Sleeping Giants

by Nathan Mellor

  When each of us performs at our best, we create new possibilities for others that may not otherwise exist.

  By showing that Rwandans could not only compete, but excel, you played an important part in ensuring that the opportunities you enjoyed would multiply and continue to be available in the future.

  Secondly, it is admirable to see the alumni coming together to give back to our country. The Alumni Association and the Scholarship Fund are very important steps in this direction.

  I wish to, of course, as we have been informed earlier, mention that Jeannette and I are very proud alumni of OC. So we will contribute.

  I can only say to all of you: keep it up and continue to build on these efforts in various ways going forward.

  The story of Rwanda and Oklahoma Christian University is a valuable lesson to all of us about the power of human relationships and shared values to drive change and sustain ambition.

  One of the traits we share, again, is tenacity in the face of adversity. Our respective experiences have shown us that you can come from Rwanda or Oklahoma, or anyplace else, and strive to be among the best.

  That is why it is also important for us to continue on this journey together for many more years to come.

  I wish to once again thank you, the leaders of Oklahoma Christian University, and the members of that family, which has become our own. We will do our best, within our means, to ensure that this relationship continues to be a very productive one.

  Thank you, God bless you, and enjoy the remainder of the evening.”24

  Chapter 4

  “I Think You Are Gifted”

  Leaders Challenge Beliefs

  In 1974, researchers Chris Argyris (1923-2013)1 and Donald Schön (1930-1997)2 introduced the concepts of single and double loop learning to the emerging field of organizational development.3 At the heart of their work is the theory that the actions people take have meaning and purpose to the person acting. Consequently, as someone goes through life, his or her actions are connected to their mental model or, what Argyris and Schön called, our governing variables. When people take action, the effectiveness of the action is judged against the feedback received. If an action is effective, it is considered consistent with our governing variables. Through this process of taking actions and evaluating their effectiveness, we each create a library of causal theories about what to do or how to act or think in a broad variety of situations. Argyris and Schön labeled these causal theories as Theories of Action.

  Through their research, they identified two kinds of theories of action: 1) espoused theories and 2) theories in use. Espoused theories are the governing variables that “an individual claims to follow.”4 Theories-in-use are the governing variables “that can be inferred from action.”5

  The discrepancy between what people say and what they do is an old story. It is sometimes expressed in the saying, “Do as I say, not as I do.” However, the distinction between espoused theory and theory-in-use goes beyond this common conception. It is true that what people do often differs from the theories they espouse. We are saying, however, that there is a theory that is consistent with what they do; and this we call their theory-in-use. Our distinction is not between theory and action but between two different theories of action: those that people espouse, and those that they use. One reason for insisting that what people do is consistent with the theory (in-use) that they hold, even though it may be inconsistent with their espoused theories, is to emphasize that what people do is not accidental. They do not “just happen” to act in a particular way. Rather, their action is designed; and, as agents, they are responsible for the design.6

  Based upon Argyris and Schön’s theory, our actions are connected directly to our governing variables or mental model, whether we are aware of it (espoused theory) or not (theory in action). When observing how people learn, they found there were two types of approaches: single loop and double loop learning. The difference between the two can make a profound impact on how we understand the world.

  In the single loop learning model, the governing variable or variables are assumed and the focus is on the effectiveness of the actions taken in maintaining the governing variable. An analogy that is often used to describe this model is a thermostat and a heating or cooling system. Imagine a thermostat has been set at 72 degrees. The setting on the thermostat represents the governing variable. Once the variable of 72 degrees has been established, the effectiveness of the heating and cooling system is measured against whether the temperature is maintained at 72 degrees. When a sensor provides feedback to the thermostat that the temperature has fallen below 72 degrees or has risen above 72 degrees, an action is taken. If it is too cold, the heater will be turned on with the goal of maintaining a temperature of 72 degrees. If it is too hot, the air conditioner will be turned on with the same goal. In this situation, the governing variable is assumed and is not questioned. As a result, the feedback loop is focused on one primary objective, the effectiveness of the heating or cooling system in keeping the temperature at 72 degrees. This is a single loop learning model.

  In the double loop model, both the effectiveness of the actions taken is considered as well as the validity of the governing variable. Using the example of the thermostat, in a double loop, the person setting the thermostat would ask, “Why are we setting the temperature at 72 degrees?” They would additionally test the effectiveness of the heating and cooling system to maintain the temperature.

  Depending on our approach to life, the lessons we learn will either strengthen our existing mental model, or they will transform it. Among the key reasons that the double loop approach to life is challenging is that it creates tension. This tension is a warning system designed to protect the brain from too quickly or too easily abandoning our existing perspective, which would result in internal chaos. Our mental models can be changed, but the process often takes considerable time and effort. Sometimes we are forced to exchange one perspective for another, and at other times, we maintain a belief but it is given additional depth.

