In writing, I've been known to completely reword a sentence if I am not 100% sure that I have used a word correctly or if I think I've spelled it wrong. The tiniest seed of doubt can be planted in my mind and it grows into a humongous stumbling block within seconds. I have to be perfect. I want to present my best work at all times. Even a small mistake constitutes failure if we're talking about anything remotely academic. Maybe this is another way that my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) manifests itself? Regardless, doubt stops me dead in my tracks more often that I care to admit. I am working on my self-esteem little by little and it is much better now than it ever was in grade school. In fact, finally starting this blog and publishing things that I wrote (my writings are on the internet!), is a serious step forward.
I have been promising myself and others that I would share my writings for years. I am scared to share, because of "what-if syndrome." Several questions pop into my head in rapid-fire succession, making me feel nervous, stupid, foolish, and that I am opening myself up to too much criticism, hatred, and other very bad things. For example, after I completed tonight's post, I thought, "What if people think you are bragging? They will hate you." Also, "What if your memory is wrong? What if someone calls you a braggart or liar? What are you going to do then, huh? Are you gonna cry?" My inner monologue is a real jerk sometimes.
Okay, so I told you all of that to tell you this story....
For most of my early childhood, from age 10 months to age 7, my family lived in Montgomery, Alabama. As a child, I remember refusing to do the in-class work in 1st grade. I still have my little green Peter Crump Elementary (Go Cougars!) tote bag with yellow lettering and a not-so-scary-looking cougar on it. What my pregnancy-induced-dragon-lady teacher did not know was that our workbook was exactly the same as the one I had just used at Southside Baptist Church's (SBC) kindergarten. No way was I going to waste my time doing it again.
SIDENOTE: My parents sent me to SBC to learn phonics. I attribute my strong language skills (I am bilingual in English and German and speak intermediate level French), writing ability, voracious appetite for reading, and my vocabulary to this experience. Thanks Mom and Dad!
Unfortunately for me, my teacher thought that my polite refusals were indicative of my "mental *blank*". (Folks, I refuse to write that word. It is an ugly, hateful word.) Fed up with my lip, Mrs. Erin sent me to the principal's office one day. There I was, 6 years old, with my teacher holding my shoulder and urging me along to the big wooden door with frosted glass with PRINCIPAL painted on it in large black, menacing letters. When the door opened, I was gently pushed inside the wood-paneled, dark office and the door clicked shut behind me. A very tall, muscular African American man with piercing, intense eyes that seemed to stare straight into my soul sat behind a large wooden desk. Behind him on the wall was a very large, impressive collection of paddles that would have greatly pleased the Marquis de Sade. There were leather, vinyl, plastic, wood, several shapes, a rainbow of colors though most were black or brown, etc. Corporal punishments were allowed in schools in Alabama in 1984. Students were routinely spanked in front of their entire class as a deterrent. Whether with bare hands on bare bottoms or with any number of the assorted paddles on the principal's wall of pain/torture, teachers had the authority to beat us for misbehaving.
SIDENOTE: I saw my first black penis during class in 1st grade. Sammy, the really badly behaved kid, had his pants and underwear yanked down and was spanked in front of the whole class for refusing to sit down for the umpteenth time. He made it his mission in life to mess with the teacher every chance he got. Mrs. Price, my second and much better 1st grade teacher, chose a wooden paddle with holes drilled into it. Now that I am adult, I know that the holes decreased wind resistance, thus allowing the teacher to hit his backside with even greater force. I lived in fear of being paddled in school for very good reason. I had seen it happen, heard the screaming, and seen the resulting inability to comfortably sit down for the remainder of the day.
After a few seconds, the man quietly told me, "Come here and sit down."
I was SCARED of this man. He was so big and ripped, that he resembled this guy:
Of course, he was dressed professionally wearing slacks and a short-sleeved button-down dress shirt. I promise you, if he had flexed at all, that shirt would have shredded right off in Incredible Hulk fashion. Now that I think about it, I want to say that the man actually was a former Mr. Universe or something like that.
However, just as the man in the above image is smiling, I noticed that the principal was smiling as I got closer. When I sat down at the edge of his desk and looked at him again, harder this time, I saw that he really was smiling at me. It wasn't menacing or fake, just kind. Confused, I asked him, "Mister, are you mad at me? Are you going to paddle me?"
He said, "No, I'm not mad at you and I'm not going to paddle you. I just want to know why you won't do the work Mrs. Erin gives you in class. Will you tell me why?" So, I told him the whole story. When I was done, he thanked me and sent me back to class.
When I started to come home from school telling my mother about how my teacher was making me do work I had done already, put my head down on my desk for hours for "talking back" although I had only told her, "Mrs. Erin, I did this work already in kindergarten. I don't want to do it again," and how she would call me "stupid" and other ugly names to my face, my mother took action. I was a polite, very well-behaved child at school. I was not one to get into trouble often and it was rarely, if ever, serious. When I did misbehave, it was usually at home and unintentionally bad behavior.
Fast forward a few weeks. My mother took me to nearby Auburn University at Montgomery's campus for very detailed testing. I was scared and tried to run away, but a chewy chocolate chip granola bar and a nice, understanding chat with her allayed my fears. Since I was a very sickly child and spent a lot of time in doctor's offices having blood drawn and tests run, just mentioning the word "doctor" caused me to panic. I was tested in verbal and reading skills, mathematical ability, spatial relationships, a few other tests I'm probably forgetting, and I was given an IQ test. When my results came back, everyone was stunned....
At 6 years old, I had a certified IQ score that was statistically significantly higher than average. I was reading and comprehending on a 6th grade level. My mathematical ability was on par for my age. My spatial relationships ability was in the 80th percentile, meaning I can manipulate objects in my head fairly accurately. The head researcher in charge of my testing talked to my mother and drew this conclusion: "Ma'am, your daughter is simply not being challenged at school. In other words, she is not doing the work, because she is bored."
So, my mother fought very hard with my school to have me removed from Mrs. Erin's class and put into Mrs. Price's class. Also, I was pulled out of class every day to spend an hour in the 6th grade class for reading. I am deeply grateful for my mother for being my strongest, unrelenting advocate. I don't think most parents today would believe their child if they came home from school saying, "Mommy, my teacher was mean to me today."
This is probably when my self-esteem and confidence problems started and why I need a lot of validation. I need to hear that I am liked, wanted, appreciated, loved, smart, talented, etc. in addition to actions that convey those emotions. I had been treated horribly by my teacher who should have been my friend and advocate and was verbally abused by her and some of my classmates. Although I continue to excel in school, with the exception of 1998 through 2001 when I was very ill and as yet undiagnosed (to be discussed in a future blog post), I still have periods of extreme self doubt. However, I suppose everyone doubts themselves now and again. Maybe this is normal? Or at least normal for me?
I am thankful to have many excellent, supportive friends and family who reassure me that my talents are indeed real (for real-real, not for play-play) and support me in my expression and use of those talents. Thanks, guys. You rock!
CORRECTION: I changed the IQ score to a generalization, because I cannot lay my hands on the test results.
