When I was in the seventh grade, we had a guest teacher/learning facilitator/equally-vague-and-generically-titled person come in who divided the class into groups. Each group would then be called to the front of the classroom where we’d engage in some sort of impromptu activity. Looking back now, the details are fuzzy, but I remember my group was given a piece of rope that was entangled in some forgettable object that was then entangled around one of our classmates. Our job was to untangle the rope and free our peer. That was it. No further instructions were given.

Rope | Photo by John Morgan

And so my group got to working, under the intense pressure and scrutiny of our other classmates that were allowed to relax and watch us before their turn. I recall staying off slightly to the sidelines to analyze the rope and the knots before even making an attempt to do anything.

One of my group members—I’ll call her “Lucy”—started handling the rope and shouting instructions to our other group members and telling them what to do to accomplish this task, changing instructions and figuring things out as she went along. They listened and followed her instructions. I, on the other hand, was silent and non-compliant, looking for my own ways to untangle this mess. Lucy saw me separate from the pack and proceeded to boss me around and tell me what I should be doing so as to achieve optimal results, according to her. She eventually left me alone when she saw that I continued to do my own thing (which, as far as I can remember, was quite efficient when some other group members started helping me out). We then managed to untangle a significant part of the rope without Lucy’s help.

At the end of this cumbersome class activity, we waited for the teacher/facilitator/person to tell us the point of it. Well, it was a leadership exercise. And according to her and her knowledge of the human psyche, this exercise was done to reveal personality types and who was a leader and who wasn’t. Lucy, loud, quick to take charge and give instructions, was the leader. Everyone else in the group was, as a result, a follower. It was as simple as that. Oh, and Lucy got a lollipop for taking the initiative.

My seventh grade self was so distraught and upset with the whole thing. Not because I didn’t get a lollipop (though it was one of those chalky Double Lollies—and they were my FAVOURITE), but because I actually believed that I wasn’t considered a leader because I wasn’t loud or bossy. I believed this phony teacher-person and her unfair and inaccurate categorization of people. (Aside: that’s not to say that Lucy wasn’t a leader. She most certainly was.) But this teacher-person, as well as I’m sure many others in society, determined that to be “a leader” was to be louder than others, quicker [to be louder] than others and most of all, to be able to dictate actions to others.

For the rest of the year, I learned to become loud and bossy to prove that I was, in fact, a leader. In grade eight, I became the student council president. That meant the loud/bossy strategy was working, that the teacher-person knew what she was talking about and that I was deserving of a Double Lolly, right?

Lollipop | Photo by Daniel Catt

Wrong. In retrospect, there was definitely no correlation between the loud/bossy strategy and winning student office (Maybe it was a strong platform and strategic campaigning? Excellent bribing, perhaps? Probably the latter reason). But I was always worried about not making enough of a mark or being a strong enough presence in the lives of others. There were always people who used the intensity of their voices and their overbearing/overwhelming personalities who instantly drew the attention of the group, even the room. They seemed to know exactly what they were doing. Their comparatively higher-volume voices meant that they were right all the time–or so it had seemed to me.

But I’ve since learned that people grow tired of the loud ones rather quickly. Just because you sound like you know what you’re talking about, doesn’t mean you do. And that the bigger and haughtier you are, the more scathing the criticism when you fail. And I’ve gotten my fair share, having learned the hard way.

Also, much like in that ridiculous rope exercise, sometimes there will a “Lucy” character that immediately takes charge and earns the lollipop of recognition. She might be loud and she might be right. But if you stay resolute and determined to figuring things out for yourself (and it’s OK if you do so quietly and humbly), everyone else will eventually pay attention and you might become the student council president. And the rewards you get from being student council president are so much better than a Double Lolly.