It’s important to remember that incompetence is not a permanent state but often a stepping stone on the path to mastery. In this week’s episode, both of our storytellers share their experiences of navigating moments when they felt completely out of their depth.

Part 1: As a student, Emily Pitts was never a fan of science, but now, as a middle school teacher, she’s not feeling confident in her skills to teach the subject.

Emily Pitts loves telling stories of all shapes and sizes. From 99 seconds to a one-hour Fringe shows. When she's not jotting down notes for stories, she's working on a manuscript about trees, co-producing comedy shows in Iceland, or wandering off in search of other exciting things to do. Recently, she started co-producing and hosting a powerpoint edu-tainment show in Seattle called ‘My Comedian Teacher’. In her spare time, she teaches middle school.

Part 2: Despite his deep desire to study science, Andrew Barnes is constantly told he can’t.

It's never too late to follow your dreams, and at 30, Andrew Barnes is doing just that. Back in school to get his degree in biology, Andrew plans to work in Veterinary Medicine or ecological restoration, or both. That story is still being written.

Episode Transcript

Part 1

In the late '90s, my parents made a controversial decision, the year I was 11, that they were going to homeschool me and my three siblings. I wasn't so excited about this, but what I was excited about is that I had unlimited free time to read books.

I was a fairly self directed child, and so my mom gave me all the curriculum, all of the books, all of the textbooks, and said, “Emily, just read these, and if you have any questions, let me know.”

So, I read all the books, except the science textbook. That seemed pretty boring. I skimmed it, and I was like, “When am I ever gonna use this?”

And when you're self directed, you can skip stuff and nobody knows. How would they know? You don’t tell them.

As time went on, I was homeschooled until I graduated. I went to college and I thought, “You know what? I love this experience so much, I'm gonna stay here forever. I am going to become a teacher.”

Emily Pitts shares her story at Jewelbox Theater in Seattle, WA in December 2023. Photo by Elizar Mercado.

And so I did. I got certified in English Language Arts and Social Studies and I thought, “This will be great. I'm going to substitute teach to figure out what school I want to work at.” So, I went off and I substitute taught in middle school.

And middle school children are crazy. They will try to hurt your feelings on purpose and accident. So, when I was feeling particularly like, “I'm done with you guys,” I would go next door to the elementary school and I would teach them. They were just as crazy, but they were smaller and so it didn't seem so bad.

After a week of being in the elementary school, the principal came to me and she was like, "I would like to offer you a job for the fall."

And I said, "That's funny, but I'm not certified."

She was like, "What do you mean?"

I said, "I'm certified for middle school and high school. I'm not certified for elementary.”

"What would it take?"

“More classes."

And my mom says I've been in college long enough.

Four months later, I was certified. I had accepted a fifth grade position and I thought teaching fifth grade was going to be magical. It was going to be a place where we loved learning. And it was so exciting. I'd spring out of bed every day, like Ms. Frizzle, and I'd be like, "We're gonna learn science with magic."

That is not what happened. It was like drinking from a fire hose. I was teaching in a Title I school, which is a school that has unique challenges. 80% of my students were on free and reduced lunch.

Many of my students were immigrants. English was not their first language. In fact, my first year of teaching, I had three students who didn't speak any English.

Also, there was gang violence in the neighborhood, there was drug and alcohol problems all throughout the neighborhood and it just was really hard. But what was worse than all of that is that I had to teach science.

One day, I discovered this gray box in my classroom. I opened it up and it's called a science kit. I was like, “Where did this come from?”

The janitor was like, “It's been in the office for three months. I finally delivered it to your classroom.”

I was like, “I've been supposed to be teaching this?” The answer was yes.

I open it up and this is where my teaching dreams went to die, like there was all this stuff and there was a teacher guide and I couldn't figure it out. It was on Physics. All I know is what goes up must come down.

We were supposed to build a car out of K’NEX and then roll it down slopes and time it. I don't know why.

We tried. It didn't work. I was like, "We're putting everything back in the box and we're sending that box away."

The next box arrived and that was on biology. Now, my dad is a scientist. Both my parents studied Environmental Science, and so I think that's why they thought their self directed child would have no problems with science because they both like science.

