paper tubes after the roll was all used up - they were construction-grade, arts-and-crafts sturdy cardboard rolls - and kiddy scissors were not going to cut it. A kitchen knife could, but that was a lot of work and I'm pretty sure I couldn't bring one of those to the school. So, I couldn't exactly make a cartridge of the rhinestones for everyone.

So the next day I went into class with - among other materials - thin slices of mirror paper, sheets of aluminum foil, and a can-do attitude.

Of course, the older kids knew a bit more about light, photons, angles, and all the good stuff. Most had fun with the craft, though a couple students were particularly challenged, and I heard what seemed like a barrage of easy-to-solve problems and inconveniences. Way too many questions with solutions that just seemed a second out of reach; a thought away; a personal journey to take.

And it reminded me of a moment in my own life that I was particularly challenged.

Some people say that there are crucial moments in your life that define you. The movie Inside Out and its sequel are really good at explaining these moments, how one faces a conflict and takes action, and how that action profoundly changed how one did things and looks at conflict in the future.

For me, it was a business trip I took with my mother to London. She was working all day, and I was stuck in the hotel room with my laptop, phone, and a weird-looking donut charger that my dad had given to my mom and my mom had given to me to use. It was the only charger I had during that trip because of a moment of stupidity and forgetfulness when I was packing, and it was a charger that I didn't know how to unwind and use. I wasn't given instructions, my mom was busy, my dad wasn't available, and I was in London all by myself at some teenage year and I don't think I remembered where I put the hotel keycard as well.

I was trapped, anxious, and getting more desperate by the second as I watched my laptop battery headed towards empty.

The last time I didn't know an object's mechanics as I tried to use it, I ruined a toy that my dad and I had been planning on taking outside and using. I think I broke an essential part of it, leaving us both annoyed, frustrated, and myself in tears.

I didn't want to repeat the experience and break the charger. It was the only one, I was alone, and my mom had told me to figure it out before she then left for the day. After many thorough examinations and some tugging and pushing and pulling, it was still unusable, and after a good hour or two I decided 'fuck it' and would use my laptop until it died and then figure out else to do until my mom returned.

But thirty minutes into 'fuck it' and watching YouTube, I saw the nearly-empty battery, possibly a meager 13%, and felt my heart start beating fast. I was the first generation of fast and advanced electronics. I relied on them for entertainment and knowledge. I'm not sure why I didn't leave the hotel room - I'm guessing the keycard was still missing - but as fast as the draining of this device was going and how much I was using it, I felt that same 'fuck it' feeling. I was going to tackle this problem again. I would solve it; I had to.

I thoroughly examined the donut charger once more, using my phone's flashlight. That's when I found something: tiny little words, barely visible, that seemed like a company or brand. A couple google searches took me to the website of a company that made super futuristic and advanced chargers and other things for electronics, and I found the type of charger I had. I watched the little video demonstration. And then I tried to unwind the charger again.

I felt like a total winner when that thing unraveled by my hand. When I connected plug to wall and wire to charger to my computer, it felt like I had solved a grand puzzle all by myself. I figured out the solution to my problem. I was glowing, high on the win, and bragged about it to my mom and dad later. During this session of bragging to my dad he said, "I showed your mother how to use this. She didn't tell you?"

I guess she forgot.

This moment in my life encapsulates some of what defines me: my stubbornness, my determination, and my creativity towards problem-solving. It became a moment that I think back on when I have a problem - such as reaching for things on a high shelf, or figuring out how to make a kaleidoscope with non-translucent rhinestones - where I am alone and must solve it myself. I can do it.

I hoped I could inspire the same feelings with the students. They were coming at me with minor problems, minor inconveniences, and I hoped that I could give them the same confidence to figure out a solution by themselves without my input. I asked guiding questions; I demonstrated how to make something; I told them I believed in their ability to problem-solve.

But despite all I did, at the end of the class it felt like my words had little effect. So instead of my final words being something like "Science is awesome!" or "Remember to always be curious!" or some cheesy line like that, I said instead, "You have to try to figure out these minor inconveniences and minor problems on your own. You won't have the parents and teachers able to coddle you forever; figure out the solution by yourself."

I hoped that would kickstart a defining moment for them. Or at least inspire a moment of reflection. With those words, I thought, I had finished my time as a teacher for wacky science.

One would think with that kind of solid advice I would think myself more successful in terms of teaching. But when I told my best friend this story, he shook his head in disagreement. He said, "You should have told them to try your best, even if you don't succeed. It's important to try."

Fuck, he's right. I should have told them that. It's sound, it's at their level, and why didn't I think of it? Why hadn't those words bubbled up in my head?

Maybe it's because I'm so afraid of messing up and failing that trying to do anything less than perfect fills me with anxiety. Maybe because while I observe, teach, and judge the kids, I'm afraid I have more than a dozen pair of eyes doing the same to me, observing my moves and judging my capabilities. And if I falter in some way, I'd lose everything.

With that anxiety in mind, I felt like my win of teaching the class wacky science was hollow. I felt like I could do more.

Hell, I know I can do more. I know that next time I teach this class - and I'm feeling hopeful about my chances come fall - there's so many things that I'd change from the start of my career as a Nexplore teacher. So many ways to improve. So many lessons I've learned this school year that I cannot wait to put into action.

The kids left the classes, satisfied and gleeful, with their attempts of handmade kaleidoscopes, if not a bit tired and a tad annoyed at my parting words. I left contemplating how I could be better and get my future students to be better.

I wonder if this is another defining moment for me.