Like the main character in one of my favorite books, Wonder, I don't think I'm really that different. I binge-watch TV shows, I struggle through boring school assignments, I hang out with other kids my age, just like almost any other teenager. Granted, I sometimes analyze the themes in those TV shows, I rarely find school assignments boring, and many of my friends are made of ink, but still - the people who don't understand me on at least some level generally just haven't taken the time to get to know me. I'm sort of complicated, but so is every person who ever lived, especially during their adolescent years.
But then again, depending on what you pay attention to, I could also be perceived as very different. I say painfully awkward things in the majority of social situations (and cringe afterwards, especially when I realize exactly what I should have said instead), I read up on current events while other kids are scrolling their social media feeds, and I am also in college. Now, I'll argue that the fact of my college attendance is not the primary cause of these tendencies, but that along with the college attendance itself, these tendencies are manifestations of my so-called "giftedness." Mixed in with typical milestones throughout my childhood - first words, learning to ride a bike (at 11), getting braces - are a series of more unusual events: teaching myself to read, getting a 31 on the ACT, starting college. (There was, however, a sizable number of years between the learning to read and the high ACT score. I learn fast, but not like Matilda.) I was homeschooled when I was younger - my older brother's own unique brand of giftedness, call it what you will ("differently wired" and "twice-exceptional (2E)" are a few words for it), meant that homeschooling was a promising option for him, and by a happy twist of fate it turned out to work pretty well for me.
I dabbled in various fields, spending years indulging in an obsession with the human body (especially the immune system and the brain), dreaming of being an astronaut, and reading every book I could get my hands on. I took lessons in such disparate fields as violin, karate, and writing. By age 9, my indecisiveness about a career path and many half-filled writing journals led me to conclude that I ought to become an author. Ever since, that has been my aspiration.
My college life had such rough beginnings that my parents and I might as well have gone off-roading instead and saved many migraines in the process. At the local community college, none of the receptionists in the admissions office seemed to understand my test scores. A hard-won interview with the dean of admissions secured my enrollment, but the battle was not yet over. My first class, English 1A, was filled with mishaps. Not really understanding how to behave in a classroom setting, I raised my hand at every possible opportunity. Disturbing content in a weekly class reading drove my 11-year-old self to tears, as did a few poor grades. I was routinely embarrassed by my brother's peeking through the window in plain view of my classmates to ensure I'd made it safely from the car to class and my classmates' obvious knowledge of my young age that produced the occasional comments about my being "cute." (A run-in a year later with one of my 1A classmates caused him to remark, "Wow. You look older." If I remember correctly, I laughed.) My professor flooded us with assignments - far more, I now realize from experience, than is even normal for a college course. However, all ended happily: I wound up with an A in the class, an 11-page research paper on gun control (plus works cited), and an immense amount of personal satisfaction. More mayhem ensued later: as a student "concurrently enrolled" in high school (I was taking a few online classes through my charter school), I wasn't allowed to enroll in classes until the first day of term. I eventually took the CHSPE and ditched high school, but a determination to receive honors program priority enrollment led me to take no less than four classes during that fall semester, leading into a spiral of academic burnout and angst. Still, I got encouragement from my parents, supportive professors, and from within. All ended happily that semester as well: I had grades I could be proud of, respect from many of my peers (college and same-age), the satisfaction of knowing I'd survived, and, most importantly, some well-deserved time off. I embarked on a binge of Alias, celebrated the holidays with my family, and eventually started a history class three weeks later. Then, near the end of that history class (which I seemed to be doing well in), I decided to start a new blog about college and giftedness, and I wrote this post.
What comes next in this story? I guess we'll find out.
