We Don't Talk About Andi
(You Know the Melody)
I am the family Madrigal.
It’s only taken me 45 years to gain the neurodivergent diagnoses. Because, in the decades when I was a child, we didn’t talk about such things.
Not for kids who weren’t problems.
I. Isabela: My parents love telling one story in particular from my childhood. An absolute riot guaranteed to garner a laugh from everyone who hears it. Because who wouldn’t find something so absurd hilarious? (And children do the darndest things, don’t they? Pretty sure Hollywood has made a few million dollars on that premise)
As a kid, I threw myself into schoolwork, ensuring I never missed an assignment, skimped on a test, or received less than exemplary grades on projects. My report cards showed nothing less than perfection. The model student every teacher craved. Student of the Week, Month, and Year—without even trying. Honor Roll. The Gifted and Talented Program. Not a single blemish on that Permanent Record people talked about. Whenever someone needed to watch the class, run errands through the halls unsupervised, or handle sensitive documents, my name was always the one called—no hesitation.
The epitome of a golden child.
Until I happened to slip and brought home a test with a B+. Or dissolved into hysterics when my report card presented with straight 0s (as I read them—turned out they were Os, for “Outstanding”). I arrived home both times inconsolable. My entire life ground to a halt. Nothing anyone could say reached me or soothed me.
Why?
Because of a “casual” threat my parents made in my early school career.
I was the eldest child; the example for the others. As such, they expected me to set the bar. Failure wasn’t an option. “If you let your grades slip, we’ll ship you off to Siberia,” they warned me.
Maybe a child with my intelligence should have understood the hyperbole in the words. I could have known my parents loved me too much to pack my bags and send me into a frozen tundra for something as silly as elementary school grades. Had I been brave enough, I might have pressed them on the issue and received clarity at that moment.
But my mind took them at their word.
Why would they lie?
As such, the slip of a grade (half a grade) signaled a fall from my perfect pedestal. (The 0s were an epic failure I couldn’t begin to fathom) Bringing them home set me on the precipice of deportation. No one could convince me otherwise.
My mind knew nothing else.
And my parents found my breakdown a riot.
How could someone so brilliant take such a ridiculous threat seriously?
The “joke” has persisted to this day. Everyone laughs and shakes their head in my direction. They expect me to smile in response, join in with their mirth. Grin at the folly of my youthful stupidity.
Instead of constantly seeing that little girl at her desk, looking at the red B+ at the top of her page, and feeling her entire world coming crashing down.
II. Camilo: “Bullies are jealous of you.” The winning sentiment etched into the synapses of my brain by parents, teachers, counselors, and any other adult I happened to encounter. A useless piece of word salad passed down by adults in their history—or possibly a highlighted quote in the Parenting Guidebook. Because the truth I quickly unraveled proved the complete opposite: Bullies are sadistic assholes with no actual agenda other than finding a target.
Smart kids were easy targets.
Teachers helpfully pointed out the most intelligent children in every class by proclaiming top grades for tests and quizzes. It was also usually a given that anyone sporting eyewear tended to carry along an impressive IQ as an accessory. Books (for fun reading titles, no less) tended to materialize in our hands. And we failed to disguise our vocabularies, useless knowledge, and penchant for noticing patterns.
If you didn’t want to risk taking a red rubber ball to the head at recess, you only had a few options: Find a good hiding place (which were limited in number and space), make friends with someone older or larger (risky considering most bullies came from the upper grades), or develop chameleonic abilities to disguise your nerdic tendencies.
(Unless, of course, you were in that tiny percentage with hidden athletic talent who managed to outrun everyone. I was not.)
I already mimicked people unconsciously.
Accents found their way into my speech when I talked or watched television programs. My hands fluttered, waved, or tapped in imitation of a person I sat with. (Great during the age of Miss Mary Mack; not so hot when trying to make friends) I even adopted slang into my speech, whether or not I understood the words.
In the interest of self-preservation, I used the ability to find new ways to hide my intelligence.
