In Defense of the Fidgeters, Wigglers, and Squirmers

For most of my life, fidgeting had a public relations problem.

Teachers didn't seem particularly fond of it. Family wasn't thrilled either. The general consensus appeared to be that if I was bouncing a leg, tapping a pencil, shifting in my chair, doodling in the margins, or somehow managing to do all four simultaneously, then I clearly wasn't paying attention.

As president of the Fidgeters, Wigglers, and Squirmers Association, I would like to offer a rebuttal. The accusations are serious:

• "She's distracted."

• "She's not listening."

• "She's off task."

Your Honor, members of the jury, distinguished guests, and anyone currently bouncing a leg while reading this essay, I would like to present the defense. 

The prosecution's case is straightforward. The defendant has a long history of suspicious behavior. The defendant was observed bouncing her leg during class. The defendant's notes were filled with doodles in the margins. Most concerning of all, the defendant occasionally stood up and wandered away in the middle of a problem. The prosecution argues that clearly, the defendant was distracted. The defense argues that the defendant just has ADHD.

The court will now review the evidence.

At least, that is the assumption. I understand why people make it. From the outside, I probably looked distracted too. 

When I was studying mathematics, my foot was bouncing. During lectures, I doodled in notebook margins. While working on difficult problems, I would occasionally stand up and pace around the room. If the mathematics became particularly challenging, I sometimes wandered into another room entirely before returning a few minutes later. To observers, it might appear that I had consulted with a secret panel of mathematicians. Unfortunately, it was just me.

I spent years believing what the prosecution said. I thought focus was supposed to look calm, quiet, and still. I assumed that successful students simply sat down, concentrated, and remained motionless until understanding arrived.

Unfortunately, my brain had other plans. The harder I tried to sit perfectly still, the harder it became to think. My body remained in the chair, but my attention immediately began exploring other opportunities. A math problem would become a question about dinner. Dinner would somehow become a memory from middle school. The middle school memory would remind me that I needed to send an email. The email would make me wonder whether fish get thirsty. Meanwhile, the math problem sat patiently on the page waiting for me to come back. ADHD is funny that way.

People hear the words "attention deficit" and imagine an absence of attention. My experience has been more like having an attention surplus with questionable management. My brain is perfectly capable of paying attention. It is simply less interested in consulting me about where that attention should go.

Movement turned out to be one of the tools that helped. When I paced, I thought more clearly. When I doodled, I listened better. When I bounced my foot, I stayed engaged longer. The movement was supporting my concentration.

In hindsight, this explains why every attempt to eliminate the fidgeting was spectacularly unsuccessful. 

Exhibit A: The Bouncing Leg

The prosecution would first like to discuss the matter of the bouncing leg. This is understandable. 

From the outside, a bouncing leg does not exactly inspire confidence. It looks restless. It looks nervous. The prosecution argues that no truly focused student would bounce their leg with such enthusiasm. I would like to submit a counterargument. 

For years, I assumed the bouncing was distracting me. Then I started paying attention to what happened when I tried to stop. Noting good.

The mathematics did not suddenly become clearer. My concentration did not improve. The only thing that changed was that I was now using part of my attention to learn mathematics and the other part to supervise my own leg.

The leg, I would like the court to note, was rarely cooperative. In retrospect, I think the leg may have been doing more educational work than I gave it credit for.

Exhibit B: The Doodles in the Margins

The prosecution would next like to present several pages of notebook evidence. These pages contain stars, boxes, geometric patterns, random squiggles, and what appears to be an unsuccessful attempt to draw a dog.

Clearly, this proves the defendant was not paying attention. I object. The doodles were not evidence of distraction.

For reasons I still cannot fully explain, my brain has always processed information better when my hands are doing something. If I tried to simply sit and listen, my attention often wandered. Give me a pencil, however, and suddenly I could follow an entire lecture.

The doodles themselves were rarely important. In fact, most of them were terrible. But they gave the restless part of my brain something to do so the rest of it could focus. I would therefore like the court to recognize these doodles not as evidence of guilt but as educational support personnel.

Exhibit C: Excessive Wandering

The prosecution would also like to discuss the defendant's habit of standing up and leaving in the middle of difficult tasks. I admit this one looks suspicious. There are very few situations where someone walks into another room in the middle of a math problem and appears completely innocent.

However, I would ask the jury to consider the possibility that pacing is not the same thing as giving up on the problem. Some of my best thinking happened while walking. I have solved problems while pacing hallways. I have worked through ideas while wandering around my house. I have returned from these journeys with actual insights, which feels like a remarkable return on investment considering I usually cannot remember why I walked into a room. 

Needless to say, my thought process is definitely not linear. It may not be efficient, but somehow it gets the job done. 

Expert Witness Testimony

At this point, the defense would like to call an expert witness. Unfortunately, the expert witness is also the defendant, which I am told is generally discouraged in legal proceedings. Nevertheless, the court has agreed to hear the testimony. 

Years later, receiving an ADHD diagnosis helped me reinterpret much of the evidence that has been presented against me throughout my life: the pacing, the doodling, the fidgeting, the constant need to move, and the mysterious ability to spend three uninterrupted hours researching a random topic while forgetting what I was supposed to be doing.

These behaviors were all present prior to the diagnosis, it simply gave me a different lens to understand them. What I had spent years viewing as evidence of distraction turned out to be attempts at regulation. The movement wasn't getting in the way of thinking, it was helping make the thinking possible. 

After that, I started noticing the same thing in students. The student tapping a pencil was not necessarily distracted. The student shifting in their chair was not necessarily disengaged. The student doodling during the lesson was not necessarily ignoring the lesson. Sometimes they were doing what I had been doing all along: regulating, concentrating, and trying to stay connected to the learning.

Of course, not every fidget is evidence of deep intellectual engagement. I should acknowledge this for legal reasons. Sometimes students really are distracted. I know this because I've spent several minutes looking for my calculator before realizing I was holding it. Another time, I opened up my laptop to complete an assignment and somehow ended up reading about the Dunning-Kruger Effect, which now makes me an expert. The point is, the path between Point A and Point B is not always linear. 

Closing Argument

Members of the jury, we have heard the evidence. The defendant bounced her leg. The defendant doodled in her notes. The defendant paced while solving mathematics problems. On several occasions, the defendant became distracted by topics that had absolutely nothing to do with the task at hand. The defense does not dispute these facts.

Instead, the defense disputes the conclusion. Appearance is not a reliable measure of learning. I have met students who looked perfectly attentive and remembered almost nothing from the lesson. I have also met students who appeared to be conducting a percussion solo with their pencil while giving thoughtful explanations.

ADHD taught me that attention is more complicated than it appears from the outside. So this is my official defense of the fidgetters, wigglers, and squirmers. The pencil tappers. The chair shifters. The doodlers. The students who look like they are trying to solve mathematics and simultaneously power a small engine. 

Maybe the movement is not evidence that they are failing to pay attention. Maybe it is evidence that they are trying very hard to. Maybe the student bouncing a leg under the desk is not failing to pay attention. Maybe they are doing exactly what they need to do in order to pay attention. And if that student happens to wear a small hole into the classroom floor in the process, I am prepared to argue that is a reasonable accommodation. 

The defense rests.