The Mrs. Badge of Honor

"This is funny, because we call each other Mrs. even when we are out drinking cocktails. I guess it's a habit."
(ecteach, 2012)

How many of us know the first names of our children's teachers? How many of them actually told you their first names and asked you to use them? Better yet, how many of them call other teachers by their given names?

This may seem a trivial, unimportant question, but how we introduce ourselves to each other says much about the relationships we intend and maintain (not to mention whether the plane we're on plummets to the ground). Even when out for drinks.

At a recent parent event at our high school, I was struck by the way the educators and parents interacted with each other. While the parents used their first (and last) names in introducing themselves during the Q&A, the half-dozen school employees there not only introduced themselves sans first name — opting for Mister and Missus — but addressed each other in the same way. The assistant principal introduced the principal to the audience as "Mr. Steve Benson" — as if his gender might be in doubt — and then continuously called him "Mr. Benson" for the rest of the evening.

A couple years ago I remarked to another teacher how curious it is that 90% of teachers always refer to each other as "Mister Buell" and "Missus Manhave," rarely using first names (and never "Ms."), whether addressing each other indirectly or directly. My colleague responded with a story about spending an entire year at one school during which she never learned the first name of another teacher the whole time she was there!

This anecdote may contain an element of exaggeration, but not necessarily hyperbole, as I found numerous statements like this one in teacher forums—

"At my old school, it was all Mr and Mrs. I didn't even know some people's first names after 5 years."
(teresateaches, 2012)

Over the many years my child was in school, I never once had a teacher introduce herself using her first name, or add "you can call me Mary." This never struck me as too odd, even when I went out of my way to introduce myself as "Jim" and the teacher would persist in calling me "Mister Dunning" for the entire meeting. I did begin to think this distinctly weird, however, shortly after I got my first job in a public school; after spending years in private sector jobs, I was used to coworkers always using my first name with me (and others). I think the only coworkers I addressed with "Miz" and "Mister" were CEOs and vice presidents, and most of them disabused me of that necessity during the first meeting.

I used to think the teachers were being overly respectful to me; now I suspect another dynamic was at work.

This seemed a small thing, until I encountered the concept of "mitigated speech" and the idea that teachers may have something in common with crash-prone Korean pilots.

Malcolm Gladwell, in his book Outliers: The Story of Success, recounts how Korean Airlines turned around a deadly history of crashes by focusing on how Korea's cultural emphasis on social class interfered with the effective work relationships of its cockpit crews. During the 1980s and 1990s, the airline suffered crash after crash after crash of its planes, losing hundreds of passenger and crew lives. An extensive analysis of the incidents showed that miscommunication and lack of communication among the crew were the causes of the crashes, not equipment failure or weather. Because of the cultural importance of showing respect and obedience to senior officers, Korean junior officers used "mitigated speech" as the standard form of work communication, which—

"–refers to any attempt to downplay or sugarcoat the meaning of what is being said. We mitigate when we're being polite, or when we're ashamed or embarrassed, or when we're being deferential to authority. If you want your boss to do a favor, you don't say, 'I need this by Monday.' You mitigate. You say, 'Don't bother, if it's too much trouble, but if you have a chance to look at this over the weekend, that would be wonderful.' In a situation like that, mitigation is entirely appropriate. In other situations, however — like a cockpit on a stormy night — it's a problem."

In other words, a plane's first officer would never dare tell the captain that the course he just set was going to take them directly into a mountainside; instead he would say, "The radar is working exceptionally well tonight," believing that was enough to alert the captain that he should reconsider his flight path — while they sped to their deaths! Not even a sense of self-preservation could allow him to transgress the bonds of ingrained cultural courtesy.

This factor has been raised as a possible cause for the recent Asiana crash in San Francisco.

Now, a school is not a plane, and its staff is not a cockpit crew, and our schools are culturally American, not Korean, but when Gladwell points out that one of the steps Korean Air took to eliminate "mitigation speech" in its crews was to have them start addressing each other using their first names, it strikes an obvious chord. Working in an environment in which we constantly address each other as Mister and Missus, we must ask ourselves if this courteous "distancing" affects how we work with each other; is this collegial "tradition" an indicator of something else more significant in our work relationships? Is this indicative of a similar "ingrained cultural courtesy?"

Consider the "movie showing" policy of one of our local high schools—

"It is our belief that we should not have a school wide form at this point in time requesting permission to show movies. We feel a more professional approach is to look at the time period after AP and SOL tests when excessive movies have become a problem across the school. Each department chair should have a copy of each teacher’s general syllabus which could be used at a department meeting for curricular idea sharing which go beyond movies. For instance, one teacher has suggested tapping into our reading initiative and using the blocks that might be previously dedicated to a movie as silent or even reading out loud time. Discussions, reading quizzes, projects, or writing assignments would supplement the unit. If teachers do decide it is absolutely necessary to include a movie with a direct curriculum impact, these movies will be accompanied by a discussion, assignment, or project. It is suggested that teachers submit a general syllabus or fill out the plan below and forward it to their department chair. The chairs could then share plans at a chair meeting looking for new ideas and too many movie trends. If the process is more transparent, we will avoid having a student watching movies in four different blocks during the course of one day."

When a teacher emailed this to me, I immediately noted the pervasive use of passive language, what I now know is mitigated speech: "we should not have," "We feel," "Each department chair should have," "which could be used," "For instance, one teacher has suggested ," "using the blocks that might," "If teachers do decide," "It is suggested," "The chairs could then share," and "If the process."

This school policy — which was promulgated after a parent complained that  her two sons saw the same movie twice on the same school day — was written by department heads. It is so passive in tone, however, we have to wonder exactly how much policy direction and efficacy it actually delivers and what it means to be a "head" of something.

Doesn't the form and tone of the "directive" come across as more timorous than decisive? The authors are very reluctant to offend.

I worry that if school "managers" hesitate to be assertive on something as seemingly straightforward as movie use in lesson plans, how effective can they be when critiquing and coaching teachers and peers in teaching methods and styles? Are they even able to do it?

If we can't even call each other by our first names most of the time, how can we possibly be open to new ideas, suggestions for improvement, and constructive criticism from our colleagues? How can the language we use even be effective in such critical situations? The same assistant principal who so formally addressed our principal to a group of parents, on another occasion, informed me that she never calls him by his first name — despite having adjacent offices. How productively and effectively can she express her own ideas to her boss and near-peer?

I've also noticed a strange lack of the use of "Ms." in public education and many more "Mrs."s than we ever encounter in other organizations. Maybe there's something about a 22-year-old being able to require both children and their 30-50 year-old parents to call her "Missus." Blogger Elfity tellingly recounts being addressed as "Missus" by fellow teachers in spite of her very young appearance (she's 23), her lack of wedding ring, and the fact she repeatedly asks to be addressed as "Ms." to students.

Are "Mrs." and no first names special to schools? Is this extensive use of mitigating language in education mitigating more than just feelings? Perhaps it's also mitigating our children's learning.

Korean Air was able to transform itself through consciously addressing the undesirable effects of its cultural heritage, becoming almost overnight one of the safest airlines in the world. Is it possible public education has its own cultural heritage in need of similar transformation?

*Cartoon from The Far Side by Mr. Gary Larson.