Tales of a Girl Genius or, My Boyfriend is Older than Dirt* By Julie Setele When I was four years old, I taught myself to read. After that, it was nothing but books books books all the time. In preschool, rather than napping, I spent that time reading to the kids who couldn't fall asleep. After my first half-day of kindergarten, I stomped home from school to exclaim: "My teacher doesn't know anything! We had no math or science and we don't even have any homework!" Ms. Armacost, whom I soon decided was, in fact, an excellent teacher, recognized my smarts, recommending me for Super Saturday programs, having me read to her during playtime, and advising my parents that I should skip several grades. However, because the public school system could not guarantee that they would have room for me in their accelerated program and because my parents wanted me to learn phonics (which the local public school did not teach at that time), I stayed in Catholic grade school through fourth grade. When I was in third grade, my teacher decided that the best way to deal with me was to pile on more work for me to do. So, when I was done with my own assignments, I would do her work also, grading the tests of my fellow classmates. I got in trouble one day when my third grade teacher called on another student to answer a problem. Upset that she hadn't chosen me, I blurted out, "He didn't know it on the test he's not gonna know it now!" In front of the entire class, my teacher called me a brat perhaps rightly, but she was also partially responsible for having assigned an eight-year-old to grade her classmates' work. When I hit fourth grade, the Cincinnati Enquirer, renowned for its journalistic baseness, published an article that changed my life. As described in the newspaper, Covington Latin, an accelerated college preparatory school, was, for the first time ever, planning to open their doors to female students in the fall. I went with my family to the school's open house and proceeded to take the entrance exam, as did my brother. We both achieved high scores, well within the ranges to be accepted, yet, the school administrators were still unsure about whether they wanted to admit me. At a meeting with the headmaster, dean, my mom, and me, the headmaster expressed concern over my age and, especially, my height. My mom, at five-foot-nuthin', said that I was likely to grow some more (hitting puberty still being on my to-do list), but that, given her height, I likely would not be a giant; nevertheless, short people can be smart too. When the headmaster asked me why I wanted to attend his school, little 10-year-old me responded calmly and matter-of-factly: "Because I am smart enough and I deserve to be here." That fall, my brother and I entered Covington Latin, him in the ninth grade and me in the eighth. (My brother was nearly twelve years old and had just finished sixth grade.) Covington Latin is a unique school: small and Catholic, teaching grades eight through twelve. Most of the students there are accelerated, with the majority of them skipping one or two grades. Still, I was the youngest in my class, graduating high school when I was fifteen. The work at Covington Latin was extremely difficult and, for some, too much to handle. The number of students in my grade was evidence of this: as an eighth-grader, my class was made up of fifty-four strappin' boys 'n' girls, but only half that number stayed to graduate. Many dropped out the first year, with the numbers slowly trickling down as we progressed. After they left, almost all of our "drop-outs" ended up somewhere around the tops of their classes at "normal" high schools. Having been frustrated and bored at my "normal" grade school, I cherished the challenges that Covington Latin posed. Nevertheless, I am ambivalent today about the value of accelerated programs and tracking in schools. I excelled, while other kids floundered. Why? What was it about me or my situation that made Covington Latin School work for me? What about those for whom it did not work? What impact did that experience have on them long-term? I have yet to come up with adequate answers to those questions. The only things I can say for certain is that 1) accelerated learning did work for me, and 2) sociological studies have found that when classrooms are integrated (with more advanced and less advanced students mixed together), the less advanced students excel, while the more advanced students' learning is not hindered or affected in any way. Although I was only a year or two younger than my classmates in high school, I was still always the youngest and thus was teased by the older kids. There, at least, everyone else was accelerated as well. In college, it became even more of an issue. I was determined not to lie about my age, but, at the same time, I practiced some acts of deception. During my first year of college, when asked about my family, I would say that I had an older brother who was a sophomore in college. Only when pressed would I admit his age though. Generally, my answer of "17" would cause confusion and even more questions, seeing as how, if he's my older brother and he's 17, then I must be gasp younger than that! It was at times painful, at times comical, to watch people figure out. Having always been the youngest, however, my age became somewhat of an issue when I turned 20. Suddenly, the specter of middle age and, goddess forbid, old age appeared before me. Being the youngest has allowed me a position of some notoriety, which, I admit, I am loath to relinquish. From the time I was little, I have always enjoyed being considered weird for me, being the youngest is one aspect of my weirdness. Now twenty years and three months old, I have, once again, accepted my age and recognized that I can be plenty weird whether I'm 10 years old or 100. No one ever told me to act my age. And I never have. *Thanks and kisses to Craig (age 28) for suggesting the title. |
