The thing about self-confidence is that, it’s really easy to have too much of it without being aware. We may be born weak and dependent, but we soon learn the power of crying and how easy we can manipulate those who care for us. Within hours of birth, we have them running anxiously to see to our every need, want and whim. Reminds me of the story about the little boy who had never talked once during his four years of existence until, one morning, he said, “This oatmeal is cold.” His parents were overjoyed to hear him finally speak, but asked, “Why haven’t you spoken before?” To which the boy replied, “Everything was okay up until now.”
It’s probably a good thing that children have a lot of faith in themselves or they’d develop at a far slower pace than they do. In spite of the fact that we parents eventually claim they grow up too soon, we tend to approve and celebrate every little accomplishment that ultimately leads to their independence. We applaud everything from potty-training to being accepted by the college of their dreams, then wish they still needed us more than they do.
That belief in their own abilities has little basis in fact, but without it children would not venture to try doing things they see others doing. If you’ve read this column for more than a few weeks, you’ve probably seen some allusion to my eternal struggle to keep up with my older sister, specifically the times I allowed myself to be coaxed into climbing a tree where I immediately froze in fear, hugging a tree limb like a baby koala while I waited for Dad to come home from work and pluck me out of the tree. In spite of the need for repeated rescues, I believed, each time, that I would somehow become braver and more able to successfully follow my sister into the upper branches like a squirrel. It never happened. I also believed that I would be able to slide down one of the angled corner support poles on the Jungle-Gym at school, but just before I was poised to try, I would envision myself slipping beneath the pole and dangling upside down like a sloth needing rescue yet again. That embarrassing vision never failed to deter me from the attempt.
One thing that I did firmly believe was that I could draw better than others, well, at least better than my big sister who was nearly five years older. This belief was bolstered by the fact that she had once thrown a screaming, crying tantrum because I could draw a picture of an airplane in perspective showing its profile and both wings and she couldn’t. This knowledge, while I was admittedly smug about it, started me on the road to the self-discipline necessary to actually become an artist. I started by taking one of those ‘Draw Me’ tests and winning a scholarship to a correspondence school. I learned later that practically everyone who took that test was given the opportunity to pay for a set of lesson books and to receive criticism and advice from professional art teachers. My dad proudly paid the modest cost of the lessons, which were worth probably no more than they cost, but they kept me practicing and attempting new things.
During my senior year, I convinced the school board to let me take mechanical drawing, a course that had formerly been reserved strictly for boys, and I learned a few more things that gave me added confidence in my ability to draw. When I was fortunate enough to be awarded a college scholarship, I naively declared a major in art, even though I didn’t realize that virtually all my classmates had enjoyed extensive art classes in high school and were miles and years ahead of me as far as any knowledge of art history and experience in techniques were concerned.
I think, looking back, that it was my dad who gave me the encouragement to keep trying. He found little jobs for me, painting signs for people he knew, and when I was barely 14, he asked me to draw the plans for the miniature golf course he built. Come to think of it, in spite of all his rescue missions, he never once advised me to quit trying to climb those trees.