Calibration
What comes to mind when I first think of calibration is a scale. Specifically, an old physician’s scale like the one in the nurse’s office of my elementary school. It had an 18” square black base upon which sat a silver tray that seemed sadistically cold to an 8-year old that didn’t know the word sadistic, but definitely felt like the nurse kept that shit cold on purpose. Also attached to the base, at its rear, was a vertical black ruler etched with silver lines and numbers capped with a shiny silver bar. The handle-like bar slid along the ruler by the nurse’s hand, and then she’d lower it until it met the top of the child’s head who stood upon the scale. That thing, by virtue of the nurse’s zeal for accurate measurements, ruined many-a-young girls’ ponytails and created divots where beads met scalps. She had to know that shit hurt.
That memory comes to mind because I believe it was one of the first times I’d heard the word “calibrate”. I reported to the nurse’s office for some sort of physical. She told me to sit down while she adjusted the scale. As I recall, I asked her why she was sliding the weights across the balance beam if nothing was on the scale, yet. Even in elementary school, I was conscious of weight. I don’t know if I thought I was fat exactly yet, but I remember there’d always be comments about what the scale read. The nurse was sliding it up, adding weight to it, and I was protesting.
“Why you making it look like I’m heavier.” I might’ve asked.
“I’m not. The scale is old and needs to be recalibrated. I have to add a little weight to make it balance, but I’ll subtract it from what it reads when I’m done.”
“Before you write it down?” I asked.
“Yes, Marquita. Before I write it down.”
Fast forward to seventh grade Natural Science taught by Mr. McKenzie, known as “Mac” to students unafraid to be so familiar. He was Mr. McKenzie to me. Me, who was at least a year younger than everyone else because I’d skipped a grade in elementary school. Mr. McKenzie was teaching us to use scales to measure the mass of small objects. My partner and I used different scales, but were to work with the same objects. I remember feeling like it was a stupid exercise. Pick up the thing and drop it on a small scale. Read the scale. Write the number. I finished the exercise and turned in my answer sheet.
“Ms. Davis, you finished that pretty quickly,” Mr. McKenzie said after a glance. You wanna look at your answers again?”
“No, sir.”
“I think you should,” Mr. McKenzie said as he slid the paper back across the desk to me without even looking up.
I was embarrassed to be rejected so quickly and in front of the class.
“Ahh Haaa… that’s what you get!”
“Look at you!” “Look at you!”
Peppered popcorn comments hurled in my direction made my eyes water and cheeks sting. I wasn’t wrong. I knew it. Returning to the workstation, I didn’t even bother engaging my partner. I grabbed the implements of the experiment and hastily repeated the steps. The results were the same as my first attempt. I was right.. Why would he say I was wrong? He didn’t even really look at the whole paper.
He must’ve heard the stool move away from the table as I stood to return my assignment for the second time because without raising his head, he asked,
“Are your answers the same as the first time, Ms. Davis?
“Yeah, cuz I was right the first time,” I fired back, anger being my only shield.
“Do it again.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“Maybe not, but your answers are. Do it again,” he finished.
I slammed myself back onto the stool and my paper onto the table amidst the laughter of my classmates, new teenagers who were satisfied that the know-it-all 11 year old was shot down. .
“Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap,” went my pencil on the table in time with my foot on the floor.
Hearing my rebuke, my partner must’ve decided to double check her work before taking it to the teacher’s desk.
“Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptaptap,” it continued.
I was too angry and disheartened to begin again. I didn’t wanna hafta do that shit during makeup period. What’s worse was he wouldn’t even tell me what I got wrong. Did I miss a couple or did I bomb? The question spiral was preempted by the return of my partner to her seat. Without. Her paper.
From the corner of my eye I saw her slide quietly onto her stool. She didn’t speak.
“Was all of yours right?” I asked.
“Yea,” she said.
“I don’t want the answers, but can you look at mine? Are my answers different than yours?” I asked with tight jaws.
At this point, I believed the teacher hated me as much as my classmates and was being a dick. My desk partner wasn’t a friend, like she didn’t talk with me at recess, but she didn’t let anyone bother me either. Once in a while, I’d find my way to stand close enough to a game of double dutch she was playing in and she’d invite me to join. I slid my paper over to her.