And my dad was interviewed for a book called Invisible Allies: Microbes That Shape Our Lives. And as a gift, the author gave him her first book called Invisible Enemies, which is on the history of infectious disease.

I read it and I was like, “This is fascinating.” I was learning about cholera water vectors. I was learning about how the Chinese inhaled smallpox scabs to inoculate themselves. It fully sold me on vaccines. I am 100% on board.

Anyway, I get the Biology science kit and it has a question that goes with it. It says, "Johnny eats a chicken sandwich that has been sitting out all day in a hot room. Why does he get sick?" The answer is food poisoning, Salmonella.

I taught this unit so well that the kids avoided chicken in the cafeteria for a month. Unintended consequence, but successful.

But then the third kit arrived. This was Astronomy. Now, if it had been Astrology, I would have 100% nailed it. I can teach the zodiac, the houses, the planets, the rising, the degrees, I got it. But it was Astronomy, and the question was, “You get on the school bus at 8:00 AM in November and it's dark. You get on the school bus at 8:00 AM in April and it's light. Why?”

I don't know why. A day is 24 hours. The day time does not change. Why is the light changing? I was like, “The teacher guide will tell me.”

There's a section in the teacher guide for teachers who don't remember or maybe never learned. I read it. Twice, because I'm really good at reading, and I still can't figure it out.

I'm like, “You know what? We don't need Astronomy. When are we ever gonna use this?” And I hide the box under my desk

Two weeks later, I find out science is a tested subject in fifth grade and all of my students will have to take a science test. I have to get the box back out. It causes me unbelievable anxiety.

We get through that first year of teaching and I think next year will be better. Next year is the year they change the science units. No longer was there a wonderful bacteria unit that was about food poisoning, but there's now a Design and Engineering unit, an Ecosystems unit, another Astronomy unit and Chemistry.

I'm like, “So much science," and I think I can do it, except in my version of thinking you can do something, it means you have to talk about it a lot. And so I'd be at my house being like, "I have to do an Ecosystems lab. I have to give children owl pellets.” It's not even owl poop. It's owl vomit. They have to pry it apart and they have to look at the bones and determine what the owl ate.

And my dad, who is a scientist, is like, "Emily, that sounds fun."

And I go, "Dad, if I give them dissection tools, they're going to dissect each other. These are difficult children."

And he's like, "I could come in and teach science."

Then I was like, "Yes, you could. When is your day off?” It was like Friday. I was like, “You're signed up. I'll check you in.”

So my dad came. I prepped my class. I was like, “My dad is a real scientist. He is gonna come and he is gonna teach us science, all of us. And you will behave.”

And they're like, “A real scientist?”

I was like, “Yes.”

My dad comes in and he explains the activity. He hands out the safety goggles and the dissection tools and the kids love him and they love the activity. They are dissecting. They are trying to figure out is this mole bones? Is it mouse bones? Is it rat bones?

One kid asks me if he can make a necklace out of the bones. I was like, “That is very on brand for me, but not science class.” So I gave him a baggie to take the bones home in, just in case he wanted to do an arts and crafts project there.

But, next, so we get through that and I'm like, “Yes, they learned something.” We get to the next unit. It's the Chemistry unit. They want us to scorch mystery powders with a Bunsen burner.

They have sent me the Bunsen burner. If I give these kids a Bunsen burner, we might burn down the school. I am once again stressing out about it and I'm like, “They want me to scorch five, white mystery powders on a Bunsen burner and observe the results.”

And my dad is like, “That sounds so fun.”

I was like, “Can you come in and teach science again?”

He's like, “Absolutely.”

So, he comes up, and these children who, I had the unholy trinity of boys, they loved him and they were like, “Can we scorch them all?”

I was like, “Yes, with my dad.”

So, my dad is teaching them how to scorch things. He's teaching them how to add acid. He's teaching them how to add vinegar. They're making observations. They love science. They love him. It is a great day.

They're like, "This is the best day of school ever."

I'm like, "I'm so glad you think that."

