said, “Most of all, I don’t know why he’d want to leave your class. He likes you so much.” Sounding more mature than I was, I said, “Thanks, but that’s not really the issue. Something is obviously bothering him in a big way, and I guess that’s what we need to figure out.” She agreed, and went home to see if she could help Matt put his finger on what prompted his request.
Several days later, Matt came to see me. He said he thought he could explain why he wanted to be in a different English class. It took some time and a few false starts, but ultimately he said, “All my life, I’ve been the smartest kid in the class. In this class, I’m just average. I can’t stand that feeling. I think if I were in a class that didn’t have so many really smart kids in it, I’d feel smart again.”
Matt and I talked at length. I recall saying to him that if what mattered most to him in life was maximizing his chances of being #1, he’d need to re-think his college plans. “I suspect you’d have a pretty good chance of graduating first in your class at a very small college or a community college. The chances are much lower in the schools where you want to go. But in those schools, you’d have a much greater chance of breakthrough-learning.” He looked at me with eyes that reflected both surprise and an uncomfortable understanding. I continued, “Being number one has its merits, Matt, but so does a life of contribution. To be a real contributor, you have to take chances, and as soon as you do that, you’ve risked status. It doesn’t have to be today, but you’re going to have to make a choice for the long term.”
Matt stayed in the class, but it was an uncomfortable fit for him. Too often he saw students whose insights and skills he thought outstripped his own. Inevitably, those moments made him pull back—made him sulky. Being number one had become something of an addition. School wasn’t about learning. It wasn’t okay to be a very good student. He needed to be the best.
By Carol Ann Tomlinson
Matt was slight of frame and mighty of mind when I met him. He was in the third grade at the time and spent much of his leisure in correspondence with noted archeologists. This was well before the convenience of e-mail, and he expended considerable effort in writing cursive letters about issues and methods in the field to archeologists who saw his potential and responded in kind. I remember being more amazed at Matt’s tenacity with the pencil than at his knowledge about archeology—although that was stunning as well.
Fast forward several years and Matt landed in my 8th grade English class that included a good crop of advanced learners. His frame was still slight as eighth graders go, his mind was still mighty, and his interest in archeology was now shaping his college plans—already pretty focused at thirteen. He wanted to become someone who could pursue the mysteries of the field. He wanted to make a contribution to the field, he said. To that end, he had three colleges in mind—all with stellar archeology departments—and all highly competitive.
The class in which I taught Matt was a hive of energy—kids with lots of opinions, lots of scathingly brilliant ideas about how to do (or how to manage not to do) whatever the day’s work, lots of knowledge. I saw them all as energetic and creative, despite their many differences. Matt apparently saw something else.
One day in early November, Matt’s mom came to see me after school. Matt wanted to drop the class, she said, and added that she didn’t know quite how to handle his request. She seemed as surprised as I was that he was asking for a schedule change. He had so many good friends in the class. He was doing well.
Just as I was having a silent and personalized reaction, “I thought he liked me,” his mom said,
Helping Kids Define Success
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School wasn’t about learning. It wasn’t okay to be a very good student. He needed to be the best.