  For example, a 20-year-old may understand the importance of saving for retirement, but they will likely have a deeper understanding of the importance at the age of 60. The value we place on health may change once we have endured a prolonged illness. Our appreciation for forgiveness may grow when we have made decisions we regret and long for a clean slate.

  If we are willing to endure the discomfort of having our assumptions challenged, our mental model can be transformed throughout our lifetime. Although every phase of life is important, it is during the formative years of childhood and adolescence that our initial mental model emerges. Because of this, it can be helpful to go back to this time in life to gain a better understanding of the factors that led us to where we are today. When we consider the past, I would ask that you not review it from a single loop perspective, which is limited to judging the effectiveness of your actions, but that you consider the double loop perspective.

  Over the next few pages, I will use my life story to illustrate how a mental model is formed and transformed. Writing my own story was surprisingly emotional. My hope is that my experiences will prompt you to consider your mental model from a new perspective.

  LEAVES ON THE TREES

  My academic career began in 1978 at the Washington Elementary School in Vincennes, Indiana. The building was an impressive, three-story, red brick, and limestone structure. Constructed in 1925, it is a physical reminder of an era when public buildings were intended to stand the test of time.

  I have long ago lost any connection with my classmates, but according to the official class picture, the 1978 kindergarten class consisted of 18 children and 2 teachers. In the photograph, 16 of my classmates are seated in rows on a large carpet that has been placed over what was likely the original checkerboard tile floor. The teachers are sitting behind the children. Mrs. Blice is seated in a wooden student desk, and Mrs. Minderman is sitting on
a light-oak library chair. I am one of two children who are not seated. I am standing in the back of the room beside Mrs. Minderman.

  It is an odd thing to look at a picture of oneself from a time that cannot be recalled. In the class photo, my hands are shoved deep into my pockets, and I am one of the few children not smiling. My head is turned to the right, and I am looking at the camera with my left eye. On the back of my individual photo, which was taken the same day as the group photo, my mother had written, “Came home with temperature and acute tonsillitis after picture!” The fact that I did not feel well would explain why I was standing beside the teacher. There was another reason, however, why my head was turned to the side. I had never noticed it before, but it was a critical clue to how my mental model would be shaped, but, at the time, it would have little, if any, meaning.

  In the fall of 1979, I walked across the street from our home at the corner of McDowell and McKinley roads to start life as a first grader at Franklin Elementary. I loved school, and I felt cared for by the teachers there. Although I came from a stable and supportive home, was never bullied by my classmates, and had dedicated teachers, I was not progressing in my classes. I was 6 years old and had only been in “all-day” school for a few months when I was categorized as one of the “slow” learners.

  It was during a routine vision screening at school that a local ophthalmologist noticed something was wrong with my eyes. Based on the findings, I was sent to his office for a full work-up. The doctor was a family friend and had recently upgraded his equipment to have the most advanced instruments in town. Disbelieving the initial prognosis using the new tools, he examined me again using his older and more familiar equipment, but the prognosis remained the same.

  There were two primary concerns, and both related to my right eye. The first was that as a result of astigmatism (blurry vision), I had developed amblyopia (lazy eye). The second issue was the loss of peripheral vision (tunnel vision). Although my left eye was functioning well, the vision in my right was 20/300. This meant what my left eye could see clearly at 300 feet, my right could only see at 20 feet.

  Due to the massive differential between the two images, my brain began selecting the clearer image from my left eye and rejecting the blurry image being sent from the right. As a result, the weak eye was becoming weaker due to lack of use. When I was tilting my head to one side in my class photo, it was an unconscious effort to align my “good eye” with the camera. Not only was the blurriness and lack of depth perception making it difficult to trace letters or catch a ball, but the loss of peripheral vision also made learning to read more challenging. Because my right eye was not functioning well, when I would read from left to right, I could only see a few words at a time, which made reading a more laborious and slow process.

  Using the best practices available at the time, the doctor took an aggressive approach to my case, for which I am grateful. Although much has been learned since that time about my type of vision problems, it appears the treatment he prescribed was very effective. Working with him for well over a year, he designed a regimen that included “patching” my stronger eye to help force the weaker one to respond. In addition, there were numerous exercises designed to force my brain to recognize the images being sent from both eyes instead of just one.

  As my brain began to remap, the images from my right eye started to register with greater intensity. Eventually, I was fitted with glasses, which would continue to force my brain and eyes to work in greater coordination. On the day I received my glasses, it was immediate sensory overload. I could see things that I had never seen before. Filled with amazement as we drove home, I excitedly said to my mother, “There are leaves on the trees!”

  Learning to wear glasses took time. Because the change in my vision impacted the way my brain processed information, one of the side effects was a headache. To help me stick with it, my parents said that if I would wear my glasses for two weeks in a row, they would buy me a basketball. The bribe was effective, and although wearing glasses has always made me uncomfortable, I began to wear them consistently.

