I’ve never been comfortable with the word “mentor.” I don’t like referring to others that way and I’m queasy about other people slapping that label on me.
There are, of course, other artists who I’ve gone to for advice, who have helped guide my artistic career in one way or another. My college professors Delle Chatman and Julia Cameron both fit that description, as does the playwright Lisa Dillman, and the late artistic director of Chicago Dramatists, Russ Tutterow. But I’ve never called them mentors. I’ve thought of them as good, experienced humans who have helped me along the way. Maybe that’s all a mentor is, but it feels like it comes with more responsibility than that.
Mentors are people we look up to...which means to me that we put them on a pedestal. I don’t want to be on a pedestal nor do I want to put anyone else in that awkward position. I prefer to look people in the eyes. In my mind, pedestals are platforms from which mentors can only fall. If someone is looked up to and it’s discovered that they’re flawed when they inevitably disappoint, or quit or leave, those who look up to them feel disappointed. Sometimes even betrayed.
I’ve always appreciated seeing the flaws in those who have guided me. It’s made them human, it’s made me understand that they didn’t exist for me, that they were merely muddling through life like the rest of us. But what if I had stuck the “mentor” label on them, put them on a pedestal? Would I be disappointed in them now as opposed to seeing a larger picture? At the very least I think I would have gone through a mourning period where I grieved a bit for the person I had hoped they were.
A former student recently admitted that she had been uncomfortable at first with my Facebook posts about depression and vulnerability. Did she want me to be the strong one? Did a part of her feel that I was less fun to “look up to” if she could see the gaps in my armor, if I admitted that, even when you reach a certain level of success, you can still be depressed and frustrated and messy? Americans, in general, are uncomfortable with openness and vulnerability. We admire heroes and strength. But heroes are only human beings in a costume.
Another thing I don’t like about the mentor-mentee relationship is the inherent idea that support and advice flow in only one direction: from mentor to mentee. I learn a lot from my students and former students. I learn new perspectives and new lingo. They challenge me to be more daring and reckless because they do it themselves. I’ve had former students support me, offer to write letters on my behalf, write funny plays to cheer me up, and send flowers to cheer me on. I can’t imagine not having this back and forth, compared to the more rigid parameters of pure mentorship.
I recently learned from a third party that a former student (who I think of as a colleague) refers to me as her mentor. I was so perplexed because I asked her for advice not two weeks previous. Doesn’t she see that we’re peers? Wouldn’t it be healthier if she saw me as a peer?
I love giving advice when I can. I love supporting former students and earlier career writers through experiences that I have already been through. But when people call me “mentor” and I can’t support them as fully as I’d like to, then I feel as if I’m not living up to a title I don’t even want. It’s lovely to have people look up to you, but it’s also uncomfortable. It feels like something to be maintained lest the title and the respect be lost. Plus, at some point, many people who look up to us are going to equal us in professional knowledge and sometimes leapfrog us in success, and then what’s the relationship? Is it discarded? Is there pity? Can the shift in “power” be overcome? Isn’t it so much less complicated if people are never lifted onto pedestals in the first place?
Is it because helping others is so unusual in our field — in our world, maybe — that we have to assign titles to people who do it? It should not be a big deal that someone gives you advice or points you in the right direction or puts in a good word for you. Everyone should do this. I realize that not everyone does, but instead of putting the mantle of “mentor” on a few, shouldn’t we expect, maybe even demand, more from everyone?
At one point, when I was teaching college students, I flat out told them, “I don’t want to be your mentor.” I said, “I’m happy to give you advice and keep in touch, and please let me know what you’re up to and if there are opportunities to see your work, but the mentor thing is way too much responsibility.” Years later I ran into a student from one of those lectures. He had also been taught by another writing teacher who I happened to know was one of those professors who likes to tell their students that they’re going to be their mentor. I asked what the difference was between us, post-graduation. He said, “You promise less and deliver more.” This other teacher is not able to live up to what she promises and so her former students feel abandoned and resent her, which is a shame. I’ve heard she’s a very good teacher. I remember one of my professors did something similar to my cohort of writing students when I was in college. She promised to critique our scripts after the end of the year and then mail them back to us. But she didn’t. She moved across the country and those scripts were lost or forgotten or maybe willfully ignored. The result was some of my classmates discarded everything she taught us because of this betrayal, and that’s a crime because she was brilliant.
I guess we can only be responsible for the expectations we set for ourselves. If other people have grand expectations of us, despite what we tell them our limits are, there’s not much we can do about it. But that’s why I don’t like people to call me their mentor and why I don’t tell people that I want to be their mentor: either they’re putting an expectation on me that I haven’t asked for or I’m offering something that the other person gets to define. I’d rather promise less and deliver more.
