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The boy who knew too much: a child prodigy

This is the true story of scientific child prodigy, and former baby genius, Ainan Celeste Cawley, written by his father. It is the true story, too, of his gifted brothers and of all the Cawley family. I write also of child prodigy and genius in general: what it is, and how it is so often neglected in the modern world. As a society, we so often fail those we should most hope to see succeed: our gifted children and the gifted adults they become. Site Copyright: Valentine Cawley, 2006 +

Friday, June 18, 2010

Sony video cameras: world's worst?

We have two Sony video cameras. Neither works. Both are presently in for repair. Now, what strikes me about this situation is that one of the cameras is relatively new, and rarely used. They want almost 400 RM to repair it. The other camera is older, but they also want a considerable sum to repair it, too. That particular camera has already had three major repairs on it, since we bought it: the last two, were just two weeks apart.

Now, my question is: should Sony be selling video cameras which are so inherently unreliable? If so, should they be charging a major chunk of the price of a new camera for each repair? Is the repair of their cameras, in fact a major profit centre for Sony?

We won't be buying a new Sony camera. We will never, in fact, buy a Sony video camera again: we have done so, twice, and twice got a "lemon". Two lemons, from one supplier, in one type of goods, makes me think that supplier just doesn't know how to make video cameras.

What is particularly telling about our two Sony video cameras is that both, although different models, from different years, have a "chassis" problem: whatever that is. Both require major repairs. The first camera has already cost us more in repairs than a new camera costs. The second one promises much the same in a short while, given how quickly it failed and upon so little use. Frankly, I am not impressed.

Sony cannot make video cameras. I wonder if, however, Sony can read? If Sony reads this blog post, perhaps you would like to repair our video cameras for free...or indeed, give us a replacement that is not a lemon - because we are very tired of having to send your cameras for major repair, every few months (or, indeed, couple of weeks). Either that, or please, Sony, stop making and selling video cameras, when you only know how to do the latter - or learn how to make them, in the first place.

In the likely event that Sony cannot read, or don't wish to, we are not going to buy Sony again...and suggest that you don't do so either. Unless, of course, you have a passion for repair centres - in which case Sony is probably just your thing.

The only situation under which it would be wise to buy Sony, is if their repair centres offer full repair services, indefinitely, for free for all goods. Then, and only then, would Sony be a safe buy. Until that moment, spare yourself the suffering, and get a more reliable brand. Suggestions please as to which brands those might be.

(If you would like to learn more of Ainan Celeste Cawley, 10, or his gifted brothers, Fintan, 6 and Tiarnan, 4, this month, please go to:
http://scientific-child-prodigy.blogspot.com/2006/10/scientific-child-prodigy-guide.html

I also write of gifted education, child prodigy, child genius, adult genius, savant, megasavant, HELP University College, the Irish, the Malays, Singapore, Malaysia, IQ, intelligence and creativity.

My Internet Movie Database listing is at: http://imdb.com/name/nm3438598/
Ainan's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3305973/
Syahidah's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3463926/

Our editing, proofreading and copywriting company, Genghis Can, is at http://www.genghiscan.com/

This blog is copyright Valentine Cawley. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Use only with permission. Thank you.)

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posted by Valentine Cawley @ 4:47 PM  7 comments

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Tara Palmer-Tomkinson and the art of the snub.

I met Tara Palmer-Tomkinson, once, many years ago, when she still looked like a boy. I suppose, in certain ways, she still does. For those who don't know who she is (and that would be almost everyone outside the UK), Tara Palmer-Tomkinson is a former socialite newspaper columnist, a tv presenter and, unexpectedly, if you ask me, a model.

It is likely that Tara Palmer-Tomkinson remembers me as well as I remember her. You see, when we met I was going through my "Lord Valentine the Misplaced", phase. This was when I took it upon myself to bring live performance art, to various unsuspecting places, as an 18th century dandy, "Lord Valentine the Misplaced." It should be quite clear why he was "misplaced".

