“If They Know They Can—They Will”
By Rebecca Fegan, Master Teacher
This isn’t about ability.
It’s about permission.
Let’s talk about what happens when someone believes they’re allowed to act. Not trained. Not skilled. Just… permitted.
Step into any crowd setting. Remember Don Rickles? Rodney Dangerfield? Legendary comics who owned their stages. When you attend a stand-up show, you don’t heckle the comic. It’s an unwritten rule.
But it only takes one.
One guy at the bar, already in his feelings after a bad breakup, three beers in, marinating in all the comebacks he should have said. Then the comic hits a dud. Our guy sees his moment.
And suddenly, he’s heckling a professional.
Let’s pause and consider what that means.
Comics aren’t just funny—they’re strategic. They repeat their routines night after night, polish every line, time every pause. They’re fast, resilient, and battle-tested. And yet, our impromptu critic thinks he can go toe-to-toe with that?
Why?
Because he can. And so… he does.
There are rarely immediate consequences. He might get a laugh. He might hijack a moment. And without pushback, his behavior escalates. He’s been given permission—tacit, unspoken, and dangerous.
And when the comic responds too harshly? The crowd might turn on him. The whole environment destabilizes.
All because one person believed he could.
And because he could, he did.
Permission Works Both Ways
We see it at political rallies. People arrive not to listen, but to disrupt. They shout, wave signs, push boundaries—not because they think it’ll be productive, but because they can.
The media? They capture garbled noise and dramatic removals. No real message gets through. But the disrupters weren’t after solutions—they wanted to break the flow. And for a moment, they succeed.
Because they could, they did.
And then there’s Robert Downey Jr.—in the middle of an interview where the host oversteps. At first, Downey deflects. Then he resists. Warns. Finally, he walks.
Why?
Because the interviewer bulldozed right through the signs.
Because he could, he did.
And eventually, Downey could… and left.
But this isn’t just about boundary-crossing. There’s an extraordinary truth beneath this:
Permission Can Also Build
Let me tell you about my friend Kim.
Tiny woman. Brilliant white hair. Infectious smile. She worked as a fitness instructor in a reform school—with the toughest of kids. Addictions. Mental health diagnoses. Rage. Trauma. You name it.
Now, ask most teachers what to do in that kind of room:
- Confront the biggest one.
- Retreat to the office.
Pick your poison.
But Kim? She did neither.
She walked right up to the biggest, most intimidating student and said:
“I’m starting a 500-lb Club. I need your help designing it.”
He blinked. She explained: five lifts, total weight = 500 lbs. He’d set the standard. Be the first. The example.
They trained together. She coached his form. Prioritized safety. Celebrated progress.
When he hit 540 pounds, she posted his name at the top of the wallchart, stars and all:
Robert, the Beast – 540 lbs – 12/19
Everything changed.
Suddenly, that gym was no longer a battlefield. The students weren’t trapped in a victim mindset. They were engaged. Empowered.
Because Robert Could, he Did.
And when others saw that he could… they believed they could, too.
So they did.
Daydreamers and Cure-Finders
Give students permission to explore. To act. To think big. Don’t squash curiosity with sarcasm.
Imagine a student mid-thought:
“It’s so obvious now! The cure to cancer is simply—”
But before he can finish…
“MR. HOPKINS? JOHNS? Are you daydreaming again?! Quit staring out the window!”
Poof. It’s gone.
His idea evaporates in a puff of embarrassment.
We call it classroom management.
But sometimes, it’s just dream theft.
Can’t/Do vs. Can/Do
Let’s look at the flip side.
The Wright brothers. Edison. Tesla.
All of them heard “You can’t do that.” But no one physically stopped them. “Can’t” wasn’t about permission—it was someone else’s belief in their limitations.
Unless they accepted that belief, internalized it, and made it a rule, it had no real power. The critic’s opinion only matters if the person assigns it authority.
And that’s where English gets fascinating.
“Can” is murky. It means both ability and permission. It can lift or limit.
And “can’t”? It does the same. It becomes a rule if we let it.
Remember in elementary school?
“Can I go to the bathroom?”
“I don’t know, can you?”
Ah yes. The moment we were taught the difference between can and may.
Capability vs. Permission.
But in the real world, the lines blur.
Linguistics, Superheroes, and Self-Belief
Think about this: What word do we use to say someone might do something in the future?
“Frank may invent faster-than-light travel.”
“Frank believes he may, and he does.”
Great! But it doesn’t indicate his power to do what he wants, it just mentions a possibility. It’s wishy washy. Now, how do we describe that in the past tense?
“Frank believed he might?”
It’s clunky. Confusing. That’s because may implies both possibility and permission. It’s not firm. It’s fuzzy.
Now consider this:
“Get down, Clark! You’ll die!”
“He may jump anyway…”
He can jump. We don’t grant permission. We wait to see what he decides.
Then—he jumps.
Of course he does. His last name is Kent.
It’s what he does when he misses the bus.
What Kind of Educator Are You?
So let’s bring this full circle:
Do you want to be the one who sets ceilings?
Or the one who shows them where the ladders are?
Because in every classroom, in every moment, we are doing one or the other. We are either reinforcing limitations…
Or giving permission.
And when they know they can—
They will.