Can I return it?

I remember the Kelly LeBrock Pantene commercial from the 80’s: “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.”  I was a teenager, so I thought, I could never hate you! I mean, have you seen Weird Science?

Recently, I’ve discovered a new body of research and yet another category I fit into: “gifted.”  A lot of the AD(H)D blogs I’ve been reading point to that area of research, and guess what?  It is another area of contention.  Can you be both gifted and AD(H)D?  It’s a simple question without simple answers, other than “it depends who you talk to.”

So, gifted.   I hadn’t heard that for awhile.  I used to go to these events in the fourth and fifth grade that were some sort of smart fair for “the gifted and talented.”  I remember going in order to lose at chess to a grown up, to play with lasers and holograms, to dissect a sheep’s brain.  The whole thing was weird and uncomfortable, because I didn’t know any of these people and wasn’t there long enough to figure out the social rules.

As I’ve written before, I stopped believing in my fundamental smartness after my first year of college.  But after my recent testing I started poking around the Mensa web site, and found out that I qualify for membership based on my ACT and GRE scores.  (ACT composite of 29 in 1988; GRE composite of 2010 in 1993.)  What caught my attention is that I thought I was getting dumber the longer I was in college, but my GRE scores are, related to IQ,  higher than the ACT score. In other words, I qualify more clearly with my GRE score.  Not exactly scientific, but the opposite of what I thought anyway.

Since then, I’ve been walking around with a spring in my step.  I am smart.  I want to tell strangers on the street: “You know, I qualify for Mensa.”  I don’t think my mailman cares too much about that.  I want to join Mensa so I can buy the t-shirt and the mug, so that people will whisper as I walk by “There goes Jon; he’s a two-percenter, you know.”

But, then I remember that it’s not been terribly useful to be so “smart. ” It further underscores my negative self talk: you are too smart to keep doing these dumb things.

Like what?  Like never finishing projects, not returning email, not paying bills on time, forgetting meetings and commitments, wasting time when there’s urgent work to do.  It’s not like I sit in my den of evil cackling away at the inferiority of the people sending me emails, projects, and bills.  I don’t think it’s any way beneath my intellect to do these things.  It’s quite the opposite.  I feel like I can’t do these mundane tasks that everyone else seems to be able to do just fine, so I must be dumb.  The days when I can be calmly productive seem liberating, so I definitely want to do these things, at least in the abstract.

Going through school was no easy matter as a “gifted” student. Anything less than an A seemed like a failure.  I endured endless teasing in the fifth grade for crying in class when I failed a little five-question quiz, the only such test I had ever failed.  I became competitive, and an annoying watchdog for any hint of unfairness in grading.  (Perhaps this quality is one reason I have trouble giving out grades: I imagine all my students are hovering out there, just waiting to pounce at the first sign of any inequity in my grading.)  Healthy competitiveness is okay, but there’s a streak of pride in me that always wants to win, that never wants to be wrong.  That’s why I continually play chess on the iPod on the easiest level.  It’s more fun for me to see how quickly I can beat it on imbecile setting than to risk losing (and thus be challenged to a better game) on a higher level.

In the fifth grade, my homeroom teacher, Mr. Packer, started giving us essay exams for social studies.  Everyone was terrified of these exams because we were used to multiple choice, objective exams, with maybe a short answer question once in awhile.

We got our first exam back, right before morning recess, no one looked happy, but I got an A.  Shayla, a tall, strong lass, asked me on the sidewalk on the way to the playground: “What did you get?”  When I told her, she looked offended, and starting venting to other people: “Jo-on here got an A!  Goody for Jo-on!”  It turned out I got the only A in the class.

Next, a chase ensued.  It started out as a joke: “Let’s get ‘im!”  Several people chased me around the playground.  But it turned into a Lord of the Flies moment: someone tackled me and I came up pushing and shoving and swung my jacket at someone else and the metal button whacked him in the nose and left a scrape.  The playground aides had to intervene.

The fifth grade established an oft-repeated pattern.  Lots of people despised me for doing well and took pleasure when I didn’t.  In the fifth grade, the playground social structure mattered to me way more than getting A’s.  I wanted to fit in with the dodgeball/football crowd.  Predictably, I got picked last.  One fall day, I actually caught a touchdown pass in the end zone (the fence along McDevitt Ave.).  The ball flew into my hands after a couple deflections, and there I was, winning the game.  However, a raging debate erupted because no one could remember which team I was on.  The bell rang, and everyone but me forgot about the game.

I went through school when “nerd” and “geek” did not have the counterculture hipness, the ironic distance that it does today.  (That was for skaters and stoners.)  I hated being the class nerd, but I was.  All the stigmata appeared: extreme gangliness, glasses, acne, no dating what so ever.  I was only a pocket protector away from being a total social outcast.  Some people called me “Gilbert,” after the Anthony Edwards character.  (By the way, can someone explain to me how the same actor can play Gilbert and Goose?)  I grew out of  my nerdiness a little bit, but had to find girlfriends at different schools or summer camp; everyone knew better in little old Vandercook Lake.

I do understand the human instinct for derision, the jealousy, the schadenfreude.  There are two groups of people I love to hate: dumb rich people and arrogant politicians.  I love this Republican primary season; I scan the news thinking “What dumb thing is Herman Cain going to say next?”  I had to turn off an episode of House Hunters because I resented the ditzy couple who were just suffering trying to pick out their $2 million vacation home.

So, gifted.  What. Does. That. Mean.  I have a gift.  I’m supposed to have gratitude.  A gift is something unearned, given.  A gift is something that’s supposed to be useful, that reflects the giver’s understanding of what the recipient wants or needs, what would give the person joy.  This gift, however, keeps giving me the finger.  I wake up most mornings thinking I have wasted so much time, that I have squandered my gift.  I could be writing great books, solving important problems, giving myself completely to my family and my job, and instead I poke around the internet, play with my iPod, take joy in the misfortune of the arrogant, think about great stories that I never write, totally avoid yardwork, and do a moderately good job teaching at a university few people have heard of.

My gift is incomplete. If my measurable smarts came with anywhere near equal motivation and focus it would be a gift indeed.  Instead I fit in the “gifted underachiever” category: lots of great ideas, lots of skills, lots of potential, little to show for it.  It is maddening.  I’m like a Steve Jobs who never got out of the garage.  My gift came without batteries, but it has a really cool picture on the box.

Please don’t hate me because I’m gifted.  It really is a burden.  I know, that’s like a movie star complaining that you just can’t find good sashimi in Milan any more, but we all have our battles.

3 thoughts on “Can I return it?

  1. I love this, Jon. Beautifully said. I too love to hate the aforementioned groups. And, as a person not as “gifted” as you but labeled in different debilitating ways, I can relate.

    • Thanks for the comment, Molly, and good to hear from you! It’s VCL day on my blog, I guess; Emery Lee also commented over here. LOL!

  2. Pingback: shut me off | Attention Deficit Whatever

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