(I Used To Be) A Smart Guy, by David Sedaris

LIFE WAS GOOD FOR THE FIRST FORTY-ONE YEARS. THEN I TOOK AN IQ TEST.

WHEN I WAS TWENTY-FIVE, I found a job cleaning construction sites in the suburbs of Raleigh. It was dull work, made even duller on the days I was partnered with a fellow named Reggie, an alleged genius unhappy with the course his life had taken.

"Here I am with a 130 IQ, and they've got me sweeping up sawdust." He'd glare at the bristles of his broom as if they had conspired to hold him back. "A 130! I'm serious, man. I've been tested."

This was my cue to act impressed, but I generally passed.

"One-three-oh," he'd say. "In case you didn't know it, that's genius level."

"Congratulations."

"With a mind like mine, I could be doing something, you know what I mean?"

"Absolutely."

"A 60 could do what I'm doing. That leaves me with 70 extra IQ points sitting around in my head and doing nothing."

"They must be bored."

"You're damned right," he'd say. "People like me need to be challenged."

"Maybe you could turn on the fan and sweep against the wind. That's pretty difficult."

"Are you making fun of me?" he'd ask.

"Sort of."

"Well, don't," he'd say. "I'm a lot smarter than you."

"How do you know?" I'd ask. "I might be a 300 or something."

"A 300. Right. I'd place you at around 72, tops."

"What does that mean?" I'd ask.

"It means I hope you like pushing a broom."

"And what does that mean?"

He'd shake his head in pity. "Ask me in about fifteen years."

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER, I found myself working for a housecleaning company. Yes, it was unskilled labor, but, for what it's worth, I did very little sweeping. Mainly, I vacuumed. Oh, but that was years ago. Two years ago, to be exact.

I'm not sure what Reggie is doing now, but I thought of him recently when, at the age of forty-two, I finally had my IQ tested. Being an adult with a fairly steady history of supporting myself, I thought it could do no real harm. What I failed to realize is that such a test mucks with both your past and your future, clarifying a lifetime of bad choices and setting you up for the inevitability of future failure.

As I child, I'd always harbored a sneaking suspicion that I might be a genius. This theory was entirely my own, corroborated by no one, but so what? Being misunderstood was all part of the package. My father occasionally referred to me as "Smart Guy," but eventually I realized that when saying it, he usually meant just the opposite.

"Hey, Smart Guy--coating your face with mayonnaise because you can't find the insect repellent." Or "Hey, Smart Guy--thinking you can toast marshmallows in your bedroom." That type of thing.

I thought I could cure diabetes by spreading suntan lotion on sticks of chewing gum. Sea & Ski on Juicy Fruit, Coppertone on Big Red. I had the raw ingredients and a test subject, all under the same roof.

"Hey, Smart Guy," my father would say. "Offer your grandmother another piece of that gum and you'll be the one scrubbing your teeth in the bathroom sink." What did he know.

ALONE IN MY BEDROOM, I studied pictures of intelligent men and searched for a common denominator. There was a definite Smart Guy look, but it was difficult to get just right. Throw away your comb and you could resemble either Albert Einstein or Larry Fine. Both wore rumpled suits and stuck out their tongues, but only one displayed true genius in such films as Booty and the Beast and The Three Stooges Meet Hercules.

In high school, I flirted with the idea that I might be a philosophical genius. According to me and one or two of my friends, it was almost scary the way I could read people. I practiced thoughtfully removing my glasses and imagined myself appearing on one of those Sunday-morning television shows, where I'd take my seat beside other learned men and voice my dark and radical theories on the human condition.

"People are insecure," I'd say. "They wear masks and play games."

My ideas would be like demons rushing from a hellish cave, and my fellow intellectuals, startled by their truth and enormity, would try to bottle them up before they spread.

"That's enough!" they'd yell. "For the love of God, somebody silence him!"

