As a child, I was consumed by a relentless fear that my mother would vanish or die. Each morning as I left for school, I was haunted by the thought that my family would be gone when I got back. I was hyper-aware of her presence, avoiding sleepovers and social invitations that could distract me from keeping an eye on her. Nights were often spent on my mother’s couch or my sister’s floor, waking up constantly to ensure she was still there.
Academically, I struggled. Telling time and remembering days of the week was a challenge. My performance in school was mediocre at best, but it wasn’t until I took my first standardized test in middle school that specific concerns about my capabilities emerged. After the ERB test, I was sent for further evaluation with a specialist named Dr. Green. The testing seemed endless, and I found myself returning for several weekends, only to realize later that I had failed those assessments. But I couldn’t understand how questions about geography or historical figures related to my deep-seated fears about losing my mother.
The real problem was not my intellect but my emotions. Yet, the tests focused solely on my cognitive abilities, expecting answers to questions I hadn’t learned. Did other kids know facts like where the sun set or who Genghis Khan was? I felt like an outsider, burdened by the belief that I should inherently possess such knowledge. This led to an overwhelming sense of inadequacy, as I hid my fears behind humor, immersing myself in magazines to learn how to be funny and deflect attention from my struggles.
Each test I took changed my academic trajectory. I repeated sixth grade and was placed in lower-level classes with others labeled as “special needs.” I underwent numerous assessments—medical, psychological, and sensory—yet I was never told what was wrong with me, only that I had a “disability.” I yearned for a physical manifestation of my struggles, something visible that would justify my challenges and the expectations placed upon me.
Over time, I came to accept that I was intellectually deficient, convinced that everyone else was right and I was wrong. This belief extended even to my feelings, which I learned to doubt, reinforcing my sense of being a flaw in the universe. The tests I took established a singular view of intelligence, where only one correct answer existed for every question, yet no one would confirm my guesses. This left me feeling disconnected and anxious, unsure of my place in a world that seemed to measure worth through rigid standards.
The roots of intelligence testing trace back to Alfred Binet, a French psychologist who designed a test to identify students needing alternative learning strategies. Binet believed that intelligence was influenced by environment and not merely a genetic trait. Unfortunately, when his ideas arrived in America, they were twisted to fit an eugenics agenda, transforming the original purpose into a tool for social stratification.
H.H. Goddard translated Binet’s work but used it to promote eugenics, labeling individuals based on their IQ scores. Lewis Terman later revised the test, pushing the notion that intelligence was hereditary, giving rise to the Stanford-Binet test. This flawed perspective shaped the educational landscape, where standardized tests became the sole measure of a person’s potential.
Standardized testing has since dominated educational advancement, with students often judged solely on their ability to produce correct answers under pressure. Yet, these tests ignore the nuances of individual circumstances—like emotional states or life events—that can significantly impact performance. The tests only reflect a person’s capacity to navigate a contrived environment, not their true capabilities.
Despite taking over twenty-five IQ tests between the ages of eleven and eighteen, it wasn’t until I turned twenty-five that I finally received a proper diagnosis: a panic disorder. This condition explained why learning was such a struggle for me. The relief of understanding was fleeting, as the ingrained belief in my own stupidity lingered. My issue was situational, something that standardized tests could never account for, yet these flawed results dictated my educational and personal journey.
Throughout my life, I’ve maintained that intelligence is diverse and cannot be reduced to mere fact retention. My experiences taught me that true understanding often lies beyond memorized information. I learned to trust my intuition, even when it felt at odds with traditional definitions of intelligence.
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In conclusion, intelligence is not a one-size-fits-all measure. It encompasses a broad spectrum of abilities and experiences that standardized tests fail to capture. Recognizing the limitations of these assessments is crucial in fostering a more inclusive understanding of what it means to be “intelligent.”