Lin's Long Lesson

Lin's childhood consisted of severe hardship on the home front. When she was an infant, her parents divorced, and her mother, now without a spouse, left her at a nursery. Poverty deprived them of convenience, yet her mother concealed her worry. Curiosity was a hard-wired instinct in Lin; once an electrical wire shocked her badly, which taught her caution. Her mother's patience and guidance enabled her to cope with constant anxiety, and imagination and fantasy became her refuge from a seemingly distant father. Her memories are blurred fragments.

In secondary school, Lin was a diligent, intelligent teenager, keen on textbooks and eager to build her vocabulary. She quoted whole paragraphs and phrases from memory, and her literacy and comprehension peaked at fifteen. Lectures that bored others fascinated her. Yet she was not sociable. Peers stereotyped her as cold and dismissed her as odd, which annoyed her. Prone to mood swings, she hid her emotions under a disguise of calm and could not relate to fellow students. A sympathetic librarian urged her to read about psychology and personality traits.

Lin's ambition was to enroll in a bachelor's program in psychology. Prior to the results, she was one of many anxious hopefuls; admission was hard and tuition high, so a scholarship was an absolute priority. On the basis of her grades and a creative essay, she won an award sufficient for the full fees, with nothing owing. Her mother gave her a hug, and Lin grinned with delight. Moreover, the school quoted her essay in its weekly newsletter. This recognition lifted her self-esteem; she felt confident and optimistic.

The transition to campus life was a shock. As an undergraduate, she faced a packed curriculum, frequent lectures, and piles of reading. Fatigue and a creep in her workload overwhelmed and depressed her. A string of low marks frustrated her, and the worst week came in November. To escape, she let the temptation of her phone occupy her nights; in the meantime, she grew distracted and her grades decreased. Her enthusiastic roommate urged her to chat with classmates and seek out a study group. "You may well enjoy it," she said with laughter.

In her second year, Lin encountered a prominent scholar, a specialist in cognitive psychology at the national academy. His remarkable lectures fascinated her: he conveyed complex ideas through vivid cases. He underlined that intuition is no substitute for evidence, and that many widespread assumptions about the mind are illusions, or nonsense that confuses students. Lin was amazed. Her intellectual quest revived, and she got to exploit her passion as his lab assistant.

Once the professor lectured her for a careless error that spoiled a week of data. She felt embarrassed and awkward and was tempted to take it personally. Her first impulse was anger; then came guilt. She made a humble apology instead of trying to justify the mistake. He reacted calmly and with sympathy: "Put yourself in the shoes of a beginner. Such setbacks are temporary. What matters is the latter part: how you behave afterwards."

That night Lin wrote a reflection in her journal. Her obsession with perfection, she saw, partly originated in vanity and a fear of disappointing her mother. Her ideal was an illusion. Conscious of this, she exerted discipline more gently. She set priorities, allocated time for leisure, sustained a decent diet, and slept a minimum of seven hours to safeguard her health. Students are meant to rest; it is advisable, not lazy. She derived evident, beneficial calm from an abundance of small habits, and her mood became a reflection of a healthier self.

Her project asked whether peers motivate learning better than teachers. Conventional wisdom and the consensus among educators attribute success to formal teaching. Lin's assumption was different. In conjunction with two teachers, she distributed blank notebooks to a weekly reading group, supervised it, and inspected the notes. Mutual help sparked enthusiasm. Students reluctant to speak would imitate their peers, and such imitation was a trigger for learning. The implication was drastic: schools may need to reverse their priorities, integrate peer groups, and transform their classes.

Lin presented her findings at a convention. One specialist raised an objection that her sample was too small for valid claims. Lin was not frightened. She had anticipated the question, admitted the hazard, and proceeded to show subsequent data from a second school. The pattern was true of rich and poor schools alike, regardless of external support. Such peer learning, she argued, is not a marginal occurrence but relevant to every class. Several teachers championed her inclusive approach, and in the face of a formidable critic she earned a compliment.

Lin does not credit genius. In terms of talent, she is ordinary; her merit lies in effort, and patience compensated for a late start. In the short term, failure hurts; over a lifetime, it can enlighten. As to her mother, Lin draws on her stability. On top of her studies, Lin now volunteers at a nursery in a lane behind the campus extension, work suitable for her. Children undergo changes fast, so she stays alert. By all means stay curious, she tells them: curiosity is crucial to educate, and a curious mind is resistant to fear and unlikely to give up.