Smart

I.Q. is notoriously tricky.  Does creating a test where scores follow a predictable bell curve mean that you have identified an accurate measure of what it is to be intelligent?  Or is it simply a measurement for something you have now constructed--"I.Q."--which may be correlated with intelligence, but may also be quite flawed?

To begin with, what is human intelligence, exactly?  When I make snap judgments regarding how smart other people are, I often link it to verbal expression: I am unimpressed when someone misuses a word or requires an explanation for a term that I think should be common knowledge; conversely, if someone can articulate an abstract or unusual idea, I elevate my opinion of his/her intelligence.  I like to joke about my roommate's ex-boyfriend's stupidity because he routinely made errors mistaking things like Barbados for Barcelona (although it turns out he actually was thinking of Pamplona, so his issues with intelligence can be argued to go beyond language).  But what I can observe of verbal expression is really a measure of performance, and so by definition my perception will be skewed to favor performers.  What of those with performance anxiety or who are hesitant to show off, to say nothing of those whose intelligence is non-verbal?  Granted, there are other accepted ways of demonstrating intelligence besides the verbal, but they are the exceptions that prove the rule.  One of the few I can think of off hand would be performing an advanced math operation.

Is the construct of intelligence as we commonly use it even compatible with a non-verbal or mathematical form of intelligence?  We use other adjectives to describe aptitude in other areas--musical, talented, gifted, artistic, creative, skillful--even though accomplishments stemming from these same feats can arguably represent the greatest heights of human brain power: the most moving music, the most stunning art, the most innovative design.

I think about this quite often as regards my ESOL students, who are by definition limited in the reception and production of the English language.  Students who have strong academic language skills in their primary language transition relatively well to an English -only schooling system: while they often have predictable struggles deciphering new vocabulary or correctly using English syntax, the linguistic structure for how to think, analyze, and organize an argument is already firmly rooted in their first language.  In my experience, teaching these latter skills is infinitely more challenging and abstract than explaining when to use present perfect or memorizing new vocabulary.  The language part of my job has surprisingly turned out to be relatively straightforward.

I worry a great deal about my students who lack both general English proficiency and academic proficiency in any language.  I worry that kids who may be pretty smart in the sense of having a sharp awareness of the world may find themselves feeling horribly stupid as they navigate the American educational system.  The way it is set up now is hardly conducive to creating a well-rounded citizenry or workforce (if that is actually what we want our schools to achieve--even that is not something clearly agreed upon).  Students who are either athletically gifted or who do well in a traditional academic environment emphasizing the verbal/mathematical intelligence can finish high school feeling pretty good about themselves, but those whose gifts lie elsewhere will only struggle to find relevance.  Well-meaning school boards and law-makers add academic requirements for graduation without considering if another Algebra credit is universally desirable--what about the student who just can't do well in math, who wants to work in a totally non-math related field, who has no desire or inclination to go to college?  High school success just got that much trickier.

The great pendulum of public opinion swings back and forth on this issue, but I would love to see a greater investment in vocational programs in high schools.   I love the idea of open enrollment in Advanced Placement courses so that students from working class backgrounds or without a history of academic success can push themselves if they choose to, but I also love the idea of schools openly acknowledging that an academic route isn't the only one, and that we value the roles of those who do the tangible stuff in our society--designing our clothes, cutting our hair, making and serving our food, manufacturing products, stocking shelves--and that these too, can be done with skill and pride.

Old Books

Growing up, there was a long, heavy, somewhat ugly bookcase in the hall filled with books inherited from my grandfather's library, including his dusty (but smelling of that delightful old book smell!) Yale Shakespeare.



I really wanted to be smart. I wanted to prove I was smart--smarter than other people, smart to a superlative degree--one of the smartest.  To my nine-year-old mind, Shakespeare was the epitome of intelligence, so naturally I decided I had to try to read it.

I wanted to begin with a play I had actually heard of, so naturally I chose Romeo and Juliet.  I still remember some of the confusion I encountered trying to trudge through Elizabethan prose.  It was so clearly beyond me, but I persevered for a surprisingly long time.  I still remember reading the scene beginning "Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds."  I was confused as to how she had ended up racing away on horses--I imagined her driving a chariot and running off somewhere, obviously in desperation to be with her true love.  I must have given up not long afterwards because I don't remember much of anything else.  I went back to my Madeleine L'Engle and L.M. Montgomery novels after that.