I had been invited to a nightclub event, by the organizer of the event, who happened to be acting as Romeo, in a show of Romeo and Juliet in which I was Friar Lawrence (I made him Mayo Irish, with a very thick accent. The problem with it was that casting directors who came, were so convinced by the accent, they thought I normally spoke that way, and was "unsuited" to more mainstream work!)

Without prior warning, I decided to turn up as Lord Valentine the Misplaced. It was quite a popular move with most people there, since I had many an animated conversation with the curious guests, about, just why, I was attired, as I was. The only person who didn't ask me a single thing, was Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. She sat at my table, opposite me, gazing over occasionally in silence, when she thought I wouldn't notice, as if somewhat put out that I had upstaged her.

The thing about Tara Palmer-Tomkinson was that I didn't have a clue who she was. I made a classic social error, when the girl next to me (who was almost bouncing with enthusiasm at her idea), said to the boyish girl, or was it girlish boy, opposite: "You have GOT to write about him!"

Apparently, the unspeaking one, was a writer. "Who is she?" I asked my new-found friend, in the next seat.

"THAT," she said, as if I had asked where Earth was, "is Tara Palmer-Tomkinson!"

She was simply amazed that I did not know who Tara Palmer-Tomkinson was.

I looked across at the woman opposite and found that I still did not recognize her. Perhaps I had spent too little time attending to her column in the Sunday Times. I knew, at least, that she wrote that.

I tried, then, to speak to Tara, but she tried her utmost not to speak back. She determined not to be impressed by anyone except herself. This was, in fact, the most impressive thing about her.

The evening passed, as evenings do, in a blur of misheard names and forgotten faces. By the end of it, I knew only one thing: who I was, for I had determinedly not drunk a thing with alcohol in it. It is, after all difficult enough to be an 18th century gentleman in a 20th century world, without being drunk with it. If I had gotten drunk enough I might have forgotten how I had ended up two centuries out of date in the first place. It was better to remain carefully aware of the facts of the situation.

That weekend, I opened the Sunday Times, at Tara Palmer-Tomkinson's page, with one thought in mind: if Tara Palmer Tomkinson were truly a journalist, who truly wrote of the most unusual events of the week, the most striking occurrences, she would undoubtedly have written of our encounter.

I scanned the article with care. It was, as usual, about little more than Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. Nowhere was there a single mention of the 18th century gentleman, Lord Valentine the Misplaced, who had failed to recognize her. It had never occurred to her that it is quite impossible for an 18th century gentleman to recognize anyone in the 20th century at all - so she should not have been offended. She should, instead, have been charmed that I had endured so long to meet her.

So, Tara Palmer-Tomkinson was not, as I had been led to believe, a journalist at all. She was just another writer about the self.

The funny thing about our meeting, from the point of view of what journalists are supposed to be about, is that there was a lot more to my presence there than she ever allowed herself to understand. Lord Valentine the Misplaced was not a casual manifestation of the 18th century, but a very meaningful piece of performance art. She never, however, inquired as to my purpose at all. How curious that is, for a "journalist" to be so incurious. No doubt, a lack of curiosity, must be a product of all that "breeding" (for those who don't know, she had a privileged upbringing on an estate in Hampshire).

In a way, it was pleasing that she did not write of me, for it could only mean one thing: that I had somehow "got" to her. She had been put out, by my existence, in a way, that, by not acknowledging my existence, in her column, she was, in a sense, forcefully acknowledging my existence. Had she been less put out, by me, she would, undoubtedly have written of the encounter.

So, thank you, Tara, for your silence: it was all the acknowledgement I needed. A snub from a snob is better than any accolade.

(If you would like to learn more of Ainan Celeste Cawley, 10, or his gifted brothers, Fintan, 6 and Tiarnan, 4, this month, please go to:
http://scientific-child-prodigy.blogspot.com/2006/10/scientific-child-prodigy-guide.html

I also write of gifted education, child prodigy, child genius, adult genius, savant, megasavant, HELP University College, the Irish, the Malays, Singapore, Malaysia, IQ, intelligence and creativity.

