Report Cards and Transcripts

Day 199: Report Cards and Transcripts

Right view and intention, right speech, action, and livelihood, right concentration, mindfulness, and effort. Little as I understand these concepts, I know enough to see that going through old report cards and transcripts makes it easy to stray from the eightfold path.

These old report cards take me back to a time when my self-esteem was low and my self-absorption was high, with the result that I didn't have a fun afternoon. The funny thing is, my grades were great and my scores were high. The folders were stuffed with stories I'd published, newspaper articles about me, blue ribbons for music competitions, diplomas and commencement programs, and varsity letters. Yet I remember distinctly feeling that I wasn't very smart, or very accomplished. No wonder I found it slightly depressing.

I hate report cards. The "A's" and "Outstandings" are practically invisible to me. My eyes go directly to the lowest measure. Why I was only "Developing" long division skills in third grade, when the rest of my math measures "Exceed Expectation"? I still battle the tendency to gloss over the positive and see only the negative when I look at a report card - nowadays, my childrens' instead of my own - and unfortunately I believe I often fall short on recognizing the good in them.

I think I understand why report cards are issued - they are a means to understand and track on which skills kids need to develop - but it's unfortunate that we formalize judging and labeling kids just when their self-image is most vulnerable. Once you leave school, you may get an annual performance evaluation, but at least you can kiss pop quizzes goodbye.

I couldn't yet bring myself to throw away my published stories and articles. Even 35 years later, I felt a small rush of pride over those 200 words in Seventeen Magazine with my byline. And yet, it's bittersweet. I haven't published anything in 15 years, except this blog. All that potential, and the realization, as I age, that the most optimistic disposition of this Rubbermade box - the collected memorabilia of a lifetime - will come to nothing more than a sentimental sorting exercise by my son and daughter, someday after I'm gone.

There's something about looking at the stuff I had as a teenager that makes me think like the teenager I was, which is exactly the kind of wrong view, wrong speech, and wrong action that made sorting these old boxes a right mindfulness challenge. What's so is, this afternoon, I sorted a big box of papers. The papers were yellow and musty. The Rubbermade box was heavy. I kept some of the papers, either for sentimental reasons, or because they are legal records. As a result of these efforts, there is less unneeded stuff in our basement, less dust, less mold. 

Perhaps what these records document the most is the love and pride of my parents, who kept all this in a file, labeled in my father's hand. Just my name.