When the Smart Kid Fails
Things came so easy, I thought they would last forever. So when things got hard, I bailed.
A year before I was born, my mom left the Comoro Islands — an archipelago northwest of Madagascar — to start a better life in France. For a long time, we lived at the bottom of the economic pyramid and had to rely on charities and social services to get food and accommodations. Expensive private schools had been the only option back on the islands, which meant my mom never received the privilege of an education. So, as many tales of the poor immigrant child go, school was the only thing that mattered when I was growing up. I collected good grades and report cards filled with compliments. Parent-teacher conferences became a pleasant routine of pats on the back for me.
When you’re a “smart kid,” validation wraps around you like a veil, becoming the most significant part of your identity. My teachers would say I was gifted, and my mom would radiate with such pride that I thought I’d forever be her greatest gift — a trophy she could hold up to the world the same way Rafiki did with baby Simba in The Lion King. Her pride fueled a love of learning. In elementary school, some might say I was a full-blown nerd; I just say all the librarians knew me. (I was that kid who always tried to borrow textbooks that only teachers could access.)