Far scarier than any of my ideas is the fact that at the age of seventeen, I was probably operating at my intellectual peak. I should have been tested then, before I squandered what little sense I had. By the time I reached my thirties, my brain had been strip-mined by a combination of drugs, alcohol, and the chemical solvents used at the refinishing company where I worked. Still, there were moments when, against all reason, I thought I might be a genius. These moments were provoked not by any accomplishment but by cocaine and crystal methamphetamine--drugs that allow you to lean over a mirror with a straw up your nose, suck up an entire week's paycheck, and think, "God, I'm smart."

It's always been the little things that encourage me. I'll watch a movie in which an attractive woman in a sports bra, a handsome widower, and a trio of selfish, weak-chinned cowards are pursued by mighty reptiles or visitors from another galaxy. "The cowards are going to die," I'll think, and then, when they do, I congratulate myself on my intelligence. When I say, "Oh, it was so predictable," it sounds brainy and farsighted. When other people say it, it sounds stupid. Call me an egghead, but there you have it.

IT WAS SIMPLE CURIOSITY that led me to take an IQ test. Simple, stupid, ugly curiosity, the same thing that motivates boys to pull the wings off of flies. I took my test in Paris, in the basement of an engineering school not far from my apartment. I'd figured that, on its own, my score would mean nothing--I needed someone to compare myself against--and so Hugh came along and took the test as well. I'd worried that he might score higher than me, but a series of recent events had set me at ease. A week earlier, while vacationing in Slovenia, he'd ordered a pizza that the English-speaking waiter had strenuously recommended he avoid. It came topped with a mound of canned vegetables: peas, corn, carrot coins, potatoes, and diced turnips. Observing the look of dumb horror on his face as the waiter delivered the ugly pizza, I decided that, in a test of basic intelligence, I was a definite shoo-in. Then, days later, with no trace of irony, he'd suggested that the history of the chocolate chip might make for an exciting musical. "If, of course, you found the right choreographer."

"Yes," I'd said. "Of course."

The tests we took were designed to determine our eligibility for Mensa, an international association for those with IQs of 132 or higher. Its members come from all walks of life and get together every few weeks to take in a movie or enjoy a weenie roast. They're like Elks or Masons, only they're smart. Our tests were administered by an attractive French psychologist named Madame Haberman, who was herself a Mensa member. She explained that we'd be taking four tests, each of them timed. In order to qualify for Mensa membership, we'd need to score in the top 2 percent on any given one.

I've known people who have taken IQ tests in the past, and whenever I've asked them to repeat one of the questions, they've always drawn a blank, saying, "Oh, you know, they were.., multiple-choice things."

Immediately after taking my test, I was hard-pressed to recall much of anything except the remarkable sense of relief I'd felt each time the alarm went off and we were asked to put down our pencils. In the first test, we were shown a series of three drawings and asked which of the four adjacent ones might best complete the sequence. In the second, we were told to examine five drawings and figure out which two didn't belong. The third had to do with spatial relations and gave me an immediate headache. A break was called, and we stepped out onto the street. Hugh and Madame Haberman discussed her upcoming trip to the Turkish coast, but I was still trapped in test world. Five deaf students walked down the street, and I tried to determine which two did not belong. I imagined myself approaching the two boys wearing tennis shoes and pictured their confusion as I laid my hands upon their shoulders, saying, "I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

Our final test involved determining a pattern in four pairs of dominoes and prophesying what the fifth pair might look like. I didn't come close to finishing. I'd like to say that the room was too hot or that Madame Haberman distracted me with her incessant banjo picking, but none of this is true. I have no one but myself to blame.

A WEEK LATER, our scores arrived in the mail. Hugh has been advised to try again: Scores can fluctuate according to stress and circumstance, and he's right on the cusp of Mensa qualification. My letter began with the words "Dear Monsieur Sedaris, We regret to inform you..."

