And When We See Through the Eyes of 2e, Do We Pay Attention?

2e News

23/05/2018

Through their creative work, individuals can give us insight into their inner world — from their emotions and dreams to their pain and despair. Such a piece of creative writing came to our attention through the mother of Brett, a twice-exceptional young man. She is an educator who read it at a session at the National Association for Gifted Children convention last year. The goal of the session was to help teachers provide an environment in which their 2e students could be successful.

The Letter

The creative writing class assignment came early in Brett’s senior year of high school: Assignment: As a means of introducing yourself, write me a letter. The letter needs to focus on your experiences as a writer, as well as goals, both personal and academic, for your senior year. Guidelines: At least four paragraphs in length. Focus on tone and voice. (Hint: Your personality should be apparent.) Support all general statements with specific, interesting examples. Worth 50 points. Perhaps this assignment would give Brett the chance to show some creativity as well as to vent his frustrations. Once he had loved school, but that time was long gone. For a while, he’d been clever enough to skate by in his classes, but now things were different. Plus, being the “small, nerdy kid” in high school only brought him harassment and loneliness. What poured from Brett’s mind and heart was the following letter.

[dropshadowbox align=”none” effect=”raised” width=”auto” height=”” background_color=”#ffffff” border_width=”1″ border_color=”#dddddd” ]Let’s get one thing out of the way, I’m lazy. Now I don’t see this as an insult like some others would, I just lack the motivation to reach the heights I could. I’m a cynic, I’m a skeptic, and lastly, I’m a lunatic. I’ve never been the over-achiever, or the A student. I’ve never been the sports star or the future president. The fact of the matter is simply…I don’t care. I honestly could care less about some letter on a paper judging work that I didn’t care about in the first place. I could sit here and feed you some bullshit about drive and passion, but then you’d expect it of me and only disappoint yourself. Experiences as a writer? Well honestly, I used to have a passion and fire for the written word. I wrote poems, songs and stories almost every day. I wasn’t complete without a pen in my hand. Then the public education system killed my passion in cold blood, leaving me a bitter husk of a child. Prompts, essays, written responses were the beasts that killed my love of the art, broken down into nothing but mediocre paragraphs and lackluster essays. The pen that was once inseparable from my hand was now the shackle of my oppression. My many poems ceased, my stories went on without endings, and my songs were nothing more than terrible limericks. Goals? I have no more goals for my academic enslavery. My goals have changed and focused now on my art, for the pencil which once crafted adventures and tales of hope now draws pictures dedicated to cynicism and spite. I am at this desk only by force and plan nothing more than average grades. You’ll see me in the back drawing almost all of the time and try as you might to stop it, it is the only thing I seem to care about anymore. For the assassins that once destroyed my passion for writing will not do the same for my art. So, there it is, a glimpse into my writing style and mind. It’s in a state of disarray and only seems to pump out words of malice or insanity. I have no goals, I have no more passion, I have no more motivation. I while away the hours doodling and playing video games. School is no longer the house of learning it once was for me. It is now only a twisted prison, filled with others like me whose dreams of genius were pounded out of them by the harsh mallets of conformity, forcing us all to write and think the same, so that we will get good grades and survive. So, we sit quietly in our forced mediocrity, cursing the world around us. No more goals only spite.[/dropshadowbox]

The Response

What would be the response to this passionate expression of anger and frustration? Brett’s teacher returned the paper with this brief, impersonal note: “Brett, I love that your voice came through in this, but try to avoid swearing. Also you need a greeting and a salutation. Grade: 45/50.” According to Brett’s mother, “I think [the teacher’s lack of personal feedback] was one of the final blows contributing to him dropping out of high school. He thought this was a creative writing class, but there was no acknowledgement of his creative response.” Perhaps even worse, there was no acknowledgement of his pain and frustration. Maybe the moral of this story is that when our twice-exceptional young people give us a glimpe of the world through their eyes, we need to really open our own to what they are showing us.

Postscripts to Brett’s Story

From Brett, Looking Back as an Adult After I dropped out of school, I got my GED and went to a community college film school. There I was 17 in a class of mostly adults and constantly felt like I was everyone’s little brother tagging along. I played video games instead of studying, I slept on couches at the school, I wasted a lot of my parent’s money. Leaving high school didn’t suddenly “fix me.” I lucked into a career writing an internet series that was admittedly very popular due to hard work and a passion for comedy, and then I got a job at a radio station because I knew how to work a soundboard. I’m lucky because I was born into a family with money. I’m lucky because I had every safety net. I’m lucky because I’m just funny and clever enough to skate by, and I work hard enough to eke out an existence. At 17, I guess I felt helpless and unheard, but I took it out on [my creative writing teacher]. I never understood that a lot of times educators are also victims of that system. I didn’t actively try to improve the system or turn my energy into something positive. As an adult now, I still get angry like anybody, but I make an earnest effort not to take it out on others. I ask for help. I care for and respect my friends; and in return I’ve been much happier than that kid who blamed every person and system of authority around him. From Brett’s Mother I understand how Brett is feeling now. He’s very reflective and obviously feels remorseful about his letter. But at one point, he did feel that way and he’s not alone. I told him, “Like you said, you were lucky; but some kids without family support and safety nets aren’t as lucky. Without a teacher taking a minute to talk with a student who is angry and feeling alone, we don’t know how that might turn out — possibly another school shooting? It takes just that one teacher to be “real” with that student and to at least try to reach out. We need to create and encourage those “just one” teachers!”