My Internet Movie Database listing is at: http://imdb.com/name/nm3438598/
Ainan's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3305973/
Syahidah's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3463926/

Our editing, proofreading and copywriting company, Genghis Can, is at http://www.genghiscan.com/

This blog is copyright Valentine Cawley. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Use only with permission. Thank you.)

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posted by Valentine Cawley @ 1:01 PM  0 comments

Monday, June 14, 2010

Ridzwan Dzafir, Mr. Asean, Pondok Boy.

Ridzwan Dzafir is a notable Malay in Singapore. He used to be Singapore’s representative to ASEAN, hence his moniker: “Mr. Asean”. He also held senior positions at the Trade Development Board and was an ambassador to South America. Along the way, he wrote a book about his life, a book in which I played a role.

Last year, Ridzwan Dzafir published: “Ridzwan Dzafir : from pondok boy to Singapore's 'Mr ASEAN' : an autobiography”. Its publication came as a surprise to me. You see, Ridzwan’s son in law, Charles Barton, with whom I had worked on and off over the last decade, had promised to tell me when it was coming out. He had indicated that it was to be soon after I had last spoken to him. However, months passed, indeed, a good chunk of a year had passed – and I heard nothing.

This puzzled me, you see, early in the millennium, I had been given a manuscript by Charles Barton, to edit, written by Ridzwan Dzafir. I had been told very impressive things about Ridzwan Dzafir and had been led to believe that he was a “Great Man”. At least, that is the impression all the talking up of him, had left on me. Therefore, when I opened his manuscript about his life, I had high expectations of his writing. I could not have been more disappointed. The document was the most poorly written – indeed, illiterate – document I have ever seen produced by an adult. Virtually every sentence had grammatical errors. The language was clumsy. Much of it was “Singlish” in syntax and cumbersome in structure. Sentences were long, incomprehensible and very, very dull. It was, in short, shockingly badly written.

It became immediately clear that my “editing” job, had turned into a rewriting job. What made it even more of a job, than it might have been, was that there was no soft copy of this book: that had been lost. I was left, therefore, with a large pile of paper, typed with illiterate sentences, in a very boring style, to work with. I had no choice but to retype the entire book. As I did so, I rewrote every single sentence in the book, to eliminate grammatical errors, make the sentences comprehensible and make the words flow more smoothly. Sometimes, I had to work very hard to work out the intended meaning, of his torturous sentences, and render them in good English. It was not an easy task, because his writing really was the poorest I had ever seen, in one who spoke English as a first language. Yet, I worked hard at it, because of my respect for his son-in-law, Charles Barton. I wanted to do a good job.

One peculiar characteristic of the book was that there was so relatively little of the personal in it. It was, largely, about his bureaucratic career as a leading civil servant. In time, I would be asked to interview Ridzwan to gather personal stories, for planned incorporation in the book, to give it some life. I did two such interviews. I don’t know what use was made of them.

Anyway, I worked quite a few weeks on the book, every day, rewriting and editing his turgid work, into something readable. At last, I was done. I called Charles Barton to come and collect it, which he duly did.

As he left with the newly rewritten book and the original “manuscript”, I said one thing to him: “If it is ever published, make sure I am credited, for what I have done, on it.”

“Who needs credit?”, he replied.

”Without credit,” I answered patiently, “no-one can build a career. I need to be credited for my work.”

He nodded in reply.

I had made my position clear, on the offchance that it would be published. At that time, however, there was no indication that it ever would be, for it was, I had been told, being put together for his family.

It should be noted that the revised manuscript I handed Charles Barton was much improved over the original. It was now, at least, a readable work, whereas before it had been quite the most impossible book to force one’s eyes over.