It turns out that I'm really stupid, practically an idiot. There are cats that weigh more than my IQ score. Were my number translated into dollars, it would buy you about three buckets of fried chicken. The fact that this surprises me only bespeaks the depths of my ignorance.

The test reflected my ability to reason logically. You either reason things out or you don't. Those who do have high IQs. Those who don't reach for the mayonnaise when they can't find the insect repellent. When I became upset over my test score, Hugh explained that everybody thinks differently--I just happen to do it less than the average adult.

"Think donkey," he said. "Then take it down a few notches."

It's a point I can't really argue. The thing about my brain is that it hasn't advanced much since the time I claimed ownership. Reality doesn't concern me in the least. It never has. If told I had to vacate my apartment by next week, I wouldn't consult the real estate listings. Instead, I'd just imagine myself living in a moated sugar-cube castle, floating from room to room on a king-sized magic carpet. If I have one saving grace, it's that I'm lucky to have found someone willing to handle the ugly business of day-to-day living.

Hugh consoled me by saying, "Don't let it get to you. There are plenty of things you're good at."

When asked for some examples, he listed vacuuming and naming stuffed animals. He says he can probably come up with a few more, but he'll need some time to think.

Dot Wonderful

The day surgery couldn't have gone more smoothly. I was even able to eat a thumbprint when I got home, but I think it was more out of principle, as I can hardly remember chewing. :)

I am ready to go ahead and move on from this pregnancy. I don't mean I want to forget (at least not at the moment because sometimes I do), but I want to move on with this baby as part of my life. I don't want to be trapped in the grief any longer; I want to embrace some of the good things about this experience.

For example, I can't remember if I told you that we pre-named the baby. I keep calling her a girl, though of course I didn't know (she did actually have a gender at the time of miscarriage, but we wouldn't have been able to tell yet). We gave her the secret pre-name, Dot, because when we saw her on our first sonogram and the tiny flutter of a heartbeat, that is what she was to us - our little tiny Dot.

I don't really mean to romanticise this too much because sonograms are difficult to "read." Remember that Friend's episode when Rachel couldn't see her baby and felt like a horrible mom? It was more like that.

I did actually see her, though (with the lovely midwife's help), and her heart.

I laughed with my Mom when I got home about calling our baby Dot because it was a such a silly thing to do, but the baby did become more real to all of us as a result. Mom wanted to give the dot a middle name and had just met someone whose name is James Wonderful Smith. She thought the middle name was appropriate for the baby. And that's how it went.

We had our Dot Wonderful for almost 10 weeks.

Whenever Fougs and I secretly whispered about the baby (what kind of mom I wanted/didn't want to be, what kind of auntie she wanted/didn't want to be), we called her Dot Wonderful. Whenever I was alone with Dot and had chats with her (mostly in the car in between loudly sung Ani DiFranco songs), that's how I would address her.

The only down side to Dot Wonderful (other than perhaps explaining to others that this was a very endearing name. Really, it was!) was that Rich had taken to calling her D.W. in a thick, red neck, trucker twang, as in, "Dee Dubya, get on outside and slop them hogs, by God! What in THE hell, girl? (mumbled) Dern city slicker."

Not. cool. Rich! :)

We had lots of dreams and conversations about and with our Dot.

Memories like these are what I want to take with me as I move on.

Oh! And there was that whole Mom moment when she couldn't decide if she wanted the baby to call her Gigi or PaPaw... But that's a whole different post.. (possibly under the tag "lunatic!"!) :)

Unfair

Day surgery (or anesthesia, I think) requires that I not eat or drink anything for 12 hours before the procedure (which is at noon today). That means 4 more hours of not eating or drinking anything.

So why are there freshly baked thumbprint cookies on the counter, daring me to just lick the icing a little? That can't hurt, right? Just a little icing..

To add insult to injury, thumbprints happen to be my ABSOLUTE favorite kind of cookie!

