As a child, I was slow. Not slow at running. I was in fact, the fastest on my soccer team. When I say I was slow, I am referring to reading. Mrs. Asher was my first grade teacher and she split us into three groups; the blue group, the green group, and the red group. I was red. Depending on which group you were placed in, you were labeled. This label carried with you throughout elementary school. No one let you forget it. It would ascertain what college you might go to. It could decide your fate. Not because of the actual act of reading better than another, but because of the way it made you feel about yourself. It was my earliest test of survival of the fittest. This classification was like a death sentence to me, an imprisonment of stereotypes branded as inadequate and unworthy. Being put in this group had a huge impact on my self-esteem and permeated other aspects of my life for years to come. All determined by how fast I could read at the age of 6. I was not good enough. I was red.
If you were in the blue group you were top in the class. You could read better than most 6 year olds and you were praised for it. As a member of the blue group, when you were called upon, Mrs. Asher used a higher pitch in her voice, with a grin that displayed her blatant favoritism. In the green group you were safe, right on par, like a middle child that goes unnoticed with a lack of attention to positive or negative performance. Then there was the red group. We were patronized with a combination of both concern and neglect. Though the children were merely grouped by color, everyone knew one was better than the other. Rather than blue, green and red: in reality it was, fast, medium and slow. I was keenly aware of this. I was not good enough. I was red.
I am sure we were divided into groups for many reasons, not just according to speed. However, at such a young age, the only apparent characteristic that I could observe seemed to be measured by the swiftness in which a student could spit out words off paper. I associated reading well with reading fast and so I would sit in my bedroom trying to recite the scripts in books like Green Eggs and Ham in a race against time. It didn’t matter if I understood the content just so as long as it sounded like I did. The other kids at school would snicker at those who stuttered or paused and I could not be one of them. But, I was. I could feel all their eyes on me, judging me, waiting for me to prove to them that they were better. I was not good enough. I was red.
I would go on to middle school and then onto high school transporting my feelings of insufficiency. With each grade bearing down on me as an additional weight until I could bench press the pressures of life like a conditioned body builder. As I encountered new experiences, I approached them with trepidation, assuming I would not be the best yet learning to wear my label as a badge of honor- transforming my perceived mediocrity into a projection of pride and rebellion. I exuded my resistance against the arbitrary academic expectations of society. I believed that what was on the inside was empty but assimilated to my external objectifications. On the outside, I looked dignified, hard and toned like a show pony- an attractive girl who disposed the importance of her mental capacity and traded it in for a shiny red muscle car without an engine. I was not good enough. I was red.
While others around me tallied their SAT scores and jockeyed for valedictorian, I had long abandoned any thoughts of being intelligent. I focused my attention on the cutest boys in school and elbowed my way to the front of the line with the other wannabe prom queens. My sparkly tiara glistened but it was made of crystals which had hardened like fossilized tears. These permanent relics would be excavated in later years as I searched for self love and understanding. To me, it felt like a crown of thorns. Even though I so desperately wanted it- it bestowed upon me the legacy of beauty rather than brains and its sharp points burrowed deeply into my subconscious, continually reminding me of my painful shortcomings. Even though this title represented acceptance, popularity and approval, I still felt vacant inside. I was not good enough. I was red.
I would spend most of my 20’s thinking I wasn’t, simply put, smart. Smart was an adjective designated to my counterparts that had gone onto colleges like Stanford or even to those who had gone off to college in general. So, I didn’t go to college. College intimidated me. I imagined its walls filled with intellect so great that they would crumble in on me and crush any remnants of value I had managed to keep over the years. It was a barricade of blue bricks. I remained along the outside perimeter always peering over so that I could compare myself to what they were doing with their lives. It didn’t matter that I had a good job or that I was a good person. My accomplishments never seemed as valuable as those with “an education”. As always, I was not good enough. I was red.
However, as I matured and navigated my way through life I experienced a myriad of things. Good things and bad things- accomplishments and failures. From promotions and awards to bankruptcy and divorce. Each lesson acting like a red brick that layered on top of the next- a new little piece of knowledge that inserted added strength. I slowly continued to build this structure within and rather than form a wall around myself, I created a platform which grew higher and higher so that I could get a better view. I could now see clearly over the blue fortress and through the façade of academia.
At some point, I had actually become quite a good reader and writer. I don’t know that I had ever really been that poor at it but for the first time I actually realized it. I was smart. I enrolled in college. I got straight A’s. I won a contest for writing a business plan and pitching it in front of hundreds of people. Nothing intimidated me. Was I now in the blue group? The answer is no. I was slow but I was tall. I was slow but I was strong. I was slow but I was right on time. I was good enough.
I am red.
