At age nine, I was tested and found to be very intelligent. My parents scrambled to get me into an accelerated academic program. By this point I was already part of the way into the second semester of fourth grade. We toured the school and the class I'd be in. I hated the place. My parents asked me what I thought of it. I said I didn't know. They suggested I try it, and if I didn't like it, when the school year was over, I could go back to my old school for fifth grade. The idea sounded stupid to me. I said that sounded ok.
The school was worse than I'd feared. I was ostracized. I went from the smartest kid in my class on Friday to the lost moron in my new class on Monday. The teacher had no interest in getting me up to speed with the class. She assigned another student who wasn't fond of me to tutor me up to what they were learning. He did his best to fail and he did. And I learned in first grade not to bring my homework to my father. So I suffered feeling like I was stupid for the first time in my life in silence and went again into a fugue state. I suffered the ridicule from my classmates—and believe me, smart kids are the meanest kids there are—mostly in a fugue state, too.
The year ended and I told my parents I wanted to go back to my old school like they promised I could. They said tough, I was staying.
Fifth grade was very little but a red mist of anger and resentment. I realized then that opportunities that looked like potentials for happiness or success were a trap set to hurt me. They led to failure. And I realized that I had no recourse, no power to make it otherwise. I only had one source of power—the ability to sabotage my set ups for failure with a more fundamental failure. I could only choose to give into my father's failures for me, or opt out and set up my own failures.
So again, I made an oath. I vowed I would fail at everything in life, unravel every success. Partly to escape the traps set for me, and partly to illustrate to my father that he was a failure as a parent. Dark? Yes, it really was. But it was my only sense of personal efficacy. And for several years, it was the only thing that kept me alive. And it was another oath I took very, very seriously. And I proved to be VERY good at carrying it out. I was Fenris, swallowing the sun, and bringing about my own daily Ragnarok.
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ugh... this opens up old wounds for me.... i remember when i was promoted twice in elementary school... both times i refused, but my mom really wanted me to be challenged... i only experienced being ostracized and bullied... every time i was promoted, i ended up failing. all i learned from that experience was NOT to stand out... we recently came to the realization that our 8 yo needs to be challenged more - she asked - so we supplement at home. i don't think either of us want to move her - unless she asks... :)
ReplyDeleteSchool's tricky stuff. And the line between fostering growth and forcing it can be a tough call. I think refraining from moving a child to a different program unless they ask is a good call. Thanks for your comment, G!
ReplyDeleteErik - If I was ever one of the kids who was mean to you (and it is possible I was) I am really, really sorry. This is powerful stuff.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Vicki for the sentiment. Really though, there's not much to be said about kids being kids. I was as guilty as anyone else, when it was my turn to be.
ReplyDeleteThe difficulty the school situation posed for me was only what it was because of the influence it had on other issues already at play in my life. And while it was something I was very unhappy about, as a kid, now its power is only how it factors into a larger narrative--a narrative that's been been as much about joy as it's been about woe, as I hope the end of this blog series shows. And I imagine your own narrative is just as powerful.
Thanks again, Vicki. I'm very glad to know you're reading along.