Pleasant Plumeria #5
He didn't look like a genius, he looked more like a troll doll. Okay, granted, his hair didn't stand on end in a day-glo pouf, but from the fat little nose to the widely spaced eyes to the round belly, the kid was a dead ringer for a Russ troll.
To be fair, I guess I'm not sure exactly what a "genius" looks like. I mean, there are plenty of stereotypes out there about the image of the smart kid--in fact, the last really intelligent student I taught was as stereotypical as one could ask for. He was short, thin, and Asian, with thick glasses even at the age of four. He wore striped polo shirts and mini-docker pants, and all he wanted to talk about was space, dinosaurs, or the imaginary nation he had just created. Andy LOOKED like a genius, and he lived up to that expectation.
Ryan, though, Ryan looked like the end result of his parents' genes battling each other for supremacy. His mother's Chinese heritage won out in the eyes and the dark, silky hair, but his father's American influence was obvious in his goofy freckles and big potbelly. Some children of mixed ethnicities seem to be blessed with the most attractive and exotic features of each. Taya's African-American and German backgrounds combined to make her a caramel skinned, blue eyed beaty. Khye's Korean and African-American backgrounds mixed to create a child with smooth, warm skin and mysterious almond eyes. But not Ryan.
Like I said, he definitely didn't look genius-esque, and at first it didn't bother me. Who cares how a four year-old looks? He's four, he's supposed to grow into his quirks. But after people kept telling me how brilliant he was, it started to chafe. The kid barely spoke in class, he refused to answer questions at circle, he wouldn't eat lunch...this is not how a genius behaves. I finally got downright annoyed when this alleged prodigy conked another student in the face with a block because she stepped on his toe. I pulled him aside to try and badger some sort of logic out of him, and the response I received? His shrill screech inches from my face, and a conk on the head of my own.
I was done. Where was the brilliance? Where were the endearingly clever questions and fantastic stories? All I had gotten out of this child was a mushrooming sense of annoyance and a pounding headache.
Gritting my teeth and holding my head, I stared at him. His wide, inky dark eyes stared back at me, stoic after his outburst. For the first time in my teaching career, my frustration completely boiled over and I felt hot, angry tears come to my eyes. I was at a loss as to how to handle this little miscreant, this "genius" who was terrorizing my classroom. I stared at him and bit back my tears and stared some more. I figured we were at a stalemate until I managed to pull myself together and craft some sort of disciplinary action. That's when he did something that shocked me even more than a chunk of wood to the noggin.
His little face crumpled, he burst into tears, and he threw his arms around my neck. When he spoke, I finally understood what everyone had been saying for so long.
"I'm sorry Miss Marie, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it I just felt the mad go from my belly to my hand and it came out at you but I didn't mean it! I love you a lot and I don't want you to hate me anymore!"
The perceptiveness of this small person astounded me. All of the skepticism I'd harbored towards him, all of the second guessing and negative thoughts--he'd felt all of it. As much as I thought I had kept my opinions to myself, I had been transparent to him. He wanted to be good, but faced with a new authority figure who treated him like he was an asshole, he responded in kind.
He didn't look like a genius, but he taught me more about expectations and their ramifications than any psychology or communications class ever had. He didn't look like a teacher, either, but then, I probably didn't look much like a preschool student myself.
To be fair, I guess I'm not sure exactly what a "genius" looks like. I mean, there are plenty of stereotypes out there about the image of the smart kid--in fact, the last really intelligent student I taught was as stereotypical as one could ask for. He was short, thin, and Asian, with thick glasses even at the age of four. He wore striped polo shirts and mini-docker pants, and all he wanted to talk about was space, dinosaurs, or the imaginary nation he had just created. Andy LOOKED like a genius, and he lived up to that expectation.
Ryan, though, Ryan looked like the end result of his parents' genes battling each other for supremacy. His mother's Chinese heritage won out in the eyes and the dark, silky hair, but his father's American influence was obvious in his goofy freckles and big potbelly. Some children of mixed ethnicities seem to be blessed with the most attractive and exotic features of each. Taya's African-American and German backgrounds combined to make her a caramel skinned, blue eyed beaty. Khye's Korean and African-American backgrounds mixed to create a child with smooth, warm skin and mysterious almond eyes. But not Ryan.
Like I said, he definitely didn't look genius-esque, and at first it didn't bother me. Who cares how a four year-old looks? He's four, he's supposed to grow into his quirks. But after people kept telling me how brilliant he was, it started to chafe. The kid barely spoke in class, he refused to answer questions at circle, he wouldn't eat lunch...this is not how a genius behaves. I finally got downright annoyed when this alleged prodigy conked another student in the face with a block because she stepped on his toe. I pulled him aside to try and badger some sort of logic out of him, and the response I received? His shrill screech inches from my face, and a conk on the head of my own.
I was done. Where was the brilliance? Where were the endearingly clever questions and fantastic stories? All I had gotten out of this child was a mushrooming sense of annoyance and a pounding headache.
Gritting my teeth and holding my head, I stared at him. His wide, inky dark eyes stared back at me, stoic after his outburst. For the first time in my teaching career, my frustration completely boiled over and I felt hot, angry tears come to my eyes. I was at a loss as to how to handle this little miscreant, this "genius" who was terrorizing my classroom. I stared at him and bit back my tears and stared some more. I figured we were at a stalemate until I managed to pull myself together and craft some sort of disciplinary action. That's when he did something that shocked me even more than a chunk of wood to the noggin.
His little face crumpled, he burst into tears, and he threw his arms around my neck. When he spoke, I finally understood what everyone had been saying for so long.
"I'm sorry Miss Marie, I'm sorry! I didn't mean it I just felt the mad go from my belly to my hand and it came out at you but I didn't mean it! I love you a lot and I don't want you to hate me anymore!"
The perceptiveness of this small person astounded me. All of the skepticism I'd harbored towards him, all of the second guessing and negative thoughts--he'd felt all of it. As much as I thought I had kept my opinions to myself, I had been transparent to him. He wanted to be good, but faced with a new authority figure who treated him like he was an asshole, he responded in kind.
He didn't look like a genius, but he taught me more about expectations and their ramifications than any psychology or communications class ever had. He didn't look like a teacher, either, but then, I probably didn't look much like a preschool student myself.
posted by Stellar at 4:50 PM
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