Damn you, you mocking thumbprint cookies! DAMN YOU!

(Rich, you better save me one, or there WILL be a reckoning! )

This headline worries me:

Healy Health Tip: Viagra for Jet Lag?

'A terrific study on the neurobiology of jet lag just appeared in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences', no fly-by-night journal, I assure you. It has created an international splash and serves up fodder for late-night TV. That's not because it happens to be an elegant study of biological clocks in hamster brains. Rather it's because the chemical the researchers from Buenos Aires used to successfully help the hamsters adjust to the equivalent of a forward time shift, such as a trip from New York to London, was none other than sildenafil. Viagra, that is. Even a low dose insufficient to affect male erectile function had a beneficial effect, though the higher doses worked better.'

NO!

I am especially concerned since I am about to make a long trip over the Atlantic...by myself! And most men are like. so. totally. gross! Argh! And so are hamsters!

It's a good thing my mom sent me to college fully aware of how to walk confidently so as not to be bothered, how to scream loudly if a stranger approaches, and how to hold a key as a weapon (I won't even mention the pepper spray, the whistle, and the personal belt loop alarm she packed in my luggage).

Also thank goodness for the school security guard who, during a teacher inservice, taught me to PRACTICE screaming so that my vocal chords will work when I need them. She also taught me to yell (and I quote), "Get the hell away from me you mother f*cking a#$hole!! I'll show you "a f*cking good time". Do you like crazy, b*@ch? Yeah. Come to momma, you P#*$y. Let me introduce you to a friend of mine called Genital Herpes!

Hellllp!!

Fiiiiire!!"

(We actually practiced this at school. Nothing fulfills a person more than hearing their school librarian or the 80 year old math curmudgeon take part in this "exercise.")

The security guard also told me to leave something behind at the crime scene so that the authorities could know how to find my body in a more timely manner, since, according to her, the a$@hole would car jack me, murder me (after the obligatory assault, of course), and then leave my body in Death Valley - apparently a very difficult place for finding bodies. And, after all, my family will appreciate the immediate closure.

Cheery, right? So you can see my cause for concern here. No one needs extra excuse, "jet lag" Viagra to perpetuate the situation!

Fortunately for me, the article ends with, "Since Viagra is known to cause blood-pressure drops and chest pain in those who have heart disease, this could be risky when you're flying high across the ocean far from a good emergency room. For now, I'd make those no-smoking flights Viagra-free too."

Whew. That was close.

Fear culture, indeed!

**Disclaimer - I do believe in protecting women, and I do believe that education and awareness do save women from horrendous crimes. And you better believe that I will be screaming if someone approaches me in a sinister way, and I will park under street lights. I won't be afraid to ask someone (even a security officer) to walk with me when I feel afraid, and I know there is safety in numbers. This is part of my Womanifesto.

**Disclaimer again - I have no idea why some of the profanity ended up as links, but I am wildly amused at this.. I guess blogger decided we needed some more enlightenment?

Poppies

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the the cold,

black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But I also say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—

and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?

-Mary Oliver

(photo, "poppies at montreaux 07," captured and shared by Mark B)

A taboo subject airing out on the line

Perhaps it is considered tacky to air out one's laundry on a blog, but then I consider my blog part of my community. I know that the majority of you are my dearest friends, and the rest of you are people with whom I'd like to be friends or have in my community. Also, I have NEVER begrudged anyone their emotions in the blogosphere. I usually put my hand over my heart and and sometimes touch the monitor when I read an especially heart wrenching post because if I know the writer, I want to hug her because I love her and can identify. If I don't know the writer, I want to hug her because I love her and can identify. There are times when we just need to metaphorically sit with each other and recognize that we are all together, with each other - being human together. So today it's my turn.

Until Sunday, I was two weeks shy of being through my first trimester. I was pregnant. The baby had a heart. She had a brain and fingers and toes. She had ears and a nose. She even had a name. I was pretty sure I had lost her on Sunday evening, but found out for certain yesterday.

