Don’t let your passion blind your mind.

4 minute read

“The mind is like a parachute – it functions only when it’s open” – Thomas Dewar
It took a young lad named Lucky Jones to drum this into my stubborn head. (that’s him on the right in the photo below).

Lucky wasn’t born lucky. When he joined my class in a special needs school in Harare, Zimbabwe, Lucky was chronologically nine years old, but with the mental age of a two year old (or so it was estimated).

I had no idea of the medical name for Lucky’s condition, but I knew the symptoms. Knew them well. Lucky would repeatedly hit himself. Usually on the sides of his temple, sometimes his groin. Always hard, twice each time, all day long. Usually with clenched fists, sometimes on a brick wall. As his teacher, I saw only one objective – to stop his self-mutilation.

But how? The school’s policy of ‘skills, not pills’ was admirable, but not in itself helpful. And his mother’s approach on tying his arms down to the bed at night offered no insight. But I was determined to find a way.

Two options soon became evident. Lucky would stop hitting himself either when in the swimming pool or when sitting on my shoulders. Many were the lessons that I taught with him perched around my neck. The trouble was, Lucky was a heavy lad. Also, he didn’t know how to swim. This would not deter him in any way at all from leaping into the deep end, where he would sink like a stone.

Lucky and I became pretty much inseparable. We would spend all day, every day, together. I knew that I hadn’t fully achieved my objective, but we had come a long way in that direction. The improvement was there for all to see – colleagues, friends, his mother, and – most importantly – Lucky himself.

And then these two people arrived from New Zealand. They had a new idea on how we should be teaching our students. But what on earth could they tell me about Lucky? In fact, how dare they suggest they knew what was better for him? After all, I’d spent over a year working with him every single day.

My Ego was hurt. My passion blinded me, my ears were closed.

Fortunately, only at first. Eventually, I did indeed start to listen – and thank goodness I did.

Armed with the new techniques, within 6 months I taught Lucky to read. I doubt that he knew the meaning of all the words, and I kept them simple. But his sense of achievement, mirrored in the joy on his face, as he read word after word, was a wonder to behold. It was also something way beyond my expectations and my original objective.

In any walk of life, passion is so important. But left unchecked, it can lead to arrogance - even narcissism - and definitely a closed mind. Lucky taught me this. He wasn’t the lucky one – I was.