What does that talented kid feel when he is told how lucky he is? Lucky, you hope.
For the longest time, I bought into the concept of talent that people's reaction to it would seem to imply: it's like a bonus layer of ability, wrapped around an otherwise normal person - the gift-wrap. Unearned, it is a key to success that some win, some don't - lottery style. It is a reason to overlook a student's struggles - "she'll be fine, she is a real talent. Lucky girl."
But I wonder how often is the exceptional ability, when viewed from just a slightly different angle, also an impediment?
As a kid, I felt as though my head was crammed full of pictures to the point of bursting. I released the pressure by letting the colour flow out my fingers. Letters & characters were compelling shapes but I struggled to relate them to words. I was placed in a remedial reading group in grade 2. I remember hearing that I was a lazy learner. A few years later, I was placed in an advanced reading class - I battled through A Tale of Two Cities to prove that I had overcome my laziness.
Even after 40 years of learning to learn, auditory info remains elusive to me. As much as the words make sense in the moment that I hear them, unless I concentrate on stringing them back together in my mind, they just don't stick. I watch the news and while the faces and images cling to each other like a film-strip in my memory, the words are quickly lost, rendering the film meaningless.
Following my 3rd semester of university, I received a polite letter asking me to come and gather my things. My grades were THAT bad.
After some pleading and begging, I was given one more chance to succeed in the lecture hall. I focused my attention on those words flowing out of my prof's mouth with fresh energy (FEAR). As usual, pictures would emerge if I focused hard enough, and I started drawing them into my notes as fast as I could. Early on, this illustrative process could take many hours following the lecture but I got faster. After 2 more years, one of my profs noticed. He needed illustrations for a lab manual, and my picture-book version of his lectures made a good visual accompaniment to his laboratory teaching. All these years later, his successor still uses them.
Meanwhile, without realizing it, I was becoming a teacher - or at least, an impassioned advocate for a different kind of teaching. And I was receiving great training in the art of instructional design - a large part of what I now get paid to do. My students seem to learn from my illustrations, but I still lecture at them too much.
My main concern at this moment isn't my teaching. As I sit here typing, my 7-year-old draws beside me. Sometimes, she draws the things that a talented kid is supposed to draw: flowers, birds, rainbows - the stuff that adults recognize and praise her for. Her representations of things are remarkably good for her age. Other times, she sits alone, totally engrossed. The colour that flows from her fingers is abstract and frenzied and even more beautiful in its way. Her teachers have told me that she is a bright, talented kid. She gets great marks on her art.
In a recent parent-teacher interview, we were informed that our daughter is a bit lazy when it comes to her reading and math. As the teacher made this comment, I looked into my child's eyes and saw defiance and confusion.
I felt a little sad for the struggle she is facing, but I know that she's a lucky girl.
