Don't underestimate a gifted child
When I was 11, I wrote an essay for my teacher, Mr. Warburg. I put a lot of effort, into the essay, because, you see, I was a new boy in my school, King’s College School, Wimbledon. I wanted to show what I could do, with words and ideas. So, I put together as effective an essay as I could, in the time that I had. I remember, well, the evening of work that I put it together, perhaps because it was one of the first written tasks, I had been set, in my new school.
The next morning, I handed the essay in, not knowing how well I had done, but knowing that, I had, at least tried to complete the task, according to my understanding of it.
A couple of days later, when it came to Mr. Warburg’s English lesson, he looked over at me, from under his bushy, overgrown eyebrows and asked me to come to the front of the class.
“Read out your essay.”, he began.
His eyes were very intent upon me, too intent, though I didn’t notice it, at the time. I was too busy being nervous. I wasn’t accustomed to the idea of standing in front of the class and reading out my work. I was, as well, the “new boy” – or one of them, so I wasn’t really all that familiar with my classmates, either. They were still, largely, strangers to me.
I came to the front of the class as requested, with my essay in tow. I looked out across the sea of gazing eyes, upon me and then down at the page, before me – and began to read. I read it as carefully as I could, feeling a tight nervousness inside, as I did so. I didn’t want to be seen to make a mistake in front of so many unfamiliar witnesses. I didn’t want to seem to be a fool, in front of my new classmates. It was early days, in school, and I wanted to build a reputation, not slaughter it.
I stumbled over one word, as I read. I still remember that word: “Hieroglyph”. I had seen it written down, many times – and had used it, myself, this time, but never before had I said it, before an audience. My tongue clambered over it, and tripped a little on the task.
Mr. Warburg sat silent beside me. His dark eyes, darkened – but he said nothing.
Once I had finished reading, the class applauded me, for my work. Hands clapped together, in appreciation of all the effort I had put in, to crafting my work. They really seemed to like it. I was very pleased, but rather shy to be so applauded. I didn’t quite know where to put myself.
Just as the clapping began to ebb, Mr. Warburg pounced:
“YOU didn’t write that!”, he accused, with a sudden bellow, that startled me. From a silent presence, he had transformed, in an instant, into a venomous, accusatory one. He sat coiled beside me, stiff with tension, as if ready to strike, like a snake.
There I was, before a whole classroom of evaluating eyes.
Silence fell, on all but Mr. Warburg.
“You COPIED it out of an encylopaedia!”, he further accused, with a snarl.
I felt, then, as if my whole world had imploded. Suddenly, all those eyes didn’t seem so friendly. Some of them even seemed gleeful. A generalized sense of discomfort pervaded the room – mine and that of all the other boys.
I began to shake a little, so overcome was I, with a sickening feeling. I was but a child and a sensitive one, at that. I was on the edge of tears and, were it not for so many cool, unmerciful eyes upon me, I would have begun to cry.
“I didn’t…”, I protested, softly, unable to muster the volume, to match Mr. Warburg’s.
He just scoffed at me.
“Get back to your seat!”, he ordered, dismissively.
I stumbled back to my chair, utterly dazed. I had written of my best. I had tried my hardest to do the work to the best of my ability. I had tried to show Mr. Warburg, what I, the new boy, could do – and this was my reward: to be accused of plagiarism and shamed in front of the whole class.
The fact is, every word of that essay had been mine and no-one’s but mine. I had read and researched the piece – but every word was of my own thought. It was clear what had happened: my best effort, had been rather too good for Mr. Warburg’s liking, and Mr. Warburg’s experience. He simply did not believe that an eleven year old boy could possibly have written it. Well, I had.
I learnt something that day – but it wasn’t the sort of lesson a gifted child should learn, really. Although I enjoyed writing essays, I never again put out the effort, for Mr. Warburg, that I had on that early essay. I never again tried my best – after all, I knew what happened if one tried one’s best for Mr. Warburg: he would publicly accuse one of being a plagiarist and shame one in front of the entire class. So, I made sure that that would never happen again. I wrote an answer to every question set – but never again strived for perfection, where Mr. Warburg’s work was concerned. It was dangerous to do so: best to just write the first thing that came into one’s head and leave it at that.
Over time, however, Mr. Warburg came to understand that I wrote well. However, he never apologized for his public accusation or the terror of that moment, that he had put me through. Furthermore, I never forgave him for it. For me, thereafter, Mr. Warburg was an ogre just waiting to happen.
A few years later, I heard some hot news, which was running rampant around the school.
Mr. Warburg had died of a heart attack.
I couldn’t have been happier. To my young mind, no-one on this Earth deserved an early death better than Mr. Warburg. The day of his death, was a good day for me. He was a rotten man, who could be truly cruel to his students. I was so glad he was gone. I felt, somehow, that he had finally got what he deserved.