This pregnancy was a surprise, as far as pregnancies can be. I didn't figure we were even able to have kids, which was pretty much fine with me since I teach school and am constantly playing mother to my students. In fact, I was sort of pissed off about being pregnant because it "wasn't the plan."

Anyone who knows me knows that I am a list maker. There is always a plan. If the plan goes out of order or is interrupted, it crushes my soul (Thanks, OCD). I have to actually PLAN to be spontaneous.

So, the overall plan was to go to Spain, to Machu Picchu, to continue traveling East until I was brave enough to go to India and Asia. I (have always)wanted to live in Britain and be in the places where my favorite writers walked. I wanted to go at least for the summer (possibly do some sort of teaching exchange there), if I couldn't make the move a reality. I've applied to several programs and have done tons of research.

I've never been very maternal anyway, and couldn't imagine wanting to change my lifestyle. I loved that if I wanted to, I could hop on a plane for a last minute adventure. I was a size 6 for the first time since high school. I had major bikini plans.

So, the pregnancy made me a bit bitter and sad (my plan was certainly interrupted), and I felt like I didn't want the baby at first. The shock turned into embarrassment and then to anger at myself for being so selfish. Finally, I got used to the idea. I started thinking about cribs and diaper bags and names. I started planning financially and began looking at day cares and insurance policies. My family, for the most part, was so happy. The first grand kid was on her way! This part was both fun and stressful, but manageable. And I started to talk to the baby, and plan with her. She was becoming a reality and I was learning to be excited, like Rich who was completely over the moon about it.

The entire time I was pregnant, I was bleeding. I knew that that was bad, but I also knew that it happens. Every doctor visit was stressful because we were so worried about what they would tell us. But I was almost finished with my first trimester, the time when things were supposed to be more "safe". I didn't let myself get too excited about that, but I did start cautiously whispering the news to some of my friends who were really excited for us.

Then it happened.

I am such a control freak. I knew it was happening, but because I'm me, I tried to will myself to stop it, physically even. I made a doctor appointment the very next day. The news was hopeful. My body still 'felt' pregnant.

But then there was yesterday.

I can't describe to you the loneliness and silence associated with looking at an empty uterus on a sonogram screen. It is almost ridiculously calm (or maybe still is the better word), and maybe would've been so had my heart not been sinking with the realization that I was staring at nothing. Nothing was there. There was nothing.

Rich was not able to be with me and I have never felt so completely by myself.

When a doctor came in to talk to me about "options," I couldn't look up. I couldn't respond or blink or breathe. The doctor put her hand on my wrist and stood there, probably praying for me, but I couldn't imagine why anyone would pray over nothing on a screen. It was too late for prayer.

I only sort of heard what she was saying, and I know that I received a shot of some sort and signed some paperwork to do with surgery next week. I had to initial a disclaimer that it wasn't the doctor's fault if I died on the operating table and something about a transfusion.

I immediately started calling my family, irrationally apologizing to Rich first because I felt (feel) some sort of responsibility for losing the baby.(Maybe I didn't want her enough, or worse, maybe she didn't want me.) I started writing to people who knew about the pregnancy, and throwing away calendars that had due dates and weeks numbered. I threw away all of my "baby" lists, and cancelled all of the up coming appointments. I threw away the mother's day cards I received this year, and unsubscribed from the "this is what your baby looks like at ___weeks" newsletter I was receiving.

No one knows quite what to say to me, and some people say the silliest things. Some people are mean without meaning to be, and some are insensitive. But it's weird because even these things are said in an attempt to comfort. They're said in love.
The worst is when people say things like, 'These things happen for a reason.' No they don't. There is no 'reason' in a miscarriage. There is not a rationale, at least not one that I can accept right now. Or they say, 'Probably something was wrong with the baby and this is God's gentle and natural way of taking care of that defect." Uh. So God aborts some babies, but not all of them, and yours is the one he picked today (and we give him credit for all of the healthy, 'miracle' babies who weren't 'defective' at ten weeks?). Reason doesn't play into this one. But like I said, these things were said out of concern.

