Narrative Essay On Being Smart

I was first dubbed “an intelligent young lady” in my second round of first grade, which seemed incredibly ironic. Just the previous year I was hiding my red face in shame as the principal of my private school finally told my parents I didn 't know how to read. “It’s not your fault, honey, they just didn 't know how to help you,” my mother said to me gently, running her fingers tenderly through my hair. My father, on the other hand, relayed an angry drunken lecture to me almost every night about how that crappy school stole all of his money. Both agreed that the best thing for me was to retake the first grade. It’s been said many times that I was the only thing they could agree on. Still, I heard the frustration in my mother’s voice as she …show more content…
In 1300 it was used to refer to someone with the ability to “cut” with words or wit, or who was skilled in bargaining. Today, according to the Merriam Webster online dictionary, “smart” is an adjective meaning “very good at learning or thinking about things; showing intelligence or good judgment” (“Smart”). I didn 't feel intelligent. I still felt like that kid stuttering over simple passages. People began to look at me differently. Instead of being regarded with sympathy, I was shown off to faculty and relatives like some kind of celebrity. It didn 't seem real. Had I managed to deceive all these people? What did they see in me that I didn 't?
Even though they meant well, this new title caused people to expect certain things from me. I feared making any mistakes or falling behind because I thought it would only be followed by disappointment. At the same time, my classmates trusted my answers sometimes more than I did. I began to feel like if I got something wrong I’d take those who asked me for help down with …show more content…
Normally when mothers and fathers would hover over their children, mine started leaving me alone. They were so focused on their divorce, and dad on his drinking, that there just wasn 't room to check on my well being. I was raised to be independent and so I was. I stopped asking for help on homework, I talked less about school, and I shrunk into myself. This went to a new extreme when my father remarried. I loved my stepmother, but she loved her boys more and my own father only ever sat in the garage and emptied cases of Bud-Light when he got home. I tried my best to create a blended family, but I saw daily reminders that there was no place for me. Many nights come to mind when I would crawl into bed and listen through the walls as my stepmother kissed her sons goodnight. “I love you,” I would hear her murmur. No such words were said to me, and no kiss was ever laid on my forehead. That was my father’s job, according to her, but even if he bothered to do it I’d reel at the smell of beer on his breath. So I laid in bed alone having to tuck myself in. This was a nightly ritual and a nightly reminder that no one was looking out for me. I was the strong one. I was the one with the good head on my shoulders. I wouldn 't miss something as silly as a “goodnight”, would