“Normal” kids didn’t raise their hands in class to answer questions. Or they fidgeted with papers or pencils on their desks to delay providing an answer. When writing on the chalkboard, they hunted among the pieces of chalk for the smallest piece rather than using the largest, unblemished one. They stared at their feet during Spelling Bees.
And they absolutely never spelled every word right.
None of the behaviors compromised my grades or school performance (we weren’t graded on those Bees, and I didn’t care if I received a sticker or not). All they did was prevent me from having my backpack stolen on the playground, save me from tumbling off the jungle gym, and keep me from near-drowning in the water fountain.
Unhappily, the mimicry never stopped. And instead of asking why I do such things, people decide my imitation is a way of poking fun.
Or bullying.
III. Luisa: Human beings, as a species, are troop animals. There aren’t solitary primates out there. Yet we still defer to a single leader (or a small group of leaders—however idiotic) for instructions, guidance, and protection. Doesn’t matter what size the group is, how old the people are in the cluster, or what the function is, a defacto leader will appear. But the “logic” behind the decision gets questionable a lot of the time.
I come from solid Scandinavian stock. As early as first and second grade, I towered over the other kids in my class. (And, no, I wasn’t a “willowy, wisp” of a girl, either) Kids gave me such original nicknames as “Andi the Panda” (didn’t you love it when the School Nurse read your height and weight aloud to the entire class?), “Andria the Giant,” and “Fat Andi” (it was supposed to be a play on Fat Albert, albeit a poor one).
But my size somehow made me the natural choice as leader whenever I ended up in a group—well, in a group minus a naturally charismatic personality. (I may entertain the idea my mind contributed to the decision)
My leadership skills were nil.
I felt obligated to live up to the expectations, though. After all, I was already shouldering the responsibility of the Eldest Child role. That felt like a leader (in the brief moments when my siblings didn’t laugh at me).
If that meant taking on every task handed to me (all the work, it was always all the work), so be it. My team expected me to lead. How could I let them down? I took on extra writing, additional calculations, and more design to ensure the project succeeded. To gain the approval of my…friends? (Is that the right word? Are you friends with your group—even for the brief days you’re paired together?)
I never made a single word of complaint or protest.
Why would I? Was it any different than taking on everything at home? I needed to do more chores, the more complicated work than my brothers and sister. My parents didn’t want to hear about my feelings on that. Because it was my due as Eldest Child.
Team Leader felt the same.
Besides, people wouldn’t ask so much of me if I couldn’t handle it.
Right?
People don’t ask anything of me I can’t handle?
Do they?
IV. Bruno: When you hand a red rubber ball to a child on a playground, what’s the most common reaction? Do they head over to the Foursquare court? Go in seek of unsuspecting nerds for target practice? Find a quiet corner to bounce it? Bemoan the lack of a real basketball/soccer ball/volleyball/sports ball I’ve failed to name?
Or do they clutch it in their fingers with delight and start devising plans on where to place their Mystical Crystal Ball of Karisel? Even if other kids around them stare in confusion, struggling to grasp the rules of this imaginary game.
The most heartbreaking recess I remember (aside from numerous bullying episodes) happened in first grade.
A classmate agreed to play Ponies with me when I proposed the game. She then proceeded to act like a real horse instead of a magical My Little Pony. (The utter travesty) When I grew frustrated and told her she was ruining things, she told me I didn’t know what a pony was and stormed off.
I spent the remainder of recess alone in a corner of the playground.
Weekends of my childhood consisted of constructing elaborate kingdoms, mansions, and castles for my Ponies that—to the unenlightened eye—resembled nothing more than a blanket on the floor and a few plastic accessories. But I spent hours happily lost in the worlds of my imagination, with no one but myself for company. (And, occasionally, my sister—once she was old enough to understand the “rules” of the game)
I did play ordinary games, of course.
But the life I’d built inside my head proved more tempting, and I used any excuse I could to disappear into my mind.
No one saw what I did when looking at something as commonplace as a jump rope circle on the ground (a spiral staircase in a forbidding tower), a cluster of tree branches (the darkest depths of a haunted forest), or a humble red rubber ball. Even when they tried, they interrupted my narrative with constant questions, destroying the seamless edges of my imaginary tapestry.
