As a young child, I found myself engulfed by an overwhelming fear that my mother might vanish or pass away. Each morning before school, I was gripped by anxiety that my home and family would be gone by the time I returned. My vigilance concerning my mother was intense; I declined invitations for sleepovers and avoided reciprocating them, fearing that distractions would lead me to lose track of her and her safety. Nights were a struggle, often finding me on my mother’s couch or on the floor in my sister’s room, waking frequently to confirm that my mother was still breathing and present.
Academically, I struggled to grasp the concept of time, the days of the week, and the months of the year. My performance in school was subpar, but it wasn’t until I took my first standardized test in middle school that my challenges became clearer. I was sent for further assessments with a specialist named Dr. Green. The testing process stretched over several weekends, and soon I found myself with another expert, repeating tests I thought I had already completed. It dawned on me that I had failed both Dr. Green’s test and the standardized one; I was left bewildered and questioning why no one had informed me of my shortcomings.
Despite this, I couldn’t grasp how questions about geography or history related to my overwhelming fears about my mother’s mortality. This realization brought a wave of confusion: they were evaluating me for the wrong reasons. The issue lay not in my cognitive abilities but in my emotional state, yet they were testing my intelligence and expecting me to know facts I hadn’t learned. Did other kids know about historical figures like Genghis Khan? Had I missed crucial lessons or was there a type of intelligence that I lacked? I feared that if others discovered my ignorance, the truth about my inadequacy would be revealed. My assumption that I should already know everything made it impossible for me to believe I could learn. I felt flawed.
Although I wasn’t explicitly told what was wrong, I understood it had to do with my mind. Mortified at the thought of being perceived as unintelligent, I embarked on a relentless quest to hide my inadequacies. I immersed myself in every issue of a humor magazine, absorbing its nuances, and learned to deliver jokes as my own. I instinctively knew that humor could serve as a protective shield against my inner turmoil.
Every evaluation I underwent led to significant changes: I repeated sixth grade and found myself in classes labeled for “struggling students.” I took numerous tests assessing various aspects of my abilities, yet the elusive nature of my learning issue remained unnamed. I understood it was a “disability,” and with each test result that shaped my educational placement, my relationship with that term deepened. I felt internally defective—an invisible struggle that I desperately wanted to be visible, like a physical ailment that others could see and understand.
Despite my nagging suspicion that the tests were misdirected, I resigned myself to the belief that I was intellectually deficient. I doubted my knowledge and even my feelings, which were the most developed aspects of my being. This led to a lack of trust in my experiences; I felt like a flaw in a world designed for correctness.
Testing taught me that there could only be one correct answer to every question. However, no matter how often I asked evaluators whether my answers were right, they never provided clarity. I felt lost in the absence of feedback, unsure if I was the anomaly in a world of right answers. If adults couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong with me, did that make me the mistake in a world where everything else was correct? Or did they know but simply couldn’t articulate it?
How Do We Measure Intelligence?
Historically, the intention behind measuring intelligence has been misaligned with how these assessments are utilized. The origins of intelligence testing can be traced back to Alfred Binet, a French psychologist who aimed to identify students requiring alternative educational approaches. He believed that development varied among individuals and that environmental factors significantly influenced intellectual growth.
Binet posited that intelligence was neither genetic nor fixed, and should not be reduced to mere numbers. His test, known as the Binet-Simon Scale, was designed to help rather than to categorize or diminish students. Unfortunately, once this concept reached America, it was twisted into a tool for ranking and segregating students based on IQ scores.
H.H. Goddard introduced the Binet-Simon Scale to the U.S., intending to promote his eugenics agenda. He associated IQ scores with labels such as “Morons” or “Feeble-minded,” advocating for the removal of those deemed inferior from society. Lewis Terman later revised Binet’s test into the Stanford-Binet, framing it as a means to measure intelligence and identify an elite class based on IQ.
This new vision of American elitism sought to eliminate poverty and crime through a genetically superior ruling class, categorized based on test performance. Conditions didn’t matter; the focus was solely on achieving the “right” answers, regardless of personal circumstances.
Standardized testing has become a gatekeeper for educational advancement. We move through grades and gain college admissions largely based on these assessments, which treat every individual as a score rather than a whole person. Emotional states, personal challenges, and external circumstances are rendered irrelevant. Modern testing fails to capture the complexities of the human experience, as it often only measures one’s ability to perform under artificial constraints.
During my teenage years, I took over twenty-five IQ tests, but it wasn’t until I was twenty-five that I finally received a proper diagnosis: a panic disorder. This revelation explained my struggles with learning and my constant fears. However, even with this understanding, my self-image as someone of low intelligence remained entrenched. My issues were not inherent but conditional—a nuance that standardized tests could never accommodate. Consequently, these flawed assessments dictated my educational trajectory and self-worth throughout my life.
While I’ve always believed in the existence of multiple types of intelligence, my life experience contradicted this notion. To me, being smart was equated with knowing facts, and I often felt lacking in that regard. I knew other truths—like the sensation of fear and the weight of danger—but they were not recognized as valid forms of intelligence.
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In summary, the journey through understanding intelligence reveals a complex interplay between emotional well-being and academic performance. The narratives surrounding standardized testing often fail to consider individual experiences, leading to misinterpretations of one’s abilities and worth. It is crucial to recognize that intelligence can manifest in various forms beyond mere factual knowledge.