Never Was a Cornflake Girl

Erin Morris Miller, PhD

(This blog was previously posted on the discontinued site thegiftedscholar.com)

When my family felt that my grandmother was near to death, we rotated keeping a 24/7 vigil beside her bed thus ensuring she would not die alone. I was there and my grandmother woke up briefly and said, “Is that Erin Marie over there cutting shines?” I replied that I was over 40 years old and no longer “cut shines.” The last thing she said in my presence was, “Erin Marie never listens to anyone.”

Oh, I listened…but did not necessarily obey. I was known for cutting shines. Other common remarks during my childhood include, “Erin marches to her own drummer” and “Erin is her own person” both said with a knowing eyebrow raise.

My Grandmother and me. Similar to most GenX-ers there are precious few photos of me as a teen and those that exist are fading away

Flashback: My grandfather drove tractor-trailer trucks for a living. At his house was a deck built on a slab of concrete that had the date of a Teamsters strike etched on a corner. I had asked him about it when I was eight and he explained about workers strikes. Later that month he took all his grandchildren camping and declared that the child with the best behavior would get a prize at the end of the day. I was extra well behaved and worked hard not to fight with my brother or cousins. At the end of the day my older sister received the prize. She was dainty and preferred to sit and take care of my toddler cousin than get dirty exploring the national park. She was a helper. I argued that she was just acting in her nature, while I was having to work hard to be obedient. The ruling remained unchanged so…I went on strike. I wrote UNFAIR! on a piece of cardboard, attached it to a stick and picketed. The word spread quickly through Big Meadows Campground that a tiny girl was on strike. The park rangers came. Sides were taken. People took photos, grinning wildly while I scowled at the camera.

Recently a colleague in the field of gifted education posed this question regarding what he felt was an unnecessary pathologicalization of behavior, “What happened to just being weird?” I didn’t respond, but I do know one thing:

I was a weird kid. Fast talking. Emotional. Iron-willed. I burned through books. I got overheated easily. I could only wear clothes made of natural fibers. Sometimes I would get lost in thought and stare off into the distance, my body paused in mid action. Sometimes I would wander off. Once my parents lost me in a museum and then saw I was inside the exhibit talking to the curator.   

I knew I was a bit different. But I never felt alone. Why? Because I wasn’t. You know who else never listened? My great aunt Maggie. Who else marched to her own drummer? My great-grandmother Clarice. Was strong-willed? My great-grandmother Annie. Fast-talking? My aunt Judy. Emotional? My aunt Carol. Overheated easily? My grandmother Carrie. Spent most of her time reading? My grandmother Doris. Feeling hot and fratchety*? Feel free to retreat outside or to the “cold room” as every house seemed to have a room that was not often used and thus not heated.

Both my grandmothers. I aspire to their beach confidence.

What really got me thinking about this was both a post by Scott Barry Kaufman in which he highlighted marginalization among 2E individuals and a recent Twitter gtchat discussing bullying.

I would not claim the label of 2E for myself despite struggling with anxiety and depression during my adolescence and young adulthood. One of the main purposes of labels is to trigger services of some kind. Beyond services for gifted students, I didn’t need anything else. I experienced bullying, certainly, but never marginalization. One of the reasons for this is that regardless of the circumstances, I knew that my family had my back. A lot of family had my back…

Flashback: At my daughter’s first post-natal appointment I expressed concern that she was not latching well for nursing. The pediatrician told me that lots of women have difficulty nursing and I should switch to formula. I didn’t listen (of course) and took her to an infant ear-nose-throat specialist at the nearby University of Virginia hospital. She had severely swollen and blocked nasal passages. A regimen was created, and her nursing problems were resolved. I was happy but also angry at the pediatrician. I told the story to my mother. She shared it with my grandmother. Who shared it with my aunts and great aunts. Who shared it with my cousins. A few days later the owner of the pediatric practice called me to apologize and said he couldn’t walk freely in Harrisonburg without someone chastising him.

My daughter experienced some difficulties with other students at school and I asked her if she wanted me to “release the hounds.” She replied that she would handle it. She is confident and outspoken, because she can be. Myriad people, some of which she does not even know, have had her back from the moment she was born. We have talked together about the gift that is the knowledge that you are backed by a clan. It gives you confidence. It also allows you the freedom to risk being as weird as you would like. Perhaps the increased desire to seek the labels is partially motivated by a desire to find that clan.