Many years passed. My interviews with Ridzwan Dzafir were added to the tally of the work done by me. Yet, no word came on publishing. Finally, I heard that Editions Didier Millet would be publishing it. On being told this, I told Charles: “Make sure I get a copy…and don’t forget the credit.”

A couple of years passed and I had still heard nothing about publication of the book, so, one day, I entered Ridzwan Dzafir’s name into Google. I was shocked by what I saw: “Ridzwan Dzafir : from pondok boy to Singapore's 'Mr ASEAN' : an autobiography”, had already been published.

I clicked on the first link to mention the book and found a site that had uploaded the first few pages of the book.

I read the dedication. Then I reread the dedication. Then I looked carefully over the introductory pages looking for what should be there, but wasn’t. There was no mention of my name, or of the endless work I had put in, on the book, making it into a readable manuscript, from the biggest pile of illiterate rubbish I had ever had to read. I felt sick. Ridzwan Dzafir had broken his word to me. So, too, had Charles Barton. I hadn’t been credited at all – despite the fact that this book would never have happened had it not been for my painstaking input.

There was, however, a list of other editors and staff on the book, listed carefully. I could have laughed at the sick joke that was. The first person to edit and, in fact, entirely rewrite the book, was me – but I wasn’t credited at all. I had done much more work on the book than any of the names listed from Editions Didier Millet, since they had the benefit of working from my revised manuscript which had, at least, been improved to the level of comprehensibility.

I rang Charles Barton about it.

“Ridzwan’s book has been published.” I said to him, knowing that he would know this already. “How come you didn’t tell me?”

”I was hoping you wouldn’t find out.”, he said, rather disappointingly, for one I had long considered my friend.

“I am not credited at all, Charles.” I was hurt, but there was none showing in my voice. I was more amazed that Charles had told me nothing.

“I asked them to. I called them about it when it came out – but they said that there was a general credit to friends and family. I thought that wasn’t good enough.”

“I should have been credited Charles. I put a lot of work into that book. Don’t you remember that after I gave the book back to you, I said I should be credited if it were ever published?”

“I did ask.”

“It is not your fault…”, I said, thinking it could either have been Ridzwan’s fault – or the publisher’s.

“I am glad you think it is not my fault.”, he said. I almost felt him shift from one side to another as he did so.

The conversation ended unhappily, for me, anyway. It was the last time I ever spoke to Charles Barton – despite us being what I had thought of as good friends, for almost 10 years. You should note that this was his decision, not mine. He never returned my emails, thereafter. It seems that his father-in-law is more important to him than any friend – even if that father-in-law, claims credit to himself where it is not due, and doesn’t thank those who helped him, along the way.

I wrote to the publisher and asked them why I hadn’t been credited. They said that they had only done what they had been asked. That left two possible culprits: either Charles Barton never reminded Ridzwan Dzafir to credit my work – or Ridzwan deliberately omitted to thank me, despite the fact that his book would never have happened without my help, all those years ago. Then again, if Ridzwan Dzafir, was at all like his press, (which he isn’t), he would naturally have credited me, without prompting, for all the work I had done on his behalf. That he didn’t, is especially telling given the absurdly saintly public image he has.

Let us consider what is happening here. Ridzwan Dzafir’s original manuscript, had been not only unpublishable, but utterly unreadable. It had been, quite simply, impossible for any normal human being to get through. Indeed, that was why the job had been passed over to me, to do – because none of his own family could muster the attention required to do it. It had languished for years, in their hands, but not a one, of an extended family, had had the fortitude to work on it. An outsider was sought, because no insider would do it. So, I did it: I rewrote the entire book. One would have thought that my request to be credited, as having done so, would not have been too big a thing to ask: after all, without my work, that book would never have got to the stage of being published – yet, I see something dark in the failure to credit me. Anyone reading, “Ridzwan Dzafir : from pondok boy to Singapore's 'Mr ASEAN' : an autobiography”, might be left with the impression that Ridzwan Dzafir can write – when this is just not true. So, a possible interpretation of the failure to credit me for my work on the book, is that Ridzwan Dzafir wanted to create the false public impression that he was a fairly competent writer. He is not. He is, in fact, a wholly incompetent writer.