We get to the Astronomy unit and I actually teach it. I figured out the reason for the lack of sun and the more sun, it has to do with the angle of the earth and how there's two rotations. I watched a YouTube video. I finally got it explained.

And I was like, “Okay, guys, we're doing Astronomy.”

I hand them out the wooden dowels and the styrofoam balls and the flashlights and they have to simulate day and night. I think they're actually learning something.

And they're like, “When is your dad coming back?”

I'm like, “Soon.”

And he does come back. He comes back not just for the labs but he also goes on our field trips with us and he comes to family read ins. He becomes this beloved member of my classroom that all the kids are excited about.

I know this because Diego asked me one day, he's like, “Ms. Pitts, if your dad is a scientist then why are you a teacher?”

I'm like, “Diego, I wonder that everyday myself. I don't know why I am a teacher and he is a scientist.”

I was in public education for now 10 years, but for five years I taught fifth grade. My dad was a huge part of all of those fifth grade experiences. The thing that I have learned from that experience is that, well, I learned all the science that I should have learned as a child and then my children got to learn science for someone who loved science and enjoyed teaching science.

Now, when kids ask me, "Ms. Pitts, when are we ever gonna use this?" I say, "When you're the teacher, you're gonna want to know how to teach it."

Thank you.

Part 2

I am 11 years old. I'm standing in a rainforest in Brazil, surrounded by Kapok trees and rubber rubber trees and camu camu, enthralled by the lobster claws and the orchids and the Victoria amazonica, in love with the sounds of the toucans and the jaguars and the ring tailed lemurs, and that one is very important. As a kid, I was obsessed with Zoboomafoo.

I'm touching every color and every texture, just taking it all in, but, suddenly, I'm not in a rainforest at all. It's actually the Museum of Natural History in Chicago. The trees are being replaced by ashy material and the smell of flowers is disappearing and replaced with an overwhelming smell of smoke. The animals, too, have gone. It's just me, holding my mother's hand, crying in an exhibit about deforestation.

I plead with her to do something to make it stop and she does her best to soothe me. “Honey, it is just an exhibit. This is not happening right here, right now.”

“But, Mom, it is happening somewhere and we have to do something about it. I want to help.”

“Oh, buddy, you can't do that. It is too much work for one 11 year old.”

My first real no. Well, that wasn't a rule. No biting, no dessert before dinner, no elbows on the table. Those I had thousands of. But this, this no felt different.

I was the third of four kids. In an effort to limit competition among us, my parents gave us each our own path to follow. My eldest sister Nicky was groomed to be a teacher from when she was little, which she always knew she wanted to do. Betsy was the artist of the group and my little brother Ben, he was the math and science kid.

He was a child prodigy. He could find a pattern a mile away, even if it was just one, he'd figured out on his own. His mental math capability put all of us to shame. So, I wasn't the science kid. That was him.

As the only one of the four of us who wasn't selected for the Gifted and Talented Program in our school, which was an advantage at the time, I felt unsure of where my place was going to be. What do you do with someone who is not gifted and talented? You put them in the performing arts.

Andrew Barnes shares his story at Caveat in New York, NY in December 2023. Photo by Arin Sang-Urai.

So, I smiled my way through tap classes and advanced choir. I tooted my little baritone in the jazz concerts. I perfected my posture and piano lessons and sang, "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow" and countless other show tunes in the school musical. And it feels so ungrateful to say, but I hated it, all of it.

So, the nos continued. “No, you can't go to summer science class.” No chemistry set for Christmas, no science fair entries, no, bug kits, no overnights in the planetarium. “No, you can't take science electives. You should try speech or maybe Photoshop.” “No, you can't take AP Bio. You will be out of your depth.” “No, we are not signing you up for the ACTs or the SAT2s in science. You do not need them.” “No, you cannot take physics. It is not required.” “No, you shouldn’t take honors chemistry. It will ruin your GPA.”

I wasn’t a bad student. I just didn’t test well. But my ability to perform became the sole source of my self worth. Eventually, even I thought, “I can’t do this.”

