had an early start.

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       On weekends before I started school, my older sister would play “teacher” and give me math equations I had never seen while we sat on the carpet beside our dining room table.

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I went to preschool while my parents worked. Some mornings my dad would take me for donuts or biscuits and gravy just across the street from TLC.

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During the school day, we’d have worksheets to practice the absolute basics, like colors or maybe even counting. I would rush to answer every question, which is probably how I developed my poor handwriting. Once I finished, I would smack my right hand on the small desk while I held my paper up high with my other, and yell, “I’m done!” Which in my mind, meant I won.

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It became “Me” against “Them” as soon as I was recommended for Bryant School District’s Gifted and Talented Program in second grade.

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When I was told that I passed the test, that I would be in advanced classes the following year, I smugly walked the elementary school halls.

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I loved the way it sounded. Gifted and Talented, or just G.T. when I cooly reminded my parents of the academic adventures to come.

 

I knew which students I would have in class every year, because the school kept us together. No more first days or unfamiliar faces, excluding a new student or two every year.

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I was the teacher’s pet because I was “so well behaved” and “a pleasure to have in class.” I always raised my hand and I never spoke otherwise.

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Alexis Burch: the model student.

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Then middle school happened.

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In sixth-grade English class, I learned my table partner’s handwriting so that I could do his grammar homework in a last-ditch attempt to make new friends. This was the same year I finished math with a C, and became the definite last-choice pick in every quiz bowl round at competitions.

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I never read the assigned books, I never studied, and I got into the habit of calculating how many times I could not dress out in P.E. before it would affect my grade.

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I still finished middle school with nearly all A’s, but it felt like I was climbing a mountain to do so. I never allowed myself to ask for help, because I was supposed to be gifted and talented, right? Students labeled to have an intellectual advantage are not allowed to ask questions.

 

What if someone were to overhear?

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Education had become a competition and I was only competing to continue a facade where I never needed help. As long as I could flip over a test marked in red before anyone else could see the barely passing letter grade, then I was still winning.

 

High school was a wake up call, in both the best and worst way.

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Eventually I put the work back in, but that isn’t without the occasional struggle. Sometimes a B on a report card still feels like a dagger to my ego, some days I would rather watch paint dry than to write another essay, and I have to physically stop myself from giving mean glances to people who like to point out when I get an “obvious” question incorrect.

 

Still, I am OK.

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Even if the math is now too advanced for my sister, or the vocabulary too complicated for my mom, or my dad leaves too early for us to share breakfast, I know that when I come home, I have three sets of ears that will listen to me complain about a long day and try to help me. I know that when I come home, I still have three sets of eyes that look at me, and choose to believe that I am still nothing less than gifted and talented.