The most annoying thing to a kid composing epic narratives.
Of course, on the flip side, I never understood why they couldn’t see the magic.
In high school, my English teacher suggested my imagination showed the promise of a fiction writer.
I wonder now if she was attempting to channel my wayward mind into a focused lane. Or did she see what I did, too? And want to give me an avenue to share it with everyone else, at long last?
V. Pepa: Children aren’t miniature copies of adults. (Not healthy, well-adjusted kids, at any rate) Maybe a child resembles a parent, adopts one or two of their mannerisms, or even picks up a few choice words—wanted or not—from the grown-ups around them. That doesn’t instantly convey awareness of the world. Expecting a kid to understand how to function in the cruel bitterness of real life simply because they manage to button their shirt or brush their hair, however early an age they master the tasks, is a recipe for disaster.
Their emotions are years behind in development.
I heard plenty of words thrown around to describe me when my parents had company over: Precocious. Advanced for her age. Genius. Advanced. Too smart for her own good. Uncanny. Ahead of herself. Strange.
For all my supposed “intelligence,” I couldn’t decipher the tones of voice they used in those discussions. But I knew my parents had no idea what to do with me.
Pressure waves of adult conversations washed over me. Old enough—and smart enough—to comprehend the words spoken, but not deemed mature enough to participate in the discussions myself. Instead, I was left to analyze everything on my own and draw my own conclusions.
Or, rather, fret and dwell on what I decided in silence. Seeking some way to express my anxiety that wouldn’t betray those compliments (were they, though? Or were they stones around my neck, designed to drown me in expectation?).
I started my spelling “game.”
Every word I heard or saw, I wrote out with my fingertip. On the surface of my thumb. On the edge of my desk. Over the protrusion of my knee. Letters in two neat rows to soothe the panic building in my head. Always two rows, too. If a word came up odd, I backtracked and added another word, punctuation—anything to get myself back to even.
The imperceptible motion perversely reassured me: Only someone intelligent could solve the sometimes tricky “word problems.” It took someone with refined poise to “fidget” where no one noticed. A true genius panicking while appearing calm.
Tim caught on to the spelling within two years of our relationship, noted it coincided with my times of stress. He closes his hand around mine when I start, preventing my finger from tracing letters.
I’ve never been brave enough to ask him to describe me.
VI. Mirabel: I spent my entire childhood standing on the outside looking in. Feeling apart from my peers, my family, and my friends. Maybe they knew and said nothing out of respect for my age and awkwardness. Or were they waiting for me to speak up?
A futile exercise.
I had no words to explain what was wrong.
I was afraid to disturb the status quo by admitting I’d fallen out of step with the dance. Better to continue stumbling along and hope no one noticed.
Because different wasn’t okay. (Not that it’s okay now) People frowned at those who failed to make the cut. They turned bitter and cold on anyone who ventured another viewpoint. Or they walked away, lest they ended up contaminated with my otherness. You were only allowed so much leeway to become an individual. Step outside of the parameters, and you ended up on your own—shunned, cast out, and exiled.
All I wanted was to belong.
I turned myself inside out attempting to please everyone I encountered. Anything they asked me to change, I did. Twisting, reshaping, and pummeling my brain and personality into a shape they might find more acceptable. All while shoving the least appealing parts of myself into a corner in the feeble hope they might whither and die (they never did).
Smiled when I wanted to cry. Laughed instead of screaming. Danced with limbs begging to curl up in horror.
“She’s such a happy child!”
There isn’t a single teacher I didn’t manage to fool. None of them looked beyond the surface performance they requested.
“You’re so lucky to have such a talented kid!”
My parents beamed at the accolades. (Until the cracks showed in the facade. But that’s a different story)
Now I sit in the dark with a little girl who looks at me with tears pouring from her eyes. She wants to know why no one saw the truth written across her face.
I don’t have an answer for her. Because they still don’t see.
“You’re so well-adjusted to have coped with all of these things throughout your life, Andi.”