A Special Day for a Science Fair Judge
His opening words saddened me. They were said quietly, barely audible. With averted eyes, he said, “I did this project about the strength of bridges, but it’s not much good.” He looked up, attempted a small, sad smile, and added, “Nothing I do is much good.”
He was a shy, quiet seventh grader. He seemed especially small and vulnerable surrounded by the chaos and noise of the hundreds of other students and their projects.
His frightened eyes were familiar to me, because it’s the same look I see on most students being judged for the first time. But on this occasion, his words gave his look a sad meaning.
They put a lump in my throat. I was sad that a young child would feel that way. I wanted to say something reassuring, but all I could manage was to ask him to continue.
He described a bridge near his home, built with very large steel beams. He had reasoned that if the bridge was built a different way, smaller beams could be used, making the bridge easier to build and less expensive. That was the theory he was testing.
To put this in the proper perspective, an engineering student would have no problem analyzing his proposed theory. This 7th grader, however, could only observe and think, with no calculus or advanced mathematics to assist him in the design.
He described his reasoning, and how he came to the conclusion for picking this particular design. And by now, he was beginning to relax, and explained, “The project’s no good because my design didn’t work. When I tested it, it broke at a lower weight than it was supposed to.”
He reasoning and data collection had been brilliant, and as he explained it in detail, I realized I would be giving him a perfect score. I told him the failure of his theory only meant he had missed something minor, because he hadn’t yet learned the math and science necessary for a perfect design. I told him how Thomas Edison had unsuccessfully tested hundreds of filaments for his light bulb, and considered every one a success, because he learned something every time one failed. I spent a lot of time trying to convince him how good his project was, and how exceptional he was to have come up with the design. I also gave him hints to improve the project, because he now had to get ready for the state science fair, which his superior score earned him the right to attend. I felt pleased as I walked away, seeing a happy smile replace his original sad look.
But the rest of the story is what brings me back to science fairs year after year.
The young man remained in my mind. When I traveled to the State Science Fair, a month later, I arrived early. I wanted to find him and encourage him, before the judging started. As I neared his assigned spot, he saw me and shouted “Mom! That’s the man who judged me at Defiance College”. This young mother came to me with tears on her cheeks, thanked me, and grabbed and hugged me. She later took me out of hearing, away from the boy, and told me she had been going through a terrible divorce from a husband who always put his son down, because he obviously wasn’t going to be the football star the father was. The boy had been told many times how worthless he was, topped by his father recently telling him, about his project, “You can’t even build a stupid bridge!” She said he was becoming quite depressed, until the day I judged him. Since then, it seemed everything about him, most especially his confidence, was much improved.
I was taken aback by her comments and hastened to assure her I had given him nothing – he only received that perfect score because he had earned it.
That young mother, and her young 7th grade scientist, will never know how much they touched me. They thanked me profusely, for what they felt I’d done for him, but they had given me far more. They had given me a belief that maybe, just maybe, I really did help him. And that belief has kept me judging for the next forty years, in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, I can do it again.
Published in Boomers Today, Holiday Edition, 2007.
Reprinted with permission by Front Porch Publications.
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