I
remember the first time I heard the term “elevator talk.” It was several years
ago, during a board meeting. For a few minutes I was flummoxed. Once I grasped
what is meant by the term, I grew inwardly indignant. Even, I have to admit,
rather self-righteous. How, I recall thinking, could one deem it possible to
reduce something as vital and complex as education to an elevator talk? Why
would one even want to?
The
concept still grates in certain ways, but I have become more realistic and
practical about the idea. I guess I even have a bit of fascination with certain
aspects of the idea: the psychology it involves, the confines it presents, the
linguistic precision it demands. Similar to my ongoing investigation of
metrics, I’ve toyed with a variety of versions. I mix and match elements
depending on the audience. It’s been kind of fun.
Now,
though, I’m struggling with the idea. Why? Because as part of my annual review,
my board has challenged me to come up with a single elevator talk that pitches
my vision for the school.
I’m
glad they have. I’ve been talking about it, but haven’t completed that task for
reasons that will become clear later in this post. Also, while I have introduced
many ideas and started new programs, the unifying motif sometimes can become
lost or assumed on my part.
Completing
this has been one of my primary tasks for the past six weeks, and I still don’t
feel good about my progress. I have loads of mind maps on giant sheets of paper
and on my iPad; I have dozens of aborted sentences and drafts. I’ve studied
traditional models, and I’ve considered the six alternatives that Daniel Pink puts forth in To Sell is Human. I’ve “finished” three final pieces…and promptly
trashed them.
Why is
this so hard? Well, it simply is. It has to unify multiple elements of an
intricate enterprise, much of which involves amorphous elements and long-term,
intangible outcomes. Plus it has to do so in a way that enchants and cajoles
and convinces. It has to be created with words, which have the paradoxical
trait of being terribly limited and profoundly loaded.
Then
add in another fact, one which serves as a reminder about education. I’m
thinking about this too much, and I’m striving to find just the right answer. This
wonderful two-minute video captures how that can stifle creativity:
In a way, I’ve approached this like a student might approach
a typical school assignment. To some degree, I’m worried too much about the
product and, yes, the grade.
How do
I shift from this mindset? More easily said than done, although I know exactly
what needs to happen. I have to move from focusing on the external and allow
for my internal to take over. It means stressing what I want to say because of
what I believe and what is right for children and for St. John’s—not what I
think someone may want to hear. Like an athlete in a match, I have to control
what I can.
I trust that my upcoming vacation
will help me make that transition. I should be able to clear my head somewhat,
perhaps to the point that I experience one of those magical moments of clarity.
That “Aha!” moment I so often experience when working on a big project. Then I
will adjust and tweak until I have something that I can use going forward not just
because it does the job, but because I truly believe it. I want to be like
Elisha Otis, who was so sure about his invention—the elevator brake—that in a
demonstration he cut the rope to show the brakes would save him.
Of course, I’ll plan for my
elevator talk to occur in a really tall building. And there will be times that
I reach for the emergency stop switch because I want to share so much.
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