The thing that made him a rotten man, was not just that he had publicly shamed me, as he had, on the basis of nothing more than supposition and the stereotyping of eleven year olds – but that, when he realized, later on in the year, that I ALWAYS wrote well, even on fictional pieces, that could not have been copied from anywhere, he NEVER apologized for what he had done. Nor did he make redress for the damage by admitting that he had been wrong, to the class, so as to repair the damage done to my good name – or at least, the good name I had wanted to build. Mr. Warburg had made it a whole lot harder.
A gifted child is often, not only not rewarded for their gifts, but punished for them – as I was, the day I read out my essay for Mr. Warburg. The problem with such moments, is not just the emotional damage of the incident itself, but how it might change the gifted child’s attitude towards their own gifts. Some gifted children may just give up “showing their gift” in any way, at all. Some gifted children would start to deliberately underachieve when faced with the kind of response I received that day.
Fortunately, I never lost my enjoyment of writing and kept at it, for my own happiness, if not for anyone else’s. However, from that day forward, I feared Mr. Warburg. Being in his classroom was a constant stressor, for I knew just how unpleasant he could be. I never wanted to be the victim of his nastiness again. Fortunately, I never was – but I never forgot just what he could be like.
The next morning, I handed the essay in, not knowing how well I had done, but knowing that, I had, at least tried to complete the task, according to my understanding of it.
A couple of days later, when it came to Mr. Warburg’s English lesson, he looked over at me, from under his bushy, overgrown eyebrows and asked me to come to the front of the class.
“Read out your essay.”, he began.
His eyes were very intent upon me, too intent, though I didn’t notice it, at the time. I was too busy being nervous. I wasn’t accustomed to the idea of standing in front of the class and reading out my work. I was, as well, the “new boy” – or one of them, so I wasn’t really all that familiar with my classmates, either. They were still, largely, strangers to me.
I came to the front of the class as requested, with my essay in tow. I looked out across the sea of gazing eyes, upon me and then down at the page, before me – and began to read. I read it as carefully as I could, feeling a tight nervousness inside, as I did so. I didn’t want to be seen to make a mistake in front of so many unfamiliar witnesses. I didn’t want to seem to be a fool, in front of my new classmates. It was early days, in school, and I wanted to build a reputation, not slaughter it.
I stumbled over one word, as I read. I still remember that word: “Hieroglyph”. I had seen it written down, many times – and had used it, myself, this time, but never before had I said it, before an audience. My tongue clambered over it, and tripped a little on the task.
Mr. Warburg sat silent beside me. His dark eyes, darkened – but he said nothing.
Once I had finished reading, the class applauded me, for my work. Hands clapped together, in appreciation of all the effort I had put in, to crafting my work. They really seemed to like it. I was very pleased, but rather shy to be so applauded. I didn’t quite know where to put myself.
Just as the clapping began to ebb, Mr. Warburg pounced:
“YOU didn’t write that!”, he accused, with a sudden bellow, that startled me. From a silent presence, he had transformed, in an instant, into a venomous, accusatory one. He sat coiled beside me, stiff with tension, as if ready to strike, like a snake.
There I was, before a whole classroom of evaluating eyes.
Silence fell, on all but Mr. Warburg.
“You COPIED it out of an encylopaedia!”, he further accused, with a snarl.
I felt, then, as if my whole world had imploded. Suddenly, all those eyes didn’t seem so friendly. Some of them even seemed gleeful. A generalized sense of discomfort pervaded the room – mine and that of all the other boys.
I began to shake a little, so overcome was I, with a sickening feeling. I was but a child and a sensitive one, at that. I was on the edge of tears and, were it not for so many cool, unmerciful eyes upon me, I would have begun to cry.
“I didn’t…”, I protested, softly, unable to muster the volume, to match Mr. Warburg’s.
He just scoffed at me.
“Get back to your seat!”, he ordered, dismissively.
I stumbled back to my chair, utterly dazed. I had written of my best. I had tried my hardest to do the work to the best of my ability. I had tried to show Mr. Warburg, what I, the new boy, could do – and this was my reward: to be accused of plagiarism and shamed in front of the whole class.
The fact is, every word of that essay had been mine and no-one’s but mine. I had read and researched the piece – but every word was of my own thought. It was clear what had happened: my best effort, had been rather too good for Mr. Warburg’s liking, and Mr. Warburg’s experience. He simply did not believe that an eleven year old boy could possibly have written it. Well, I had.
I learnt something that day – but it wasn’t the sort of lesson a gifted child should learn, really. Although I enjoyed writing essays, I never again put out the effort, for Mr. Warburg, that I had on that early essay. I never again tried my best – after all, I knew what happened if one tried one’s best for Mr. Warburg: he would publicly accuse one of being a plagiarist and shame one in front of the entire class. So, I made sure that that would never happen again. I wrote an answer to every question set – but never again strived for perfection, where Mr. Warburg’s work was concerned. It was dangerous to do so: best to just write the first thing that came into one’s head and leave it at that.
