Testing…testing

The evaluator’s job, unpack how this three pound package of lobes and folds crammed with 100 billion neurons is functioning or not functioning.  How does he do this? Testing; long, arduous, sometimes boring tests. Balboa Naval Hospital; at the moment, it seems to be going well.  No problems, Zack is compliantly answering their endless list of questions.  This portion is an assessment of his verbal I.Q.  At this point, I am a proud mama, he is obviously brilliant.

His high verbal abilities made him easy to be captivated by, he sounded like a little professor with a cherub voice.  A couple of months after starting pre-school, when he did decide he was ready to talk to his teacher, he sidled up next to her on the playground, and almost inaudibly said,  “The Madagascan hog-nosed snake is mildly venomous.”  Sunny kitchen, taking care of household chores, I would frequently hear this three year old cherub voice calling out from the living room, “Is it territorial?,” “Is it dangerous to humans?,” “Does it live in the United States?” I lived with this constant parade of questions about animals, and then music, and then geography, and on and on for all of Zack’s childhood.  He used words to understand his world. He visited his cousin’s Kindergarten class and when asked where he was from he replied in his distinct, perfectly articulated, little professor voice, “The planet Earth.”  Why would anyone suspect that such verbal giftedness could be a sign that something was wrong?

Zack is tiring of all these questions, he complains.  The tester, in a very patronizing voice begs, “Just a couple more.”  Zack, in a very not so three year old voice says, “A couple means two.”

This looks simple enough, take these three one inch square tiles and make an “L” pattern with them. This portion of the evaluation is testing his performance I.Q.   I wait, in anticipation for him to continue his obvious brilliance. His pudgy hands reach for the tiles; he doesn’t seem to understand the instructions.  Again, the tester makes the simple shape for him to imitate.  Zack takes the tiles and pushes them toward each other but seems to be blind to their edges. He’s pushing the corner of one tile into the edge of the other. He can’t do it. Now the tester pulls out a piece of paper and draws two parallel lines, and asks Zack to do the same.  Whoa! Not looking so brilliant now, as his lines look more like a couple of rivers running their course through the Alps than parallel lines.   Last, an easy puzzle.  A cow, separated into three parts, head, body, butt.  I look on incredulously as I begin to see what is not working in my son’s brain.  He has no capacity to take these pieces and put them together in a way that makes sense. The tester asks me, “Does he ever play with construction toys, puzzles, draw, or color?” No, no, no, and no. 

Each one of our brains seems to hold a great mystery; each one as unique as our fingerprints. When we look in wonder at the multiple ways that these distinctive differences can be expressed; musical prowess, physical dexterity, mathematical aptitude, we rejoice in how beautifully knit together we are.  How we enjoy watching the ice skater fly through the air and land the impossible jump.  It makes us feel strong just watching them.  But, how do we feel when we come in contact with someone whose differences are not expressed in beautiful ways, but in ways that appear weak? I ask this, not in a condemning way, but in true sincerity.  Personally, I feel repelled by weakness…I want to run away.  I await your honest replies.