After a moment she slid the paper back to me and said, “Yours are different.”
“How?” I was left wondering as the bell rang and students filed out of the room.
I stayed at my desk, moving the objects on and off the scale.
“Ms. Davis, aren’t you going to lunch?
“I don’t know why mine is wrong.”
I felt angry and embarrassed. Mr. McKenzie got up from his desk and walked over.
“Let’s see what you’re doing.”
I took everything off of the scale and started over. After I placed the first object on the scale, Mr. McKenzie tells me to stop.
“Whaaat!” I exclaimed, the idea that he disliked me and was being unfair was more solid than ever.
“Is that the way you’ve been doing it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Mr. McKenzie smiled and asked me to take everything off the scale and start again, slowly. Because I felt like he was being a dick, I was really just doing what he said because I believed that I would be proven right and he’d be embarrassed. With the scale empty, I proceeded again. Tray. Item. Item.
“Stop.” Mr. McKenzie said.
I froze, except for my rolling eyes. Mr. McKenzie took the items off the tray. Pushed the clear button.
“I did that!” I said defiantly.
He smirked as he placed the tray on the scale and then pushed the tare button. I did not do that.
At first glance I can easily see many of the things I’ve worked to release as having been rooted in some of these experiences. My avoidance of speaking up unless I’m sure that I’m really right. The reluctance to believe that I’m really right. The immediate need to defend or validate my presence in space to others while having the same questions of my legitimacy. The mistrust of people’s curiosity about me. When they asked how old I was and learned it was a little younger than everyone else, was it to congratulate me or tease me. It’s easy to make allowances and understandings for all of those emotions and reactions I had as a child, even the idea that the teacher was against me. Afterall, the way he dismissed my work without explanation and didn’t silence the class when they began their taunts… what else could come from that. Those are all things that needed releasing. The scale, the container and its contents, needed to be cleared.
If I had to describe the process of recalibrating my internal instruments for relearning feelings and emotions and their contribution to the way I understand and relate to myself and the world. What they all mean. I’d say it’s the process of being curious about the process of getting to an answer rather than getting any “right” answer. For me it’s beginning with the scary premise that my first fast narrative about an experience may not be the right answer. And that’s not with just perceived negative experiences. The ideas of good that I’ve adopted are measured on dirty scales also.
With respect to Mr. McKenzie and Earth Science, I came to understand that when reviewing my experiences as an observer, nothing changes if I keep replaying them in the exact same way. Repeating the same steps (same stories) will only bring the same answer/outcome. Either I’d forever be innocent or guilty, the champion or the chump, reinforcing potentially false victim or savior narratives. Considering the example of the janky physician’s scale in the nurse’s office, when I review an experience or interaction objectively and the situation is found to be somehow “lacking” (there wasn’t enough on the scale), was the missing difference, me? Did I show up as my full authentic self? On the other end, there’s too much… waaayyy too much,( and not in a resourced and abundant way), like one straw from the last straw. I ask myself, is there something in my pockets (something unexpressed/fear).
It means that on some level, I have to release everything (all that I believe I know is right), and become curious about what is. It means being a bit scientific and patient with the processes by which internal calibration happens; and, giving myself time to observe, absorb, and grow, or observe, absorb, and release again if necessary, and being at peace knowing that process is just a part of it… it being life.
Recalibrating means taking into consideration not just the weight of experiences, but also accounting for their container. Before I allow my emotions to write anything down in ink, do I have enough alcohol to erase the mistake if I’m wrong? Is there enough on hand to celebrate that I’m right?
When I’m in a present day situations where I stand out for some reason, can I dare to be outstanding - and not shrink back… not blend, or mask, or hide. When I make a mistake that someone else identifies, can I hear them speaking of the mistake and not me. Can I tell the difference between my confidence and arrogance and not let the examination of them spiral into paralyzing doubt. It means knowing, ultimately, that I am and I can, internally, even when outside things may suggest otherwise, I am and I can.