©2016 by Mia McCullough
@brazenhussyrant
There are, of course, other artists who I’ve gone to for advice, who have helped guide my artistic career in one way or another. My college professors Delle Chatman and Julia Cameron both fit that description, as does the playwright Lisa Dillman, and the late artistic director of Chicago Dramatists, Russ Tutterow. But I’ve never called them mentors. I’ve thought of them as good, experienced humans who have helped me along the way. Maybe that’s all a mentor is, but it feels like it comes with more responsibility than that.
Mentors are people we look up to...which means to me that we put them on a pedestal. I don’t want to be on a pedestal nor do I want to put anyone else in that awkward position. I prefer to look people in the eyes. In my mind, pedestals are platforms from which mentors can only fall. If someone is looked up to and it’s discovered that they’re flawed when they inevitably disappoint, or quit or leave, those who look up to them feel disappointed. Sometimes even betrayed.
I’ve always appreciated seeing the flaws in those who have guided me. It’s made them human, it’s made me understand that they didn’t exist for me, that they were merely muddling through life like the rest of us. But what if I had stuck the “mentor” label on them, put them on a pedestal? Would I be disappointed in them now as opposed to seeing a larger picture? At the very least I think I would have gone through a mourning period where I grieved a bit for the person I had hoped they were.
A former student recently admitted that she had been uncomfortable at first with my Facebook posts about depression and vulnerability. Did she want me to be the strong one? Did a part of her feel that I was less fun to “look up to” if she could see the gaps in my armor, if I admitted that, even when you reach a certain level of success, you can still be depressed and frustrated and messy? Americans, in general, are uncomfortable with openness and vulnerability. We admire heroes and strength. But heroes are only human beings in a costume.
Another thing I don’t like about the mentor-mentee relationship is the inherent idea that support and advice flow in only one direction: from mentor to mentee. I learn a lot from my students and former students. I learn new perspectives and new lingo. They challenge me to be more daring and reckless because they do it themselves. I’ve had former students support me, offer to write letters on my behalf, write funny plays to cheer me up, and send flowers to cheer me on. I can’t imagine not having this back and forth, compared to the more rigid parameters of pure mentorship.
I recently learned from a third party that a former student (who I think of as a colleague) refers to me as her mentor. I was so perplexed because I asked her for advice not two weeks previous. Doesn’t she see that we’re peers? Wouldn’t it be healthier if she saw me as a peer?
I love giving advice when I can. I love supporting former students and earlier career writers through experiences that I have already been through. But when people call me “mentor” and I can’t support them as fully as I’d like to, then I feel as if I’m not living up to a title I don’t even want. It’s lovely to have people look up to you, but it’s also uncomfortable. It feels like something to be maintained lest the title and the respect be lost. Plus, at some point, many people who look up to us are going to equal us in professional knowledge and sometimes leapfrog us in success, and then what’s the relationship? Is it discarded? Is there pity? Can the shift in “power” be overcome? Isn’t it so much less complicated if people are never lifted onto pedestals in the first place?
Is it because helping others is so unusual in our field — in our world, maybe — that we have to assign titles to people who do it? It should not be a big deal that someone gives you advice or points you in the right direction or puts in a good word for you. Everyone should do this. I realize that not everyone does, but instead of putting the mantle of “mentor” on a few, shouldn’t we expect, maybe even demand, more from everyone?
At one point, when I was teaching college students, I flat out told them, “I don’t want to be your mentor.” I said, “I’m happy to give you advice and keep in touch, and please let me know what you’re up to and if there are opportunities to see your work, but the mentor thing is way too much responsibility.” Years later I ran into a student from one of those lectures. He had also been taught by another writing teacher who I happened to know was one of those professors who likes to tell their students that they’re going to be their mentor. I asked what the difference was between us, post-graduation. He said, “You promise less and deliver more.” This other teacher is not able to live up to what she promises and so her former students feel abandoned and resent her, which is a shame. I’ve heard she’s a very good teacher. I remember one of my professors did something similar to my cohort of writing students when I was in college. She promised to critique our scripts after the end of the year and then mail them back to us. But she didn’t. She moved across the country and those scripts were lost or forgotten or maybe willfully ignored. The result was some of my classmates discarded everything she taught us because of this betrayal, and that’s a crime because she was brilliant.
I guess we can only be responsible for the expectations we set for ourselves. If other people have grand expectations of us, despite what we tell them our limits are, there’s not much we can do about it. But that’s why I don’t like people to call me their mentor and why I don’t tell people that I want to be their mentor: either they’re putting an expectation on me that I haven’t asked for or I’m offering something that the other person gets to define. I’d rather promise less and deliver more.
©2016 by Mia McCullough
@brazenhussyrant
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