Brief Intro
Before I jump into specifics of my current situation, I’d like to first give a bit of background at the risk of sounding braggadocious. Is it necessary? Probably not. But there’s always a chance that these bits and pieces might provide further insight.
My life changed when I was seven. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, especially since I practically had no sort of power or sway over the decision, but I like to think that this was the start of the butterfly effect—a day that would eventually lead to a series of decisions that would make me end up at Lakewest High.
It all happened one bright morning. I ate breakfast as usual and off to school I went, ready for another day or learning, or lack thereof. The moment I stepped into class and greeted my teacher, a lady I’d never seen before smiled and stood in front of the class. Naturally, it was a trial to get control over a class of twenty-ish unruly kids, but she managed to get it done with a sweet smile.
“Hello,” she said in a tone that was equally sweet as she faced us, “my name is Ms. Wheatley, and I’m here today to administer a little test.”
Us kids chattered nervously and angrily amongst ourselves. The concept of a pop quiz hadn’t really been instilled within us, and many were annoyed that we had to take a test—it was no student’s idea of “enjoying school.”
“Now, I don’t want you to worry,” Ms. Wheatley said, that smile still plastered on her face. “You won’t be graded on it, and it’s just a little exercise, that’s all. It won’t take too long. And if you finish it, you’ll get a little treat.”
Of course, this was more than enough to convince even the most stubborn of students. We were at the age where even a simple cookie was worth quite a bit, and a test we weren’t even graded on seemed like a small price to pay in exchange for a treat. The bonus kicker was that we got to skip class too.
And so, we all chirruped our consent as classes started. One by one, students were called out—there were around three proctors including Ms. Wheatley—and the students were returned within an hour. Some students came back sooner than that, and when pressed by the others who were yet to take this exam, we were simply told that it was a weird test and that we got treats.
Test anxiety wasn’t really a thing that had set in for us yet (this was a concept I’d learn in middle school), and I was at an age where I felt confident and unstoppable. My parents were very big on academia and I (begrudgingly) went to cram school, but second-grade anything was relatively easy for me, and I was able to thrive at my grade level with relative ease. I never really studied, and the biggest issue was that I was reluctant to do homework. My logic was: I knew how to do this assignment, and homework seemed like a waste of time since it generally reviewed what I already knew. The point was, this exam didn’t scare me. In fact, I was a bit excited.
When my turn finally came, I was guided into a room. My classmates had been very vague about this test, and I quickly saw why. This exam was unlike anything that I’d ever taken before. For example, the proctor seemed a bit concerned about time, and the questions were along the lines of: if Timmy had one apple, Jane has one apple, Jim has two apples, Kate has three apples, and Leo has five apples, how many apples will Ryan have?
There was also a question where I was shown a triangle, a square, and a pentagon. I had to guess which would be the next shape out of the following choices: an oval, a hexagon, a circle, or a trapezoid.
I’d never seen a test like it before, but I wasn’t bothered. I quickly filled out my paper, eager to get this over with so that I could get my treat. Since I wasn’t graded on it anyway, I wasn’t even too bothered about getting the right answers. I made my best guess and quickly moved on, hoping that I could get that cookie soon.
I finished the exam and went on my merry way with my cookie in hand. I skipped back to class and enjoyed my treat as the rest of my classmates who took the test were chatting away, comparing answers. I didn’t think too much of that test.
When school was out and I boarded my mom’s car to head home, she asked me how school was. I told her that it was the same old—boring stuff. I mentioned that I took a funny exam and got a cookie. My mom, upon hearing this, simply asked if I enjoy the cookie; I nodded happily and started to yap about dinosaurs.
Unbeknownst to me, my mother must’ve gotten a phone call from the school or something. She seemed elated one day and told me that there was very good news. I had no idea what she was on about, but I was happy that she was happy.
And so, a few weeks later, I was pulled out of my class and put into a new one. My new teacher was extremely kind and welcoming about the transition, and I honestly didn’t mind it either—I didn’t really have friends in my old class. My new teacher told me that I was very special, the cream of the crop, and that though I might feel more challenged, this was a good thing. She mused that perhaps the gifted program might not be enough for me.
Later on, I’d learn that the funny little exam I took was called a pattern recognition assessment. Also called an IQ test. I’d scored highly gifted.