Tales of a Girl Genius or, My Boyfriend is Older than Dirt* By Julie Setele When I was four years old, I taught myself to read. After that, it was nothing but books books books all the time. In preschool, rather than napping, I spent that time reading to the kids who couldn't fall asleep. After my first half-day of kindergarten, I stomped home from school to exclaim: "My teacher doesn't know anything! We had no math or science and we don't even have any homework!" Ms. Armacost, whom I soon decided was, in fact, an excellent teacher, recognized my smarts, recommending me for Super Saturday programs, having me read to her during playtime, and advising my parents that I should skip several grades. However, because the public school system could not guarantee that they would have room for me in their accelerated program and because my parents wanted me to learn phonics (which the local public school did not teach at that time), I stayed in Catholic grade school through fourth grade. When I was in third grade, my teacher decided that the best way to deal with me was to pile on more work for me to do. So, when I was done with my own assignments, I would do her work also, grading the tests of my fellow classmates. I got in trouble one day when my third grade teacher called on another student to answer a problem. Upset that she hadn't chosen me, I blurted out, "He didn't know it on the test he's not gonna know it now!" In front of the entire class, my teacher called me a brat perhaps rightly, but she was also partially responsible for having assigned an eight-year-old to grade her classmates' work. When I hit fourth grade, the Cincinnati Enquirer, renowned for its journalistic baseness, published an article that changed my life. As described in the newspaper, Covington Latin, an accelerated college preparatory school, was, for the first time ever, planning to open their doors to female students in the fall. I went with my family to the school's open house and proceeded to take the entrance exam, as did my brother. We both achieved high scores, well within the ranges to be accepted, yet, the school administrators were still unsure about whether they wanted to admit me. At a meeting with the headmaster, dean, my mom, and me, the headmaster expressed concern over my age and, especially, my height. My mom, at five-foot-nuthin', said that I was likely to grow some more (hitting puberty still being on my to-do list), but that, given her height, I likely would not be a giant; nevertheless, short people can be smart too. When the headmaster asked me why I wanted to attend his school, little 10-year-old me responded calmly and matter-of-factly: "Because I am smart enough and I deserve to be here." That fall, my brother and I entered Covington Latin, him in the ninth grade and me in the eighth. (My brother was nearly twelve years old and had just finished sixth grade.) Covington Latin is a unique school: small and Catholic, teaching grades eight through twelve. Most of the students there are accelerated, with the majority of them skipping one or two grades. Still, I was the youngest in my class, graduating high school when I was fifteen. The work at Covington Latin was extremely difficult and, for some, too much to handle. The number of students in my grade was evidence of this: as an eighth-grader, my class was made up of fifty-four strappin' boys 'n' girls, but only half that number stayed to graduate. Many dropped out the first year, with the numbers slowly trickling down as we progressed. After they left, almost all of our "drop-outs" ended up somewhere around the tops of their classes at "normal" high schools. Having been frustrated and bored at my "normal" grade school, I cherished the challenges that Covington Latin posed. Nevertheless, I am ambivalent today about the value of accelerated programs and tracking in schools. I excelled, while other kids floundered. Why? What was it about me or my situation that made Covington Latin School work for me? What about those for whom it did not work? What impact did that experience have on them long-term? I have yet to come up with adequate answers to those questions. The only things I can say for certain is that 1) accelerated learning did work for me, and 2) sociological studies have found that when classrooms are integrated (with more advanced and less advanced students mixed together), the less advanced students excel, while the more advanced students' learning is not hindered or affected in any way. Although I was only a year or two younger than my classmates in high school, I was still always the youngest and thus was teased by the older kids. There, at least, everyone else was accelerated as well. In college, it became even more of an issue. I was determined not to lie about my age, but, at the same time, I practiced some acts of deception. During my first year of college, when asked about my family, I would say that I had an older brother who was a sophomore in college. Only when pressed would I admit his age though. Generally, my answer of "17" would cause confusion and even more questions, seeing as how, if he's my older brother and he's 17, then I must be gasp younger than that! It was at times painful, at times comical, to watch people figure out. Having always been the youngest, however, my age became somewhat of an issue when I turned 20. Suddenly, the specter of middle age and, goddess forbid, old age appeared before me. Being the youngest has allowed me a position of some notoriety, which, I admit, I am loath to relinquish. From the time I was little, I have always enjoyed being considered weird for me, being the youngest is one aspect of my weirdness. Now twenty years and three months old, I have, once again, accepted my age and recognized that I can be plenty weird whether I'm 10 years old or 100. No one ever told me to act my age. And I never have. *Thanks and kisses to Craig (age 28) for suggesting the title. |