There are some people who have said wonderfully beautiful things. My favorites are that "in some beautiful way, our bodies reabsorb most of the baby, which means that baby is and will always be a part of you." Another is that I "will always be a moma. From now on and forever, and that because the baby was in me, I can know that the life she had was happy." Or, "Having a miscarriage doesn't mean that you can't eventually have a baby, but we need to mourn this baby right now. This is a loss and it's OK to be sad."

And those of you who simply cry with me and tell me "I love you" over and over.. That's the most valuable. That's all I need. I NEED "I love you".

I don't know why women don't talk about this sort of loss. I guess it is considered too personal. Or maybe it's just too sad. Or maybe unless you can't say 'I love you' to someone or you haven't been in the situation and find it awkward (which it is), it's easier to just not talk about it. I don't know. I find it horrifying that so many women have endured this loss, and that we can't be vulnerable with each other about it.

It's just a sad, sad time. I am fighting irrational thoughts, which is 'normal' from what I understand, and my hormones are going crazy. Physically, I'm not 'finished' with the miscarriage since it is a process, and I have to constantly think about it. It's painful and gut wrenching, both physically and emotionally.

I'm going to be OK, but not today. And that's OK.

So that's the laundry, uncomfortably aired out on my blog. So sit with me if you want. Be with me here in this comfortably uncomfortable space.

She Talks To Angels - The Black Crowes

Jars Of Clay - Work

College Revisited

Black Moon Creeping - The Black Crowes

Wonderwall - Oasis

Been Caught Stealing - Janes Addiction

Give it Away - RHCP

Drown - The Smashing Pumpkins

TAKS SCHMAKS

I hate that TAKS makes teachers feel like they haven't done their jobs properly. What's worse is when the administrators put undue pressure on their teachers or judge them according to their students' test results. When I taught juniors (exit level TAKS), I had one class that performed beautifully! I think 98% of them passed. In my other class, I had something like 74% pass. I used the same strategies in both classes. There was little variation in my teaching. So why the huge difference?

Because kids are all different!

I read in the Arlington Star Telegram that over 40,000 kids in Texas did not graduate this year because of TAKS. This is an indication that there is something wrong with the test and the system, not the teachers.

I find it wildly hilarious that W thinks he is improving the national educational system with policies that hurt the teachers and the children (see No Child Left Behind, for example), and he comes from the state that is low man on the totem pole (nationally)as far as education is concerned. What are we? Third from the bottom?

There is a bright spot, though. TAKS is on its way out, at least for higher levels, and so is W. Maybe there is hope for education.All of that means that it isn't about how well you do your job!

When I interviewed at my high school, I asked my wonderful principal, "How are the TAKS scores at AHS?" He said, "Oh, I can't remember. I think the results are buried on my desk somewhere." I grinned and knew that I wanted to work for him. He also constantly talks about the fact the what's important to our kids is not a test that tells them whether or not they can take a test well. What's important is the character building and the experiences they take with them into the real world.

That's not to say that curriculum is not important. It is! It just means that there is no pressure to teach to the test. It turns out that our school is one of the top ten schools in the metroplex. We are among the top 10 who have the fewest number of kids who need remedial classes when they get to college. Is there a correlation between not teaching to the TAKS and college preparedness? I am starting to think so.

I do think there needs to be some sort of standard for graduation, and I think there needs to be some sort of measure of teacher effectiveness in the classroom. Both of these make for better students and teachers. The TAKS test is not that measure for either.

Whew.

The point is:

HEY TEACHERS!

Don't worry about those stupid numbers. They really don't say anything about you OR about your kids.

Oh and Happy Summer in 5 days!