I do wonder, now, at how Ridzwan Dzafir succeeded so stellarly in his career. Did he do all the work himself – or did he develop great skills in securing the credit for himself, of the efforts of others? I wonder because how he handled the publication of his book, is an indication of the latter tendency. Ridzwan Dzafir has gathered to himself the credit for all the thousands of changes I made to his book, to improve its readability. Without the changes, the book, if published, would have told the public something surprising: Ridzwan Dzafir is essentially illiterate. Yet, now, the public are being told that Ridzwan Dzafir can write. The book as published had been rewritten by me – then edited again by a whole team of people from Editions Didier Millet. You must note, however, that Editions Didier Millet have actually introduced grammatical errors and stylistic failings (in my view) which were not there, in my revised manuscript. In revising it, I think they have put back some of the “Singlishness”. So, in that sense, the manuscript, as published, differs from the one I put together. They have also reordered it.

I can’t give a complete assessment of what they did to my revised manuscript because Charles Barton never kept his promise to me to give me a copy of the book. I am not going to buy a copy of a book that does not credit me for the work I did on it.

I lost a friend over this. Charles Barton and I have not had any two-way communication since. Yet, my response to this is coloured by a few observations. I asked Charles what he had asked them to print, in the dedication. He said: “I have kept no record of it.” I replied: “It will be in your email.”

His only reply to that was silence, total silence.

This does seem to indicate that it is quite possible that Charles Barton did not mention me in the dedication at all. It is also quite possible – indeed, probable – that he did not mail them, at all – or if he did, that that mail does not say, what he first told me, it said.

Thus, I am left to ask: what kind of friend have I lost, anyway? What kind of friend would do, or allow done, what Charles Barton did, after all the work I put in, on Ridzwan Dzafir’s book? Then, again, I had met Ridzwan Dzafir many times, socially, over the years, and for interviews. What kind of man doesn’t thank someone for all the work they have done on their behalf?

Perhaps, the only real, substantial thing I have lost here, is credit for the work I had done. I am not sure whether I have lost anything, in truth, on the human side. Perhaps, I never had what I thought I had, in that department in the first place.

Many people contributed to Ridzwan Dzafir’s book. Ridzwan wrote the first draft. However, I entirely rewrote it. Then, a large number of people worked further on it. Ridzwan Dzafir’s book is, now, very distant from the illiterate mess, I had had to work with. That should be remembered by anyone who actually gets to read it.

A final thought: perhaps the fact that Ridzwan Dzafir would not credit for his editing and rewriting, someone who had done so much work, on his behalf, is the most revealing aspect of the book – more revealing than any of its contents about the true nature of this unaccountably respected man.

Note: Ridzwan's writing is "illiterate" when held up against the standard of what is conventionally thought of as good english. It contains innumerable errors of grammar, indeed, more than I have ever seen in anyone except a student of English as a second language. There are other failings, too, (see text above) but I think I have conveyed the general idea.

(If you would like to learn more of Ainan Celeste Cawley, 10, or his gifted brothers, Fintan, 6 and Tiarnan, 4, this month, please go to:
http://scientific-child-prodigy.blogspot.com/2006/10/scientific-child-prodigy-guide.html

I also write of gifted education, child prodigy, child genius, adult genius, savant, megasavant, HELP University College, the Irish, the Malays, Singapore, Malaysia, IQ, intelligence and creativity.

My Internet Movie Database listing is at: http://imdb.com/name/nm3438598/
Ainan's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3305973/
Syahidah's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3463926/

Our editing, proofreading and copywriting company, Genghis Can, is at http://www.genghiscan.com/

This blog is copyright Valentine Cawley. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Use only with permission. Thank you.)

