Most people who have had a large influence on the way the world runs have not
been, in any sense, conventional. Think of the German theoretical physicist, Albert
Einstein, who was often labeled as "aloof" and "slow-thinking." Einstein once stated, “It’s
not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.” I studied Einstein’s
relativity in physics, and in my opinion, a brilliant man came up with the theory. It may
have been Einstein’s modesty that made him say seemingly unreasonable things, but for
me, it does not seem difficult to understand. Our current methods for evaluating
intelligence and academic potential, such as the GRE or MCAT, would likely have deemed
Einstein unlikely to succeed. There are many other attributes that contribute to one's
potential that are not measured in standardized tests, such as good communication,
motivation, and an enormous amount of courage and adaptability.
Similar to Einstein, I may be what society would classify as “unconventional”
based on our current evaluation methods. My teachers were always impressed by my
work ethic, enthusiasm, and imagination, but in grade/middle school, a reading disability was the consensus. But "reading disability" just did not seem to fit. They were right, I could not read. Though there was much more than my inability to read.
My first year of Lawrence was underway. As a sophomore transfer student, I already felt behind. My classes terrified me, but the professors terrified me more. I remember thinking that everyone is smarter than me, and being the insecure teen I was, asking for help was out of the question. A few weeks into the semester, graded lab reports were returned; the paper in my hand had a D written at the top. Another week later, exams were handed back, mine being the one with the discrete F on it. I looked around me, making sure other students did not see my grade, and I quickly shoved the packet of red ink into my backpack. I contemplated dropping out of school for several months, though I stuck it out. My writing improved dramatically over the years, thanks to thorough feedback by professors, but my test grades were still unsatisfactory, which concerned my sympathetic professors, who had shown an unprecedented amount of patience. Eventually, I became habituated to receiving low scores on tests, though I was never, to this day, numbed by the consequences.
The struggles continued into my junior year until a professor in the Biology Department, Dr. Bart De Stasio, took me under his wing as his advisee, and convinced me to get tested for a learning disability. The results were shocking – as a matter of fact, my evaluator was astounded at how well I had adapted to my surroundings and how far I had gotten in school with such a severe disability, without accommodations. Though I scored well into the "Very Superior Range" (insert eye roll here) on the IQ test, in his words, her “speed of information processing is extremely poor,” and “Carli’s scores across tests of visual/verbal and verbal only information processing were borderline defective, and are quite inconsistent with her overall level of intellectual functioning.”
When he shared these results with me, I cried. I always knew something was wrong with me but I did not have the words to describe it. I was always fairly smart, but I could not read well and I could not remember even the simplest of directions/numbers/etc. His diagnosis not only gave me relief, but it also gave me a considerable amount of hope – not about having an excuse for poor academic performance, but rather, knowing I able to develop unique strengths to help me cope, continuing my dream of becoming someone who will change the lives of others.
There is more to someone than IQ and test scores. Just because I was "smart" didn't mean that there was something very wrong. We need to listen to our students and patients. My learning disability didn't get diagnosed until my junior year of college; I was 21 years old and only after someone truly listened to my despair and frustration did I get referred for testing. I don't mean listening to people as in hearing what someone has to say. What I mean is that we truly need to listen, with everything we have, to their stories and their narratives. By not listening, we are missing so much of that person's struggles and stories, and we may be missing something that could truly change someone's life.
Modified excerpt from an essay published in, “Learning for a lifetime: Liberal Arts and the Life of the Mind at Lawrence University.” Lawrence University Press, 2013.
- cg
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