For a long time my principal, Mr. Farnbourg, was a great source of frustration to me. Farnbourg is responsible for supervising me and for providing feedback on my teaching and my work with my colleagues. But Farnbourg would only visit my classroom once a year, and then would only tell me in vague terms that I still had a lot to learn about teaching. Farnbourg had never once said anything positive to me about my teaching or about any of my other professional efforts. At least that's the way it was until last winter.
I was in the school office one morning, and as I was looking through my mail, my friend Jim entered the office. Jim is a math teacher who happened to have the same prep hour as me, and as a result, got to listen to all of my griping and complaining. Jim was a good listener. Talking to him always made me feel better. I said, without looking up from my mail, "Hey, thanks a lot for your kind words yesterday. I really appreciated your - " When I looked up, Principal Farnbourg was standing right in front of me. I didn't know where Jim had disappeared to, but Farnbourg was convinced I was talking to him. He patted my left shoulder, "Don't mention it, Steve. Any time."
As Farnbourg turned and walked back to his office, Jim reappeared from the back room with a fresh cup of coffee and asked, "Now, Steve, what were you saying?"
Sometime in the next forty minutes, as I unloaded all of my frustration on Jim, it occurred to me that Farnbourg actually thought that he had shared kind words with me. He actually thought that he had helped me. That made me kind of sick, but it also gave me an idea. I wrote a brief note to Farnbourg thanking him for his feedback on my teaching and thanking him for his interest in my continuing professional growth and I put the note in his mailbox. But that was just the beginning.
Almost every day after that I would leave him a note or I would make a passing remark to him like, "Thanks for your advice. It really did the trick." Or, "Thanks for being there for me. It means a lot." I told him, "I really appreciate your positive feedback. It really energizes me to do a better job." I even told him one morning, "I don't know where I'd be without you. Thanks for saving my career."
At first, Farnbourg took my appreciation with some confusion. But he always smiled and mumbled something humble. But as my comments and notes began to pile up, Farnbourg became convinced that he really had done some wonderful things to make my life worth living. Even as my appreciative comments became more and more outrageous, he found them more and more acceptable and believable. He would call out to me cheerfully as we passed in the hall. He started asking for my opinions in faculty and committee meetings. And he started paying unscheduled weekly visits to my class. He would sit there, smiling and observing, and then slip out the door after having left on my desk a warm and glowing assessment of my teaching and my lesson. And it wasn't just me. He started treating everyone this way. And then he started receiving real notes of appreciation. As Farnbourg continued making efforts, and the appreciation began to snowball, we all watched him become the kind of principal for which we had all longed.
I fear, though, that I may have created a monster. No, it's not Farnbourg. We all like him the new way. We hope he never changes back. I am the monster. I've realized the true power of false praise. I now find myself lying appreciatively to everyone. I've showered false praise on my students, my colleagues, the copy room lady, the custodian, my wife, my children, my car mechanic, my dentist, and my plumber. Last month I even told the kid who delivers my pizza that his prompt and courteous service had qualified him for the Nobel Pizza Prize and that I had initiated a worldwide letter-writing campaign on his behalf. Really. It's shameful. But, you know, my pizza service has never been better.
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