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posted by Valentine Cawley @ 7:36 PM  23 comments

Valentine Cawley's gender.

I have noticed that Yahoo search suggests "gender" when my name is put in, as a search item. It is clear, therefore, that many people don't know whether I am male or female. Well, whilst it may disappoint some and delight others, I am male. I know that my name could be a bit confusing, but all the "Valentines" that I am aware of, are men. The women I have heard of, of similar name, are called "Valentina". There is a difference.

I thought it best to answer this question here, because none of the search results, under "Valentine Cawley gender", had the answer - they weren't particularly relevant.

The existence of this puzzlement, on the behalf of enough searchers to be noticed by Yahoo, leads me to understand something: my name is spreading beyond the details of my identity. It seems that my name is becoming detached from my self. It is a strange thought, but clearly there must be people who have heard my name, but who don't know enough about me, other than that, to decide whether I am male or female. It is, I think, a curious position to be in. Yet, perhaps, it is understandable. Many people, after all, will know me for my writing about my children. This would seem not to be the preoccupation of a father, but more like that of a mother. Yet, I write as a father, not as a mother, however odd that might seem to some. In response to the notion that it is odd for a father to write, so copiously, about his children, I would say that a father has a point of view on parenting, too - and perhaps there is more need for a father to write, since fewer do, I would hazard, than mothers. Thus, the father's view is less known, the father's experience less public.

I don't know what elements of my parenting will have lasting interest - or even passing interest - for others, but I know this: if I make no record of them, they can have no interest at all, and will never be known. So, I write, perhaps in the hope of communicating something of interest to some, in time to come, or in time present. If, that confuses people, as to whether I am male, or female, I can fully understand. My role as a writer on family, is a confusing one.

Perhaps it says something of the nature of our society, that there should be confusion as to whether I am male or female. Perhaps we have not advanced so much in our gender roles, as a society, as people might suppose. Perhaps it is still not alright for a father, to be too much directly involved in day to day parenting. It certainly seems a surprise to some, that the writer of this blog should not be the mother, but the father. That speaks of gender expectations, too, in more than one way. Firstly, there are certain expectations of relative involvement in child rearing of mother and father - and secondly, there are still lingering beliefs, among some, that women are more verbal than men - so how can I be a man, when I am so verbal?

Well, some men can use words just as well as women - just as some women read maps, better than almost any man. I am one such person writing contrary to expectations.

So, I may write like a woman, sometimes...but I am a man. I may have a topic more commonly thought of a mother's - but I am a father.

I hope that is clear, now. Happy reading. I hope I haven't upset your view of me, by upturning your idea of what gender I am...but I think the truth is better than a fantasy.

Thank you.

(If you would like to learn more of Ainan Celeste Cawley, 10, or his gifted brothers, Fintan, 6 and Tiarnan, 4, this month, please go to:
http://scientific-child-prodigy.blogspot.com/2006/10/scientific-child-prodigy-guide.html

I also write of gifted education, child prodigy, child genius, adult genius, savant, megasavant, HELP University College, the Irish, the Malays, Singapore, Malaysia, IQ, intelligence and creativity.

My Internet Movie Database listing is at: http://imdb.com/name/nm3438598/
Ainan's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3305973/
Syahidah's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3463926/

Our editing, proofreading and copywriting company, Genghis Can, is at http://www.genghiscan.com/

This blog is copyright Valentine Cawley. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Use only with permission. Thank you.)

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posted by Valentine Cawley @ 12:26 AM  4 comments

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Abby Sunderland and the limits of childhood ambition.

The recent case of Abby Sunderland, the 16 year old girl, who was attempting to sail solo around the world, brought to mind another case of youthful ambition: Jessica Dubroff.

Jessica Dubroff was - and I mean was - a 7 year old student pilot, who sought to be the youngest pilot to fly across America. As most people will know, her surprising ambition, ended in tragedy - with her, her father, Lloyd Dubroff and her flight instructor, Joe Reid, being killed shortly after take off from Cheyenne airport, in bad weather. A veteran pilot who observed the take off, said that the single engined plane appeared to have been overloaded.