My mother got rid of the bookshelf a few years ago, and with it, most of the books.  She felt no one was reading them anymore, and with all of the kids out of the house, likely no one was.  But I miss it.  I miss the rows of old books and wondering who had read them before.  Their dated covers and crumbling pages seemed to hearken back to the richness of a past age, where I imagined people read with greater regularity and less distraction.

It Takes a Village and Other Clichés

Life can be a pretty dreary thing at times: wake up too early, work, exercise, eat, run errands, yadda, yadda, yadda.  Joyful moments are rarer than I would like, and sometimes the dreariness seems to overshadow them completely.

A week ago, my sister gave birth to her fourth child and first daughter, and a joyful vista opened up again.  This photo of my six year-old nephew cradling his baby sister expresses the happiness of that moment better than words ever could.

Within minutes of being born, the baby was whisked off to intensive care.  Two or three times in quick succession, she turned slightly blue and stopping breathing.  It was a frightening and tense time.  So that my brother-in-law could stay at the hospital, my parents drove to the hospital, picked up the older kids, drove them home, put them to bed, and woke up several times in the middle of the night to check my oldest (type 1 diabetic) nephew's blood sugar.  My father drove the kids to school and packed their lunches.  Neighbors watched the house.  Church members brought meals for days--the family was even double-booked on a couple of nights.  Support and prayers poured in from friends and family on Facebook, by phone, and by email.

Their family would no doubt have survived without outside help.  My brother-in-law would have had to leave the hospital and take care of the kids on his own, my sister could have looked after the baby in the hospital, and they would have made it through without messages of comfort and support.  But what a bleaker, sadder world that would have been!  I don't know precisely what it is that we are made of that makes us yearn for contact with one another, but I am heartened by the goodness in other people and by the compassion that moves them to reach out.  This is the stuff of minor miracles: just when life began to seem too dismal, I found unexpected joy in the mysterious warmth of human connections.

Oscar Pistorius

In the last Olympics, I was taken with Oscar Pistorius for his inspiring drive to compete despite having had his legs amputed below the knee as a child.  I got sucked into the media machine and loved hearing stories about him: how he met with a young girl who had lost her arms and legs to meningitis, how a fellow competitor asked to swap numbers with him in recognition of the historic nature of his success, even though he failed to make the final of the 400.  It was a dream come true for the media outlets, the ultimate feel-good human interest story in the Olympics, which have really become more about creating heroes than the actual sports.





When news broke that Pistorius had shot his girlfriend to death, I shared the horror of the rest of the world--and also the sense of betrayal.  But why betrayal?  Who was Oscar Pistorius anyway, except someone who wanted to be a star athlete, who also happened to have no legs below the knee?  His qualifications for fame had nothing to do with character.

Even those who are elevated to hero status based on their good deeds reveal themselves to be fallible human beings.   Greg Mortenson, the co-author of the bestselling Three Cups of Tea, a tale of utter selflessness in the pursuit of improving the lives of the children of Pakistan and Afghanistan, seems to have fabricated sections of his book and misappropriated donor funds for personal use.  His demise was documented on 60 minutes, he was eviscerated by Jon Krakauer, and the public outrage likely led, at least indirectly, to the suicide of his co-author.

Herein lies the trouble with hero worship: it elevates people beyond the status of human beings to demigods.  We expect them to live better lives than we do because they have inspired us--they should not give in to lust, greed, laziness, self-promotion, addiction, envy, because we conceive of them as somehow superhuman--and when they fall, we cannot excuse it.

We imagine those in the spotlight, who have accomplished extraordinary things, to be made of different material from the rest of us.  The truth is that there are no demigods--just people like us.  It can be frightening to acknowledge, but it can also be liberating, for instead of relying on others to fulfill our demands for greatness, we can recognize the same power within ourselves.

