It was a brilliant September day in 1973. What people in Spokane, Washington, call an Indian summer. Now I think we would call it a Native American summer.
It was the first day of my first year as a teacher and I was tied up in knots. Hadn't slept much, wondering what exactly I would do all day with 29 small, noisy people.
I had made detailed lesson plans. But, still, I didn't have a clue.
Teaching pigs to swim
I had a dream the night before. A nightmare, really. My principal, Mr. Buri, was standing at the side of a swimming pool.
He swung his head in the direction of the water.
"If you want to work here, you have to know how to teach pigs to swim, " he said.
In the shallow end of the pool were four pigs with the largest snouts I had ever seen.
"Well?" Mr. Buri said, his arms crossed.
That was when I sat straight up straight in bed, sweating, heart pounding.
A first day story
The next morning, I walked along the rows of tidy desks, placing a box of new Crayola crayons on each one. Even today, all I need is a whiff of that heady wax scent and it takes me right back to the classroom.
That, and the rectangular pieces modeling clay that reeked of oil and stained your hands in the one of the three available colors: Army green, chocolate brown or steel gray.
The 63-year-old teacher in the classroom next to me, with wise eyes and gray hair pulled into a bun, tipped me off about the clay.
"Honey, they're going to be scared," she said. " Give 'em the clay right away, when they first get here. It's hard as a rock. Working to soften it keeps their hands and brains busy and they forget their other problems."
She was right.
I gave each kid a piece of clay. Celia, a girl with frizzy red hair and a missing front tooth, let out a big sigh and pulled the wrapper off her clay. I had managed to distract her.
Then it started.
Chris, the tall, blond-haired boy in the second row I later would catch coloring his stomach—not coloring lying on his stomach; actually lifting up his shirt and coloring his tummy— sniffed. A lone tear trickled down his cheek. Katie, the girl to his left, was on the edge of her seat. She looked at me, her mouth a minus sign. Now everyone's eyes were on me.
Tell the truth
In a stroke of genius, I stopped acting like I knew everything in the world. I stopped acting like a teacher. I held up a piece of clay one kid had shaped into a ball.
"You know," I said, "I feel like this piece of clay."
Now the room was deathly still.
"My stomach feels like it's rolled up in a thick ball. Were any of you a little afraid to come to school today? Maybe like you didn't know what was going to happen and you were afraid you would do things wrong?"
At least 10 kids nodded their heads.
"You know, I'm scared, too," I said. "See, it's my very first day as a teacher. Ever. And I'm afraid I won't know what to do. How to do things right."
I looked around, expecting some kid to say, "Look out. Ship's going down!" And a mass exodus of 28 six-year-olds, running for their lives.
What I saw instead was faces relaxing and shoulders rising like ten pounds had been lifted from them.
Katie raised her hand. "I think you're a good teacher, Mrs, Dunn," she said with a lisp. A couple of other kids chimed in with simple words of encouragement.
The tide was turning. Why? Because I was honest with my students who, back then were my customers. It was a lesson that I never forgot. Honesty works.
Can you be too honest with your customers?
Now there are there those times with customers and clients where you just have to keep your thoughts to yourself.
If you are a surgeon and it's your first operation, you're not going to say to your patient, "Hey, it's okay to be nervous. I'm scared, too, because this is my very first surgery."
Or you're a pilot who just got her wings and your pathetic voice comes over the intercom.
"Good morning. We'll be flying at 39,000 feet. Just wanted to share with you that it's my first flight. I really hope I don't screw up."
Okay, you could say that, but it might not go over very well.
No one knows all the answers
You don't have to admit your fears and insecurities to your customers. But being open and honest with their questions can actually build trust and credibility.
Just last week, a client asked Bob, my biz partner, " Will these graphics work with the WordPress theme I'm thinking about using?
Now, although some designers would be afraid the client would think they don't know their stuff, Bob's answer was, "I'm not sure. I'll check into that and get back to you."
Because, with new themes coming out all the time, it's impossible to know the features of every single one.
The client said, "You know, that's refreshing. My last designer would lead me down the garden path and I would find out later that it was bad advice. You actually admit it when you don't know something!
How often do we do that?
We say, "Certainly. I can do that!" Then after the client walks away we say to ourselves, "How am I going to do that?"
Sometimes I say to a client, "I need to think about that. I'll get back to you."
It's okay to need time to think. To explore other options. To be a thinking, feeling person. To change your mind about something, even. It's what being human is all about.
How about you?
When you react honestly, in the moment, or when you need time to think about the best strategy or service for a client, how do your customers respond? What if you change your mind about what they really need? Do they still trust you as a credible professional?
Would love to hear from you.
