The genius of a making a mess

This is a pic of Albert Einstein’s desk the day he died.

I could say a lot more about brother Albert’s desk, but as Forrest Gump said more than a few times, “That’s all I’ve got to say about that.”

This picture, all by itself, tells a story better than I could in a thousand words.

Indeed, this pic is truly an immortal shrine to the magnificently messy among us the world over; be we creative geniuses, everyday common folks, or somewhere in between.

Sure, I can keep a room about as orderly and neat-looking as most people. If I really want to.

However, the need for me to want to completely organize any room has hit me about as often in my life as has the urge to run up and face-slap a big ol’ mean just-castrated grizzly bear. I just don’t see the need to do so. I’d rather spend my precious limited time and energy here on Earth doing other things. Allowing myself to be messy is a value-based choice to me, plain and simple.

Over the course of my teaching career, I taught under a total of ten different principals, all of whom I loved dearly (for various reasons, of course). Mr. Dennis Staton was my principal for the longest tenure of any. Mr. Staton constantly gave me the highest possible marks for my pedagogy, classroom control, enthusiasm, creativity, etc. (as did all my principals). But when the time came for him to mark the part about “neat and orderly classroom”, I consistently received the lowest possible marks on my observation report.

My consistent failure to achieve good marks for a neat and tidy room actually didn’t matter much to me. I knew that teaching within my “comfortable creative mess” was how I best taught - and how my students learned best. It was not a lazy mess, mind you, but a creative mess. (To help clarify the difference between these two types of messes, here is an example: leaving an old car parked in your yard to rust away until either Jesus shows up or your cousin who’s hooked on meth sets it on fire would properly qualify as a lazy mess, not a creative one.)

My classroom was quite a crowded and messy place, filled with scientific gadgetry and natural objects (fossils, rocks, seashells, weather instruments, microscopes, etc.) of all kinds. It was not entirely unusual to even have a bit of dirt and a few leaves cluttered on my classroom floor, as a result of my students’ zealous hands-on learning participation.

Moss, snakeskins, wild vines, and sometimes God-only-knows-what hung down here and there from my classroom ceiling.

Once upon a time a ceiling heating vent kicked on and a snakeskin fell, landing (all coiled up) in the lap of a ten-year-old female student. The scream which promptly emanated from her young vocal cords was so profoundly long and loud that we all completely stopped what we were doing and studied “sound waves” for the remainder of our class time.

One substitute teacher attempted to “clean and organize” my desk when I was out one day. The children begged her, “Please don’t do that to Mr. Talley.”

“Oh, but Mr. Talley will love it!” she told my class.

The poor misguided soul, she not only “organized” my desk, she went for the entire room!

Upon my return the next day I could scarcely find a thing. We messy creative types are like that - there is practical method to our perceived madness - we know where things are (well, most of the time). In an hour or two I had my classroom whipped back to my psychologically creative comfort level.

Yet I knew that it mattered to my principal, Mr. Staton, that he virtually hated giving me bad marks regarding the “keeps a neat classroom” part of his checklist every time he observed me, so I decided to surprise him and completely straighten up my classroom one day before he came in for an announced observation.

The bell rang and the day began. My students, who were always so happy to see me, stopped cold in their tracks the moment they entered my classroom.

One little gal screamed, “How horrible!”

Another student asked me, “Mr. T., are you feeling okay today?”

Every student sat quietly at their desks. It was if I had pushed a mute button on their personalities.

Then my principal entered. He found my desk, took a seat, and began to check off his list of things which our school board policy told him were expected during any good lesson. I could see him beaming proudly at my “completely uncluttered and utterly organized” classroom. At least, at first.

Normally my classroom was a carnival of constant engagement, fun, and activity. It was hardly ever a place of quiet and boredom, as it was that morning.

My principal didn’t even finish his alotted observation time. About ten minutes into my lesson, he abruptly got up and left the room, leaving behind a note on my messy desk (yes, I somehow found it) that read, “Please see me at lunch ASAP!”