  Over the next few years, the progress made in improving my vision began to slow and eventually plateaued. At that time, we were told I was unlikely to see any additional progress regarding the astigmatism. I was encouraged to wear glasses for eyestrain but was told it was optional and that even with corrective lenses, my vision could not be improved any further. The progress from 20/300 to 20/60 (or better) had been a fantastic improvement.

  During those years, my vision had improved, but my mental model concerning my academic ability had not. It was in these early years, that my original mental model emerged. Although I liked school, I did not think of myself as a good student.

  A NEW START

  In the summer before I started the third grade in 1981, we moved from Indiana to Alabama, and I enrolled at Daphne Elementary. When we got there, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the curriculum in my new school was a review of much of the curriculum I had just completed. As a result, I was considered a strong student. I thought it odd that in my new school, wearing my new glasses, the teachers and my classmates assumed I was smart.

  The performance gap between my classmates and I began closing as the year progressed. The curriculum in Indiana may have been different from the curriculum in Alabama, but the intellectual ability of the kids was not. By the fourth grade, when we began learning new material, any advantage I had was gone.

  It was in the fifth grade that I concluded I was not going to be an academic all-star. At the beginning of the school year, we were assigned to our classes, some of which were based on academic ability. There was one cohort that appeared to be for the highest performing students. I do not know how they chose which students would be in the lead group, but I was surprised to learn that I had been placed in it.

  It only took a few weeks for my teachers to recognize their mistake. One afternoon, I was asked to stay behind to talk with the teacher. After the other students left the classroom, she explained that she thought it would be better for me if I were in the other class. Although I was embarrassed to have to go back to the regular class, it reinforced my earlier mental model. I was not supposed to be in the “smart kids” class because I was not smart.

  ACROSS THE BAY

  When I was about to enter the seventh grade, dad was offered an opportunity to coach and teach fulltime at Mobile Christian School. To be closer to the school, we moved “across the Bay” from Daphne to Mobile. Our new home at 5408 Timberlane Drive was a ranch-style home built in 1974. Located less than 2 miles from the school, the house was brick and had three bedrooms and two baths.

  The decision to move to Mobile would prove to be a pivotal one in the life of our family. Although Mobile dwarfed Daphne in population, the school where my dad was teaching was considerably smaller than the one I was leaving. As a result, I felt more confident in trying my hand in sports and other activities that I am not sure I would have pursued otherwise.

  I was able to adjust to the new school socially, but I felt I was always in “catch-up” mode academically. It was a common sight to see me walking from one class to the next while frantically cramming for a quiz or test that I had forgotten. It was around this time that I began noticing that I forgot to bring home my books much more regularly than my classmates. In addition, although I would take notes in class, I was seemingly unable to keep them organized. In the classes where the teachers required that we turn in our notes, I was continually asking friends if I could use their notes as a template for writing my own. It was frustrating to stay up late copying notes that I had taken the first time but had lost or misplaced.

  On a positive note, even when school was challenging, I enjoyed learning. Also, I had a good short-term memory, and even when I forgot to study for a quiz or test, I could usually flip through the pages of the textbook while walking to class and recall enough to pass. The problem was that I was passing
the tests, but I was not grasping the deeper concepts. Furthermore, I was falling into a routine of using one class to complete the homework that I had forgotten to do in another class. On those days, although I may have appeared to be listening to the lecture, I was completely distracted.

  When I started the eighth grade, I felt the pace, which had been too fast for me in the seventh grade, had only increased. With considerable effort, I passed all of my classes in the first semester with grades of C or better. The second semester was tougher, and as the school year was coming to an end, I knew it was going to be tight. My primary concern was my English class. Even though I was trying, the concepts seemed beyond my reach. In addition to not being able to follow along during the actual class, I did not possess the study skills needed to catch up on my own. Every time I went to class, I felt I was falling further behind, and I did not know what to do.

  I was more hopeful about pre-algebra. Although my grades did not necessarily reflect it, I genuinely liked math. The class started out reasonably well, and I earned a C for the third quarter. During the fourth quarter, however, my lack of mastery began to show. As the problems became more complicated, my grades faltered. Although it had been a tough quarter and I knew my grade would be poor, I thought I would still pass the class.

  In the last week of the semester, the teacher met individually with each student to review his or her grades before the final exam. When my name was called to come to the teacher’s desk, I knew it was not going to be pretty. After some quick calculations, I was told that I was going to get a solid D for the fourth quarter. I had earned a C in the third quarter, which meant if I got a high A on the final exam, I could earn a C- for the semester. Conversely, if I got an F on the final, I would get a D for the course.

  I had never made an A on any test in the class, and I did not think it remotely possible to get an A, much less a high A, on the final exam. As a result, I did not study much for my pre-algebra final and used the time to focus on my other classes, especially English. I took my pre-algebra exam, and it was not good. After the exams had been graded, most of the teachers posted the final grades to their doorframes or a bulletin board. Although I was confident I got an F for my final exam in pre-algebra, I was curious to see the actual score.