When I heard that Abby Sunderland had put out a distress call, some 2,000 miles southwest of Perth, I thought immediately of Jessica Dubroff and how the untempered ambition of youth, can so easily lead to tragedy.

Fortunately, Abby Sunderland was spotted by an Australian plane and rescued by a French vessel. However, her "adventure" raises an issue: were her parents being responsible when they allowed this adventure to happen at all?

I don't think they were. I think her parents had put the possibility of a landmark achievement before the personal safety of their child. They have forgotten that the primary responsibility of any parent is to ensure the safe passage of their child, to adulthood - and that means keeping them alive.

Jessica Dubroff's parents were a little mad. So, too, are Abby Sunderland's. They are a little mad, because they have let the goal (the youngest to sail around the world/fly across the US), to get in the way of a realistic assessment of the situation. In both cases, there was a very real chance of death, for their child. Not just a small chance of death, but a really significant chance of death. In pursuing this ambition, both sets of parents were allowing their children, to risk their lives, unnecessarily. Clearly, the probability of death is difficult to quantify in each case - but I would say that it was rather high. It didn't surprise me, at all, when Jessica Dubroff and her father died. I had rather expected it. It would not have surprised me, either, had Abby Sunderland died, also.

What is being forgotten here is that a child may have the intelligence and learning ability to master a physical skill - that of flying or sailing - but they will not have had the life experience to have developed any wisdom in pursuit of that skill. In other words, when they come upon an unexpected challenge, they will not have the mental wherewithal to deal with it. Death is then likely to rapidly ensue.

It may strike you as curious that I, the father of a child prodigy, should be so unsupportive of Jessica Dubroff's parents and Abby Sunderland's parents, in this matter. However, my disapproval is founded in a realistic understanding of the situation: with child prodigies, knowledge and skill come long before wisdom in their application. The latter can only come from life experience. Thus, the parent who allows an admittedly skillful child to take on a potentially life threatening physical challenge is being foolish at best, culpable at worst.

I support the ambition of any child to achieve anything, as long as that ambition does not endanger the child or anyone else. Both Dubroff's and Sunderland's ambitions fell foul of this stricture. In both cases, the children endangered themselves AND others by their pursuit of their record breaking ambitions. In Dubroff's case she managed to kill her father and instructor, as well as herself. In Sunderland's case, she endangered the lives, not only of herself, but those who came to rescue her in bad weather, with 60 knot winds and waves of 25 feet.

So, if you have a child who has an ambition, take a good look at that goal. Does it endanger the child or others? If so, don't do it. Let the goal wait until the child is old enough to have the experience to pursue it, with greater safety. To do otherwise is to neglect the first law of parenting: keep the child alive, until they are old enough to have children themselves. To break that rule, is to go against the whole force of human evolution, for we are all here today, because every one of our ancestors, obeyed that rule, whether they considered it, or not. I cannot imagine any greater foolishness, therefore, in breaking the very rule that put us all on Earth, in the first place.

(If you would like to learn more of Ainan Celeste Cawley, 10, or his gifted brothers, Fintan, 6 and Tiarnan, 4, this month, please go to:
http://scientific-child-prodigy.blogspot.com/2006/10/scientific-child-prodigy-guide.html

I also write of gifted education, child prodigy, child genius, adult genius, savant, megasavant, HELP University College, the Irish, the Malays, Singapore, Malaysia, IQ, intelligence and creativity.

My Internet Movie Database listing is at: http://imdb.com/name/nm3438598/
Ainan's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3305973/
Syahidah's IMDB listing is at http://imdb.com/name/nm3463926/

Our editing, proofreading and copywriting company, Genghis Can, is at http://www.genghiscan.com/

This blog is copyright Valentine Cawley. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. Use only with permission. Thank you.)

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