Don’t tell children they’re ‘gifted’. Call them this instead

I remember the first time I realised I was brilliant. I was in year 3, and we had just sat one of those statewide tests in mathematics. My teacher, a tight-lipped 50-something who never joked except on the last day of term, handed out everyone’s certificates in order of how well they’d done (insane) – starting with those who had received a “Participation”, then the “Credits”, and finally the lauded “Distinctions”. I didn’t know what any of those words meant. All I knew was that, when she’d reached the end of the Distinctions, I was the only one left sitting empty-handed.

“You may have noticed Eleanor didn’t receive anything”, she said ominously, returning to the front of the room. “That’s because she received a different mark. It starts with an H. Can anyone guess what it is?”

My heart thudded. I had no idea what she was implying, but suspected it wasn’t good. Had I somehow gotten a zero? Did H stand for Horrible?

Nobody guessed. They were probably too busy revelling in their own results, or couldn’t think of any H words; or maybe they were just more interested in who would be “in” for 44 Homes at lunch. In any case, after approximately one billion years, she brandished my certificate and gave us the answer: “High Distinction. She got an almost perfect score”.

I remember regaling my family with this tale over dinner. I thought it was hilarious. I mean, what a narrative arc: that I’d had no idea how well I’d done, only to learn that the answer was very! The initial fear that I was stupid, so obviously unfounded in hindsight! So funny. So cute.

Bizarrely, everyone indulged me, probably because you can’t call a 9-year-old out for being a wanker. And so I coasted on, secure in the belief that I was officially better than everyone else. It wasn’t just the test: it was what it represented. I was apart from the crowd; destined for greater things, a bigger life.

Since then, I have collected the moments someone has called me special like kernels, to feast upon in times of self-doubt. The conductor of the junior string ensemble, who admired my rhythm. My year 9 French teacher, who complimented my “natural flair”. My friend’s parents, who, upon watching our self-choreographed performance of Bohemian Rhapsody, plainly labelled me a genius.

But as the number of kernels has grown over time, so too has my tolerance for them; like when you drink too much casually during COVID and then realise it now takes you nine standards to get tipsy. Things that used to fill my cup now barely scratch the surface. I need more. Tell me I’m special! Tell me I’m the best! Tell me I’m destined to change the world!

I don’t know if my craving for specialness was born in that moment in the classroom, or whether it’s the product of genetics or my childhood or a broader culture that’s centred around celebrating those who stand out, be it for academic success or artistic or athletic merit; our propensity for giving prizes for everything from Best Picture to World Peace to Cutest Couple at the end of year formal.

We single out people to acclaim and in doing so, give everyone else something to aspire towards or feel bad about. Nobody wants to be average and yet, mathematically (I don’t know if I mentioned, I did really well on this one maths test in year 3), most people are.

Is it possible to create a culture where instead we celebrate the ordinary? Where people can build their self-worth based on things everyone can attain – the love of others, happiness, general fulfilment? Or, like everything under capitalism, does self-worth only have value when its source is in limited supply?

Think about that next time you tell a child they’re gifted. Who cares how early they learnt their times tables? (I was four, by the way.) You might accidentally overinflate their ego, and then they’ll spend the rest of their life chasing that high and falling just short. Tell them they’re lovely. Tell them they’re kind. Tell them they’re ordinary. Just don’t tell them they’re the best.

As for me, I’m too far gone. Tell me I’m special or say nothing at all.

Eleanor Kirk is a writer.

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