Listening

Observations on myself: I am unusually sensitive to sounds and unusually insensitive to sights--I might walk past the same building or sign many times and never notice it, but a loud or jarring (or beautiful!) sound is sure to catch my attention.  Here are some of the sounds I love:

Crickets--a relaxing summer evening, sitting on a back porch with people dear to me, having the pleasure to slow down just to listen, being near to nature and its beauty

The sound of a neighbor's outdoor basketball game--comfort, homeyness, familiarity

Ocean waves crashing--the combination of a soothing, reassuring, repetitive rhythm coupled with the ocean's (almost literally) unfathomable mystery

An orchestra tuning--dissonance, difference, resolving into unity while maintaining uniqueness

Musicians breathing in the background of classical music tracks--a big intake of breath right before an important passage--it's almost like they're reminding you how to live: play and work with intensity, but don't forget to breathe

Children laughing--really anyone laughing, especially people you love--a blessed reminder that perhaps not all of life is suffering, after all

Traveling Alone

This past weekend, a dear co-worker was married in New Hampshire.  After receiving her invitation I assumed it would likely be impractical to attend, but I looked online and saw that ticket prices direct from DCA to Manchester were cheap, and on a whim, I bought a ticket.

I arrived late on Friday night, rented a car, and drove to a small family-owned lodge.  I woke up with light poring into my windows through the brightly tinted leaves. I loved having a room to myself, tucked away in the New Hampshire forest, quiet, restful, private, protected.  I felt like I didn't have to live up to any expectations.  I slept in, read a bit, went for a long walk, ate a late breakfast, and drove myself to the wedding.  I chatted with strangers and friends of the family, congratulated the bride and groom, headed to the reception, ate, danced, chatted, and went home early to read in bed.

It was perfect.  It was restorative.  I should do this more often!

The view from one of my windows:

My glorious morning walk

:

The lovely stained glass in the church:

The bride and groom:

View from the reception site:

Connected

I read this article today about gang violence in El Salvador.  It made me think about how many stories are in circulation regarding suffering in far away places, and how their sheer volume makes it hard to feel compassionate about all of them--we have to live at some point, running errands and making money, and stopping to feel properly empathetic, to consider whether our consumption is exacerbating the problem, or to wonder if contributing funds might help, becomes simply unbearable over time.  Yet how unfortunate to feel myself becoming hardened!

I write about this now in the context of beginning another school year with a new crop of students.  As the level 1 ESOL teacher, I see my students every morning first thing and thus become the default homeroom teacher/counselor/social worker for students.  Students routinely ask me questions in the minutes before and after class on everything from free lunch to homecoming tickets.  The harder cases are the ones where I have to ask the questions: why is Douglas sleeping? (Answer: working illegally long hours in the evenings to help the family put  food on the table).  Why is Maria so despondent? (Answer: in fear that his daughter has become too "loose" and Americanized, her father has been beating her).  Why does Danny seem so angry? (Answer: in immigrating to the U.S. to flee his father's gang-related aspirations for him, he has been reunited with a mother he hasn't seen in 10 years--and after the initial joyful reunion, it has been a difficult and frustrating adjustment).  My beginning students are disproportionately Central American in origin, and so stories like the NY Times article cited above are more than an abstraction--I see the impact of violence and poverty on my students' learning and behavior, which in turn has a direct impact on me.

I didn't choose this profession because of an unselfish desire to comfort the afflicted.  I saw in it an opportunity to earn a living in something I enjoyed: I both love teaching and feel naturally gifted to do it well, and I am fascinated by the intersection of language and culture.  It was only after being in my field for a few years that I even realized how essential it is to acknowledge what a huge impact the circumstances of my students' lives can have on their performance in school, and how I can never ignore that if I want to help them reach their best potential, academically or otherwise.  I became connected to this community by accident, and I care about immigration, about Central American countries with their soaring murder rates, corruption, and horrifying poverty, not so much because I am compassionate and selfless, but because it affects me, actually and quite concretely.  Trying to get a deeply angry seventeen-year-old boy to care about improving his writing has made it abundantly clear that I cannot separate myself from the woes of a far-off country.

I ended up here by accident rather than by any inherent goodness.  However, I feel acutely that experiencing things like this--where I can directly observe the suffering of others because of real connections with those it most affects--is an essential part of helping me to become more loving, more compassionate, and a better Christian.  I should do more good--I should find ways to serve outside of what I already do in my profession.  So many people do that, and in this way their lives become interwoven with another community, and they learn to feel compassion and understanding for those who are in distinctly different circumstances from themselves.  It is so natural to cling to others like us who are of similar faiths, professions, academic backgrounds, with similar interests.  I, too, choose to spend the great majority of my time with those with whom I have the most in common, but I've come to see that I am simply too limited in my capacity for far-off compassion.  I cannot understand or care about other people in a meaningful way without knowing them with some degree of intimacy.