I'm 17. I'm sitting in that typical library chair that is not comfortable but you sink into anyway. I'm a junior in high school now in Portland, Maine. I'm in my first guidance counselor session and we're going to start talking about the schools I'm going to apply to next fall. I have a list of 15 schools up and down the East Coast, because my recent obsession is marine life.

“Mr. Brady, I wanna study biology.”

“Biology?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Andrew, you can't do that. You haven't taken the classes that you need. You would never succeed. We need to set you up for success. You should try Liberal Arts School.”

I sat up straight, that perfect piano posture. Stone-faced. I have perfected how to hear “You are not good enough.” Suddenly, the room is too hot. I can smell how burnt Mr. Brady’s coffee is. The picture of the lion with the word “Excellence” under it that hangs in every public high school becomes a blur of oranges and reds, but I pull it back.

I put my feet firmly on the ground. I look at the knot of Mr. Brady's tie, so it looks like I'm looking directly at him. I say, "Where do I start?"

He slides me a brochure that he's already pulled out about liberal arts schools from under his notebook and across his desk to me.

And I do go to a liberal arts school in New Jersey, surrounded by a forest and not an ocean. Still beautiful, but not the tidepools that I thought my galoshes would be avoiding as I identify different types of mollusks.

I study Sociology and Theater. Sociology I find myself in the department easy. Theater, I focus on the one thing I do love, writing.

I'm 21. It's the fall semester of my senior year. I'm taking the last general education class I need to graduate, Environmental Science. And instead of a lab, we have to do community hours to restore natural habitats. Naturally, I pick the arboretum.

One fall, crisp fall day, the professor, my classmates, and I, we head out at 7:00 AM. It smells like fresh dew and stale vodka. Okay, I smell like stale vodka. A tree has been struck by lightning. The roots are still alive so we need to excavate the dead bit so that we can keep the live bit so that the tree can continue to nourish the soil of our arboretum.

We're working quietly and halfway up the broken bit of the tree and, all of a sudden, I hear crunch, crunch, crunch.

Everybody stops. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

I look up and at the top of the hill is the most beautiful black bear I have ever seen in my life. Everyone freezes with fear, but I'm shaking with anticipation. The urge to run up and pet it is unreal. But I know better, so I do not do that. I have both hands still.

The professor asks someone to grab the bear kit. Nobody moves, so I cautiously jump out of the tree and run to the pots and pans. On some level, this was expected. I bang the pots and pans as loudly as I can, running in a zigzag to make the sound reverberate off the trees, like we've been taught.

The bear stops, stares at us. This is it. Surely, we are fucked. But the bear decides to turn around and go back down the hill.

We clean up quickly, decide to come back tomorrow, give the bear some space.

On the way back to campus, my professor is talking to me and she asks, “Why isn’t this your major?”

And I tell her simply, “I can’t.”

The next semester, I'm taking the Sociology of Education. Within the first month, we are disassembling the social construct that is education and what it means to do well in school. I feel layers of myself fall away. This idea of having to be good in school to be successful in life starts to crack for the first time. I am slowly untying the knots that tether my self worth to my ability to perform. This projection that I’ve put on myself starts to fade for the first time and success is more tangible than ever.

But I'm about to graduate and I have no idea what I'm going to do. I don’t end up using my degree in Sociology or in Theater, but I do end up working full time as a veterinary technician.

I'm 28. It's 2021, deep pandemic times. I do still write on the side, but I am working full time in a veterinary hospital. I have finally found something that I am passionate about. I'm taking my licensing classes. I'm excelling in pathology.

One day, I'm preparing a sample for the lab and Dr. Louana Cheung comes up to me and says, “Hey, let's chat."

She pulls me into an exam room. She says, "So, why are you in tech school?”

My brain deflates. Here we go again.

I sit up straight, I put my feet firmly on the floor, I steel my gaze. I tell myself, “Do not make a face when she tells you that you can’t do this.”

I get my “I get it” speech ready but she must catch on.

“I just mean, Andrew, you could be a veterinarian.”

Silence. The world around me shifts a little.

“I mean it, Andrew. I've never met anyone as passionate about making the perfect blood smear as you.”

After what feels like hours, I say, “So, where do I start?”

Thank you.