I’m Not Smart – They Are
Wednesday, March 31st, 2010
Psychology is an inexact science…the realm of empirical judgment as much as of quantitative measurement. There aren’t any formulas guaranteed to produce specific results in shaping human behavior if only somebody follows prescribed steps faithfully enough. However, I have ample experience to suggest that if you can get a very bright…gifted…child to believe that his intelligence is perfectly ordinary and then turn him loose to interact and grow up with lots of other kids who are normal, ordinary, average…who fit in readily…and permit him to wonder about all the comparisons he can’t help making, if you deny him the opportunity to ask honest questions about why he feels so different from other kids…you ought not to be surprised at having helped create a very confused and unhappy young person. That’s what happened to me. See if you can appreciate the logic from the point of view of the child I used to be, and imagine how it would feel if those things happened to you.
In the late 1940’s, kindergarten had pretty well not yet been invented in our little town, so it was not until I reached the age of six…old enough for First Grade…that I got a chance to begin learning about went on at school. By the time I had turned five, though, I had long since understood the rules for playing with neighborhood children like my friend Vito, who was my age. It never occurred to me to wonder whether one of us might be smarter than the other. The older kids…Warren, Sandra, and Bertie, who already went to school…were naturally smarter because they were more grown up. Everyone knew that. My Great Aunt Margaret used to explain to me in private that I was, indeed, quite smart and that she knew I would become a fine little scholar when the time came for me to start school, but none of my other elders ever said any such thing. I assumed that she was saying it to be kind, and besides she was my aunt so such a thing would not count, anyway.
It did not take long, once school had started in the fall of 1950, for me to realize that there were in fact quite a few children in the classroom who could not easily figure out the new reading words, get the arithmetic answers right, or understand whatever it was that the teacher might be saying. More or less by default I created for myself a cosmology in which everyone could learn things with the same degree of ease. Those who failed to do so, I perceived, were stupid, disobedient, or lazy…all of which meant more or less the same thing. From time to time I caught hints from adult conversations about things like being really smart, or very bright, all mixed up with words like intelligence, but it never occurred to me to wonder whether any of that might apply to me. If that had been so my parents would have told me, and they had not. Parents can’t lie to kids. Everyone knew that, too.
Now imagine being a bit older, sitting in Fourth or maybe Fifth Grade class next to several other normal kids…the ones who never get into trouble and always get good marks…and hearing them talk about how this or that new challenge was really hard. Well, you reason, I tried that and I thought I got it right. I’m just like them, so there must be more to it, something I missed. Getting it right must be painfully difficult…and you make the next logical step to searching for obscure layers of meaning, for relationships that don’t exist, to answers you’ll never discover because the questions will never be asked.
There are more holes than substance in that logic, but when it’s the only logic you have and experience has been nibbling away at your self confidence ever since you could remember, it’s not so easy to escape.
That’s the way it worked for me. A few years later, as I began life as a teenager, I began stumbling over those holes in the logic and wondering. I made the mistake of exposing my real thoughts and asking my parents things like why do I feel so different from the other kids? They tease me for being smart. Am I? The answers I invariably got, harsh as if they bore some kind of punishment, were always the same. “Get those ideas out of your head, young man. You are no different from the other kids in your class at school.”
Was intelligence a burden, a curse, something to be hidden and denied? Logic seemed to dictate that it was, so by the time I had become a high school upperclassman I had learned to dumb down my responses to life to avoid the pain of being impaled yet again on the sharp stake of being different. As time passed it became more and more difficult to distinguish between what the real me believed and what I guessed it would be safe to reveal. By the time I had gotten used to the idea of being a college student, I’d become so good at hiding the real parts of me that most of the time they might as well not even have existed. I truly believed that I’m not smart…they are. To anyone who might have been watching with care, it would not have been hard to predict that my next adventure was going to be a debilitating emotional breakdown and the collapse of what I’d believed my life was supposed to be into a sad pile of little broken pieces.
Robert A. Benjamin is a writer who has devoted years to a personal account of his experiences as an unacknowledged gifted child. To learn more about A Gift of Dreams, I Promised You Daisies, and Side Door To Heaven, the three books of the Imperfectly Ordinary trilogy, go to http://www.imperfectlyordinary.com