Over time, however, Mr. Warburg came to understand that I wrote well. However, he never apologized for his public accusation or the terror of that moment, that he had put me through. Furthermore, I never forgave him for it. For me, thereafter, Mr. Warburg was an ogre just waiting to happen.
A few years later, I heard some hot news, which was running rampant around the school.
Mr. Warburg had died of a heart attack.
I couldn’t have been happier. To my young mind, no-one on this Earth deserved an early death better than Mr. Warburg. The day of his death, was a good day for me. He was a rotten man, who could be truly cruel to his students. I was so glad he was gone. I felt, somehow, that he had finally got what he deserved.
The thing that made him a rotten man, was not just that he had publicly shamed me, as he had, on the basis of nothing more than supposition and the stereotyping of eleven year olds – but that, when he realized, later on in the year, that I ALWAYS wrote well, even on fictional pieces, that could not have been copied from anywhere, he NEVER apologized for what he had done. Nor did he make redress for the damage by admitting that he had been wrong, to the class, so as to repair the damage done to my good name – or at least, the good name I had wanted to build. Mr. Warburg had made it a whole lot harder.
A gifted child is often, not only not rewarded for their gifts, but punished for them – as I was, the day I read out my essay for Mr. Warburg. The problem with such moments, is not just the emotional damage of the incident itself, but how it might change the gifted child’s attitude towards their own gifts. Some gifted children may just give up “showing their gift” in any way, at all. Some gifted children would start to deliberately underachieve when faced with the kind of response I received that day.
Fortunately, I never lost my enjoyment of writing and kept at it, for my own happiness, if not for anyone else’s. However, from that day forward, I feared Mr. Warburg. Being in his classroom was a constant stressor, for I knew just how unpleasant he could be. I never wanted to be the victim of his nastiness again. Fortunately, I never was – but I never forgot just what he could be like.
That memory was what made me happy, the day Mr. Warburg died. The ogre was finally gone. Never again would he persecute a child for the essay they had written. It was a good day.
Now, I wonder, what would Mr. Warburg think of this particular little essay?
It isn’t as well written as the piece he attacked me for – but then, he doesn’t really deserve a great piece of prose. I have, instead, written the first thing that came into my head…which is just what he entrained in me, by rejecting my best efforts, as not my own.
I never did find out what Mr. Warburg’s first name was, otherwise I would write it here. Never mind – his surname is most evocative and seems appropriate for the kind of man he was. He was not a kind man. He was not a perceptive man. He was not a tactful man. He was not a particularly intelligent man. He was a cruel man. He had a bit of a temper. He cared little for the feelings of his students. He was my form teacher for a year. I came first in my year, in the final examinations – but he never said a word to me, of congratulations, of encouragement, or of apology for how he had treated me.
That was just the kind of man he was: an unkind one.
He only ever managed to make me smile, once. He did that by dying.
I wonder, now, at the lack of wisdom in Mr. Warburg’s life, that he should have lived it, in such a way, that the happiest moment, he ever created, in his star student, was inspired by his own death. If I still did not have that image of him shaming me in front of the class, I might find it in me, to pity him, for his lack of insight, into how to live a good life, in a good way, that makes a mark of goodness on the world. He knew nothing of that. He only knew how to set a child up, for a fall, in front of a class of merciless young boys. I suppose, that to modern eyes, what Mr. Warburg did, that day, would be termed abuse. It remains, to this day, one of my most indelible memories, of childhood. It also captures, the dilemma of being gifted, that I experienced every day, whether I was aware of it or not.
It is this: whether to show one’s gifts, and be denounced for them, or to fail to express one’s gifts, and be forever frustrated?
I chose to express them…and was denounced. Would I have been happier had I chosen otherwise? I think not. The right choice, is to express one’s self, never mind the reaction. To do otherwise, is to suffocate in public, each and every day.
The world is filled with Mr. Warburgs. The gifted must remember this and not allow the Warburgs to snuff out their gifts. Continue to express yourself, no matter how many people attack you for it. The only way to become, is to externalize, what lies within. The writer must write, the actor must act, the scientist must think – and the musician play. Never let the unbelievers, silence you. Think on – and one day the world will be glad that you did so, when it finally awakens to what it is, you have to say.
Believe me, that day will come…it just might take much of your life, in the becoming.
Be patient. Be strong…and just 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.htmlI 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.
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Labels: an unintended lesson, child abuse, cruelty to a child, gifted children in the classroom, King's College School Wimbledon, Mr. Warburg, the experience of the gifted, tyrannical teachers, young writer
