Who Gets to Be Smart?

It’s a crisp spring day and I’m at a wooded retreat with my fourth-grade cohorts, competing with other small groups to build the highest stable tower out of milk crates. Noticing the hill we were standing on, I suggested leveling the ground with our shoes. My crush, Devon, commented on my idea, “That’s so smart!” I was soaring.

To this day, I do not remember if we ended up winning. The only thing that sticks in my mind is the jerking compulsion to share my observation about the lumpy dirt hindering our progress and being rewarded with the glowing validation of my intellect. Devon’s earnest compliment, which I’m almost certain he remembers nothing of two decades later, temporarily bandaged my insecurities as a young, undiagnosed autistic girl that I was, euphemistically, “mentally challenged.”

For as much work as I’ve done to divorce my perception of myself from how others may or may not perceive me, I’ve yet to stop comparing my brain capacity to others. When yet another joke of mine isn’t picked up on, or a stranger comes up to me in public asking if I require assistance, or I am let go while a less-than-competent colleague stays on, I cannot help but wonder: who gets to be smart? And why does it matter?