After nearly four decades of teaching elementary school, I’ve come to realize that I am, proudly and undeniably, the tip of the iceberg. I know just enough about just about everything to be helpful, mildly impressive, and occasionally dangerous.
I’ve taught geology, biology, basic algebra, the solar system, and why you should always tell the truth – even when you’ve eaten someone else’s snack. I can explain how to draft a five-paragraph essay and why punctuation can save lives (“Let’s eat, Grandma” vs. “Let’s eat Grandma”). But ask me to go deep, like really deep, and you’ll find that my expertise hovers just above the waterline.
Now, let’s contrast this with my husband, who has a degree in wildlife biology and can tell you the name of every tree, shrub, and plant in the backyard. Then he will explain which small woodland creature it houses, feeds, or befriends. Together, we’re like a trivia team no one asked to join, but would secretly love to have at a party.
So, I’m the tip-of-the-iceberg kind of expert. I float gracefully, confidently… until someone asks a follow-up question. My husband? He’s the deep diver – the Encyclopedia Britannica to my CliffsNotes.
The Curriculum Buffet
In one school year, I taught children how to wash their hands like surgeons, why “there,” “their,” and “they’re” matter, and how to use Oreo cookies to explain the phases of the moon (arguably the tastiest science lesson of the year).
Once, during our unit on U.S. regions, a student raised his hand and asked if Idaho was a real place or if we were just making that one up. I assured him it was real, and that it grows a lot more than potatoes. Moments like that remind me how quickly curiosity sparks when you’re only ankle-deep in a subject.
My brain is a cluttered attic of semi-useful facts: the boiling point of water in Celsius AND Fahrenheit, the difference between a stalactite and a stalagmite (thank you, Bill Nye), and which dinosaurs were herbivores. Do I know how to count to 10 in Japanese? I did, briefly, but only for a week during a third-grade unit. It’s the educational version of speed dating – just enough time to fall in love with a subject and then move on to the next, forgetting a lot along the way.
Teaching as an Extreme Sport
My surface-level knowledge is a kind of superpower. It allows me to pivot, engage, and stitch together wildly unrelated things into one coherent classroom discussion. I once connected the Oregon Trail, a spelling list, and how to make change, into one glorious 45-minute lesson that left even me unsure how we got there. I’ve taught students what makes a monkey a mammal and the importance of taking turns on the monkey bars.
So yes, I’m the tip of the iceberg. I bob along with confidence, carrying just enough knowledge to impress people who think I’m a genius because I know what a peninsula is and how many bones are in the human body (206, right?)
Enter the Deep Diver
Meanwhile, my husband walks outside and says things like, “That’s a red oak. See how the lobes of the leaf are pointed? That means it’s in the red oak group, as opposed to white oaks, which have rounded lobes.” I’ve learned that when he pauses mid-sentence, it’s not because he’s lost his train of thought – it’s because he’s trying to remember the Latin genus.
There’s something beautiful in his depth. He doesn’t just know what something is. He knows why it is. Why does that plant grow here? Why does that bird sound that way? Why you shouldn’t stack firewood near your house if you don’t want a family of white-footed mice moving in. His knowledge is rooted and rich; the kind of knowledge that comes from years of study and a genuine passion for the natural world. I admire that immensely.
The Beauty of Both Kinds
The truth is the world needs both kinds of people. We need deep divers who can spend hours studying wild edible plants. Who else would have figured out the foods that are safely filling our grocery stores? We also need the generalists, the ones who can talk about erosion one minute and empathy the next. I may not be able to classify insects by order, but I can stop 27 kids from poking each other with freshly sharpened pencils while singing the preamble to the Constitution.
Let’s be honest. There was a time in every one of our lives when we knew absolutely nothing. Remember the first time you had to use the number buttons to input text messages? Or how about menopause? No one tells you that your eyebrows might relocate to your chin. We all start as blank slates, learning as we go, collecting knowledge like beach glass; bits and pieces smoothed by time and experience. We may not have known how to make a white sauce, balance a checkbook, or tell the difference between a red oak and a white oak, but we learned. Or at least now we can Google it and hope for the best.
Wisdom at the Surface
One of the hidden gifts of aging is the ability to recognize this process – to appreciate not just what we know now, but how far we’ve come from knowing nothing at all. (A friend and I even started a podcast four years ago called “We Didn’t Know What We Didn’t Know”.)
There’s a quiet wisdom in being comfortable with partial knowledge. In admitting you don’t have all the answers, but you’ve gathered enough to help, guide, and even laugh. As we age, we begin to understand that deep knowledge is wonderful, but broad understanding has its own richness. We’ve seen more, lived more, failed more, and figured it out anyway.
If you want a crash course in Wisconsin geography, a refresher on fractions, and a reminder to use your inside voice, I’m your girl. If you want to know the migratory pattern of the Monarch butterfly, well, my husband’s probably tromping through the woods looking for dinner, and he will have lots to say on that topic.
Still Learning
The truth is, the deeper you get into life, the more you appreciate both the width and the depth. And if you’re lucky, you’ll learn to laugh at what you don’t know, celebrate what you do, and enjoy the company of those who know just enough to make life endlessly interesting.
Let’s Have a Conversation:
Do you consider yourself an iceberg, a deep diver, or maybe a combination of both? What did you learn throughout your life that has brought you much joy? What is that one thing you still want to study and learn to a deep diver status?
Are you a teacher, retired otherwise, or do you know one? We’d love to share the gift of our very shallow stories. Click here to pick an episode if you need a good laugh today: “We Didn’t Know What We Didn’t Know”.
