when your superpower is a liability

It’s the last day of classes, and the semester has been brutal. Generally, enrollment is down at private colleges, and our little campus is feeling the pinch. We had a small raise last year, but the year prior, we had none—the year our property taxes increased 11.5%. It seems we get an invitation to a farewell party for a beloved staff member about every other week or so. And when people leave or die or retire, positions are consolidated, two jobs covered by one poor sod.

In my own department, the stress level has been high. This is year two of searching for a new director.

And to end the semester on a high note, the director of security will be reviewing emergency protocol with me and my stalwart student staff at our last meeting today. Earthquake, fire, active shooter. All of which, these emergencies, we think about in terms of “when,” not “if.” Evidently.

At the beginning of the semester, when I still had energy to think about anything at all, I went through a mercifully short bout of regret about my education and subsequent (lack of) career. 

The previous week my number one son had told me the starting salary for a job in his field. When he finishes grad school, he will be making fully twice as much as I earn. Number two son, smack out of college last May, already earns a higher wage than I do. Of course, they still have debt to pay off, and housing costs are outrageous. But it did get me to thinking that perhaps a religion degree was not a smart choice for someone missing the ambition gene.

[When I reported this to some pals, a BFF replied: “*high fives in medieval German*”]

Enter Superpowers

My dear friend Gwynne is a scholar and musician. She recently told me during a lunch date about playing with a ragtag bunch of musicians for a church service. A boy, perhaps in middle school, was on trumpet. And he was improvising. 

After the service she asked him about it. “Were you… improvising?” (And here I imagine she was doing a darling eyebrow waggle.) 

Looking bashful, he said, “Sometimes.” 

“You know that’s a superpower, right? Other people can’t do that.”

And then she told me that it was a revelation to her that other people did not hear what she heard, musically speaking, and that this moment in her development set her on her career path.

Some of us don’t realize our superpowers until pretty late in the game, and then only by accident. Over the years, in subtle and overt ways, I’ve distinctly gotten the sense that as a staff member on a university campus, not only am I not paid to be intelligent, but I am paid specifically to be not-intelligent.

It turns out, people don’t like it when you surprise them by taking up more space than their idea about your job entitles you to.

Awkward encounters mostly happen with students and other staff, and they mostly involve language.

Once, while talking with a student about some event or other, he laughed at me and said, “That’s a fancy SAT word you just used.”

“It’s also… a word.”

One year a darling student confessed that every staff meeting I used at least one word he didn’t know. 

“Write it down!” I said. “We’ll have vocabulary fun at every meeting!”

“Nicole! If I don’t know the word, how can I spell it?”

These exchanges became common enough that I became self-conscious about how I speak. The last thing I would ever want is to make anyone feel embarrassed. 

But the vocabulary friction was a marker for something else, something bigger—that my superpower is not an asset in my position. Or even, sometimes, useful.

So. What if your superpower is not an asset?

I’ve finally learned to stick to essential job functions and roll with whatever comes my way. If I’m asked to support or participate in an event or decision that seems short-sighted or fear-based, well. Not my problem. Sometimes I will privately share my dismay, but I try not to let it affect my work.

I also expect the best from everyone—in a do-unto-others sort of way. Because, surprise! All kinds of people in support positions have passions and interests outside of work. Go figure. A while back I learned that one of our ground crew guys was an award-winning poet. I expect outside-of-work excellence to be the norm, not the exception.

After our emergency protocol meeting today, I’ll finish off the end-of semester duties, wrap it up. And then! I will collect a few beloved picture books and spend the evening with my favorite six-year-old. All of his adults have other responsibilities this evening. His Papa had given him three alternatives:

1) be sold to the circus and embark on a life of adventure and travel

2) hang out at Revels practice, either as an audience of one or in the green room with the kids in the performance when they’re not on stage

3) stay home and make mischief with Nicole. 

His Papa was pushing for alternative 1, but the little man “unhesitatingly chose” alternative 3.

Obviously, this clever Papa stacked the deck, but I still felt like I won the lottery.

A religion major may not have set me up to make millions, or even a damn living wage, but I’m quite excellent at making small mischief with a six-year-old. And which, ultimately, is more important?

Exactly.