High School Supreme Court

Who judges your work?  Who judges MY work?

Here’s the mistake we make in high school:
We let anyone, just anyone, judge our work (and by extension, judge us.)
Muffy, the airheaded but long-legged girl in English class gets the right to judge our appearance, and Poindexter, the bitter former-poet English teacher gets the power to tell us if we’re good at writing.
And on and on.
The cheerleaders are deputized as the Supreme Court of social popularity, and the PE teacher forever has dibs on whether or not we’re macho enough to make it in the world. These are patterns we sign up for, and they last forever (or until we tell them to go away).
In high school, some people learn to do work that matters and most of all, they learn to ignore the critics they can never possibly please. The ability to choose who judges your work–the people who will make it better, use it and reward you–is the key building block in becoming an artist in whatever you do.

I wish I could take credit for these words, but alas, I cannot.  It’s a bit “paraphrased” from Seth Godin, but it’s his idea, his “aha” thought. Thanks Seth.

I’ve spent 15 years letting what other people think, or what they might think, or how they will judge me – determine what I do or don’t do.  More specifically, what I write or don’t write.  For 15 years I’ve been editing my life – trying to make sure this person isn’t offended or the church won’t look down their religious noses at me or my family won’t be embarrassed.

Trying to sugarcoat my truth, my life, as I remember it, has been tough.  I’m not a good liar.

And I’m not in high school anymore – no need to impress anyone.   Nothing to be ashamed of.

My life, my memories, my truth.  The way I remember it.

And the older I get, the worse my memory!  Which is why I’ve got to get busy and get this book finished before I forget everything!!

You decide.  You get to be the judge and the jury.  Either way, it’s gonna be alright…

3 thoughts on “High School Supreme Court

  1. Thanks Stacy – don’t you think there comes a time when we finally get to say “who cares?” I’m just going to be me, like it or not!

    Oh Charla, you have no idea how many dirty little secretes…

    Like

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