Why we must redefine failure.

I remember tests when I was younger: Demonstrate how you get from Point A to Point B or solve for X in terms of Z. I would anxiously wait to hear my name called and scramble to the front of the classroom to grab the test. Uninterested in any comments that might line the margins, I only registered the red circled score in the top-right corner. I was taught that tests were the ultimate demonstration for what I learned, how much I understood and where I stood in comparison to my peers. Tests were the emphasis of the classroom.

But the longer I experience the ultimate formative test — this thing called life — the more I realize that to successfully test, to actually administer growth and learning of a concept, we must first redefine what it means to fail.

The traditional definition

To fail: be unsuccessful in achieving one’s goal.

Failure: The omission of expected or required action; a lack of success.

What if the process of failing is actually the determination for succeeding?

Bus systems are hard to navigate in any city, but bus systems in a different language, along a 15-lane highway that seems to move with no rhyme or reason strewn with motorbikes, cars, trucks, busses, bicycles and the brave pedestrian-highway walkers, now those are a challenge.

I do what I can with the tools available. I put a lot of trust into Google Maps — maybe too much trust. I trust it to tell me how long it will take to get from district 2 to district 1 or district 1 to district 5. I trust it to tell me where my UberMoto is located. I trust it to tell me what bus to take to work: 30, 6, 104 or from work: 56, 6, 104.

So there I stood, my second day overcoming my fears — or just succumbing to my minimal budget — facing the bus system. The numbers 30, 6 and 104 were ingrained in my memory. I stood staring into the distance, waiting for a numbered bus to come over the concrete hill among the sea of motorbikes and make its way towards me.

As I squinted, batting my eyelashes to fight the dust particles in the air, I saw a neon number - 30 - appear in the distance. I strained my eyes to make sure the 30 wasn’t an 80 or a 60. As it came closer, I raised my hand, mimicked the Vietnamese with their slight flick of the wrist and watched the bus cross the barely there lanes honking haphazardly somehow avoiding contact with the oncoming, unfazed motorbikes.

I braced myself to step onto the bus that never actually stops, adjusted my weight, grabbed on for dear life, and felt the bus jolt forward as I hobbled up the stairs clutching the rusted metal bar.

“Thu Duc District?” I said.

Blank stares.

“Thu Duc” I repeated speaking from the back of my throat trying to mimic the tones I think I hear other people say.

A slight nod.

I pulled out my phone and turned to the man taking my money. “Ho Chi Minh University of Technology and Education,” I said and pointed to the dot on the map.

He glanced at my phone and said something to the driver who made eye contact with me in the rearview mirror as the bus continued to pummel forwards.

Slight eyebrow raise.

“Can you tell me when to get off?” Stares. Too complicated. I reframe the question: “You say when I go?”

Smiles.

A smile was something.

I sat on the bus clutching my bag and staring out the window. Ho Chi Minh City is this effortless chaos: the bus bobbling along a congested highway, the burning incense lingering from the front of the bus, motorbikes that gracefully dodge in and out, crossing mere feet from oncoming trucks and scooting inches from the bus windows. As I stare out of bus windows, every day is different, but in a way, everything stays the same.

Fifteen minutes later, I could see the university. At the light, we stopped and the ticket taker pointed. I told him that the university was on the other side of the highway and pointed at the eight-story building. He responded with a circular hand motion.

I nodded understanding. The route would take us out farther and we would circle back around.

We chugged along. I hadn’t been this far out of the city yet. I stared at the stretch of metro construction that seems to sit halted in time and at Saigon Hi-Tech Park, a place I didn’t know existed. I made a mental note to research the park and the companies that are there to pursue some industry partnerships for the university. We passed the Coca Cola Factory — another mental note — and a Buddhist-styled theme park — a mental note to keep my phone more easily accessible for photo opportunities.

We turned left. I saw the sign: “Ho Chi Minh City International University” — another mental note. The bus stopped, which seemed odd because these busses never seem to stop. I watched everyone exit the bus and I sat waiting for the bus to start its route all over again.

It took me a second to realize that I was now alone on a deserted bus, no passengers, no driver, no ticket taker.

There were moments of confusion all around. The driver stared at me through the window as he lit his cigarette; I stared back from my seat.

It took five Vietnamese people, some broken English, paired with my non-existent knowledge of Vietnamese language to find out that the bus driver, through puffs of his cigarette, now realized where I was going and that I needed to get on to bus eight.

He dropped the butt of his cigarette, flapped his hand and hopped on the bus. Unsure what this flap meant, I half walked, half stood where I was.

“I take,” he said poking his head out of the door and pointing towards the bus.

Not sure what the context of ‘take’ meant and with limited of options, I hopped on.

We drove three minutes down the abandoned street. ‘Eight,’ he said opening the door as the bus continued to roll onwards.

“Cảm Ơn,” I said pushing past the bodies flooding onto the bus. The bus driver shouted in Vietnamese as the mob sat and claimed their seats. He lit another cigarette, mumbling and staring into the rearview mirror as everyone gathered their things and turned to exit. I made eye contact as he took a long drag and closed the doors.

I wasn’t sure where I was. I wasn’t sure if bus eight would actually come. But when it finally did, I hopped on and pulled out a business card someone had given me weeks ago. I pointed from the address to the university’s logo and back again, searching for some sign of understanding other than a nod or smile.

Two bus fares, one-and-a-half hours and no cups of coffee later, I got to work.

Sure, in the traditional sense, I failed.

Put this into context: If this had been a test or a deliverable for a project — get from Point A to Point B — I failed. I was late. I took the longest, most inefficient route possible, and I failed to maximize my daily budget paying two bus fares before 9:00 a.m.

Sure, I failed. And being the Type-A person that I am, maybe for one of the first times in my life I saw this failure — late, lost and completely reliant upon those around me — as an opportunity. I saw an entire park of companies my university could work with to increase skilled labor and employment opportunities for students. I found myself at a bus stop in the middle of what is commonly referred to as ‘university village.’ Universities that might be interested in being partners to implement and expand the program. This was not a failure; this was an opportunity.

So maybe failure is not about a lack of success or achievement; maybe failure is about a process that ultimately embodies the progression of learning.

Maybe it’s not about the act of failing, but instead, the journey of failing.

Where failing is no longer what we fear but what we embrace. Where failing is no longer synonymous with apathy but determination. Where failure isn’t just a story of your past but the definition of your future. Maybe it takes a failure to become a leader.

Let students fail. Let employees fail. Let ourselves fail. In failure, maybe that’s when we actually succeed.