Smarts

I have always identified myself as smart, and my intellect has always been a point of personal satisfaction and pride. I am a deeply curious person, and I love learning. I am only now, as an adult, starting to comprehend my educational privilege.

I was a full-on nerd throughout my school years, a TAG kid (talented and gifted) in grade school, and I graduated high school with so many academic honors medals that I downright clanged each time I walked on stage to make my valedictorian and class VP speeches and to receive my diploma. Some of my deepest relationships in high school and college were those I built with my teachers and professors, and being able to learn with and from people is a defining characteristic of my most fulfilling relationships today. Learning is my drug, and sharing and exchanging knowledge with others has always offered one of the best highs I've ever experienced. 

Looking back, I now realize that I made learning and knowing things my focus because it felt like one of the only achievements that could be truly mine. It felt safe. I felt security in smart. 

Sports weren't really my thing, which is not to say that I never played sports or did athletic things. I played softball for about 10 years—starting in second or third grade and playing with largely the same group of people through high school. I played second base and was pretty good. I was on the high school volleyball team for a couple of years, but I was a third-string setter and basically played left-bench water-getter more than I saw time on the court. I even tried my hand at shot put and discus on the track & field team for a bit. But no matter how much effort I put into any of the sports I played or how talented I was, I never felt like an athlete. I didn't feel like I was talented enough. But mostly I felt like I took up too much space to be a real athlete. 

My smarts were what garnered me most of the accolades I earned growing up. Acquiring knowledge—knowing things—became the achievement around which I built my self-identity. And it always felt like "smart" was how I fit within the context of my own family. Dad was the diligent worker and family man. Mom was the engaging, doesn't-know-a-stranger, doer of all things. My oldest brother was the cool, handsome one. My middle brother was the artistic, gregarious one. I was the smart one. 

Smart came easy to me, in part due to my never-ending curiosity. Exploring and learning one fact led me to learn another, and another, until I had amassed enough facts to know quite a lot about a particular topic. Literature and language were always a breeze. Reading and writing have always provided a way for me to feed my imagination, to explore and create new worlds that don't require anyone else to be involved. Science and math and history and social studies all helped me understand and get a handle on the world around me.

Smart also protected me. I don't remember being a member of any of the cliques in high school, though maybe I was and just didn't really feel like it. I remember that I often used my self-deprecating humor and wit to cleverly defuse any bullying I experienced and to navigate my way within and among various social groups with relative ease. Most of the time, people were nice to me—or at least not overtly mean to me—because they knew, eventually, they'd need to ask me for my notes from class or help with an assignment, and I'd be more likely to help them if they hadn't been outwardly awful to me. But I always knew what they thought of me. The teacher's pet. The nerdy fat kid. I suppose in this way my intelligence insulated me from the worst of the high school experience as someone who looked different and had a much bigger body than the thin, pretty, popular kids. 

I realize now that smart was the path of least resistance for me. It was something that felt like it was within my control. It was something I could master. (I have no doubt that I've spent 10,000 hours building my smarts, many times over.)

Smart has been an armor. And a weapon. And a crutch. I am only beginning to realize how smart has been as much of a hindrance as it has been a help to my personal growth. My tendency is to gravitate toward—and make more space for—what is rational or "knowable" at the expense of what is emotional, despite having (or perhaps the genesis of) such a deep well of emotions and passion that feels so unwieldy and overwhelming that it occasionally stops me in my tracks. I chastise and berate myself for my emotional responses, especially when I "know better," which is most of the time. 

My reverence for smart hasn't left a lot of space for unsure, hesitant, scared, vulnerable me. 

Thumbnail photo by Joshua Newton on Unsplash

Sage Catlett

Driving enthusiast. Bourbon lover. Curious explorer of angles, perspectives, and what makes people tick. Always (un)learning. Storyteller. Facilitator of discovery. I create moments of meaning and connection through understanding, vulnerability, passion, and exposure to new people, places, and perspectives.

https://explorethecurves.com
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