Smart Alec
by Bruce Younggreen
Copyright (c) 1994

Permission to reprint in Mensa publications and newsletters
granted, if a copy of the relevant issue is mailed to me at:
P.O. Box 1371
Vacaville, CA 95696-1371
All other rights reserved.
"You need to go outside and get some fresh air and sunshine."

I looked up from my book, a little confused and out of place.
Images of Lewis and Clark faded and I realized that I was in my
classroom with my teacher bending over my desk. The classroom was
empty except for her and me. It was mid-morning, so school
couldn't be out yet. It must be recess. I stuck my finger between
the pages so I wouldn't lose my place and took the book with me
outside.

The concrete walk connecting a long row of classrooms was raised
about a foot above the lawn that separated the classrooms from
the playground. The walk was covered, but the morning sun slanted
enough to illuminate a patch of concrete at the end of the walk.
I sat there, obediently now in the fresh air and sunshine, and
re-opened my book.

The rest of my class had lined up by the softball diamond to pick
sides for kickball (played like baseball but kicking a large, red
rubber ball instead of swinging a bat.) The kid most of the other
children hung around was getting a drink from the fountain on the
wall behind my back. As he ran past me to the playground, he
snatched my glasses off my face, chanting, "Four eyes, four eyes!
Nose in a book!" I could read without them, so I tried to ignore
him, but without success. He threw my glasses to his friends. My
stomach churned with worry because we couldn't afford another
pair if that pair got broken. Reluctantly, I closed my book and
went out to try to get them back.

Pleading with my tormentors, I realized that I sounded like the
weakling crybaby they always said I was. Suddenly, in the next
heartbeat, I was angry and out of control. This only got me
wrestled to the ground by two of his cronies as my glasses
continued to dance from one pair of hands to another. Hours later
(it seemed to me), teachers were pulling us apart and my glasses
were returned, smudged and misaligned, but not broken! Six of us,
I included, found ourselves sitting in the hall outside the
principal's office, swinging our legs because our feet didn't
reach the ground and glaring angrily at one another.

Welcome to first grade in my world, the world where intelligent
children don't fit in.

I often asked my father to explain "why" or "how" regarding my
school subjects. He taught me tricks to doing multiplication,
then how to reverse it, so I understood division before I knew
what division was. When my classmates caught up to me, I would
get bored with their questions to the teacher and the pace we
were crawling at. I learned how to calculate square roots
manually (at home) while my class was stuck on what to do with
remainders when you divide by three (and getting the answers
wrong.) I'd snicker at their feeble guesses and poke fun at their
returned homework covered with red marks, crimes for which I
became well acquainted with the principal.

I remember a story one of my teachers read to the class. It was
about a boy named Alec who thought he knew more than his mother
and who always had an answer to anything she said or asked. The
point of the story was to teach respect, and of course he fell
prey to some disaster or another, saw the error of his ways,
repented and lived happily ever after. His mother called him
"Smart Alec" whenever he expressed his opinions. I remember
thinking that, actually, most of the time Alec was quite smart
and that his mother was being unfair by not listening to him
occasionally, though, of course, she was right about whatever it
was that led to his undoing. The thing that struck me, though,
was the use of the word "smart" in such a derogatory manner. I
thought it was a very bad story.

I wrote a poem in the third grade about death and was taken to
see the school psychologist. I believe it was also in the third
grade that I was tested. I loved taking tests and wanted to know
the results. My teacher told me I wasn't allowed to know the
results because that could be bad for me. Instead, she called my
mother and asked her to come to the school for a conference. My
mother, fearing the worst, took time off from her job. The
teacher told her my test score and warned her to never reveal it
to me. My mother told me afterward that I was much smarter than
the other children and the teachers thought that if I knew that
it would cause problems. She was very proud of me but she
wouldn't tell me the score!

I had some early teachers who tried to keep me occupied (because
I usually finished assignments and homework both and still had
time to spare) with special projects in science or with helping
slower classmates. Those years produced better grades and better
memories. Some of my other teachers tried to "handle" my problems
with discipline. We would become adversarial and I took great
delight in subverting their classrooms and playing pranks.

Things congealed into a crisis in the seventh grade. Puberty was
kicking in and I had a crush on one of the more popular girls. I
had a few friends and had learned how to engage in some
conversation, so I wasn't a total geek, but neither was I
popular. I didn't know how to get her attention, so I passed her
a note inside a valentine on Valentine's Day. She laughed when
she got it and passed it around to her friends, giggling and
pointing at me. I was so embarrassed that I ran out of the
classroom, across the track and football field, and over a chain-
link fence into a creek behind the school. I hid there in tall
grass while my teacher and a couple of sympathetic friends hunted
for me. After they gave up, I followed the creek to a bridge
several blocks away and from there went home.

That summer, I was surprised one day to discover my aunt and
uncle were visiting. My parents shooed my brother and sister out
of the house, then sat down with me and my aunt and uncle. They
asked me what I thought about going with my aunt and uncle for a
visit. They said if I wanted to, I could go to school there next
fall. I wasn't too sure about it until my uncle reminded me that
he had five girls and I would be the son he had never had. Well,
that appealed, so I agreed.

The next year was perhaps the most important of my life. I took a
variety of specialize classes including art, drama and
woodworking. My uncle always rewarded me with praise followed by
suggestions for doing it even better. We played word games (not
formal games, but making fun of words while simply talking) and
talked about feelings and ideas, not just superficialities or
even just facts. I remember once at the dinner table my youngest
cousin, who is just a half-year older than I, and my uncle were
teasing each other. My aunt was trying to maintain polite
conversation and these two were cutting up and egging each other
on. At one point, Lola threatened to throw her glass of water on
my uncle. As my aunt started to admonish her, my uncle picked up
his glass and actually threw his water on her! It was a very
different approach to living than I was used to!

I learned how to be funny and, more important, how to not take
myself so seriously. I learned how to resolve conflicts by making
people laugh, often at my own expense. At first I was cruel about
myself, but after a while I got so I could find the Zing! without
the barbs. I also got used to nylons drying in the bathroom, to
folding panties and bras, to talking to females as equals, to
feeling comfortable around them. It had much less to do with
practice and so much more to do with being accepted.

Throughout my formative childhood years, my intelligence was
never actively, purposefully developed. The "brain thing" just
came along on its own. My need was social development and an
understanding that whatever I was, I was OK.

Now, I'm a father with a gifted child. She doesn't feel like she
is gifted. She thinks she is normal. She bases this on observing
me and assuming that if there are two of us, there must be many
more. Since I now fit in (I've accepted myself, therefore others
accept me), then she must fit in, so what's the big deal? I think
she's got a healthy disrespect for the term "gifted" coupled with
a healthy respect for herself and a zest for fun and for life.

I encourage her to think in new ways about old things, to dream,
to create and to record and to analyze and to find something
worth the effort in all of this. I challenge her with projects
and with ideas. I acknowledge her efforts. I want her to value
herself, so I value her. I want her to know that it's OK for Alec
to be smart. And, in the end, I hope I'm not screwing up. Who
knows? Maybe intelligence needs to be tried in the fire to glow
with a burnished gleam.