Since childhood, I have always been branded as ‘smart’.
It came in other variations. ‘Bright’ and ‘clever’ were favourites too. I wore this label as a badge of honour, an inherent part of my identity. I wasn’t anything special otherwise. I wasn’t sporty, or artistic, or popular. I was just… smart.
I never really tried hard in class. I was praised for doing the bare minimum, so I continued it – but the disappointment piled up. I was wasting myself, I was lazy. I found myself envying the kids who didn’t need to prove themselves, who could make mistakes without losing their value, who saw setbacks as learning points instead of failure. Being ‘smart’ was my main point of worth, and I had to avoid the opposite at any cost. I was told to try my best, but it was anticipated that my best was the best. I wanted people to expect me to fail. I wanted to be treated as a human being who could grow and learn and change.
Books were my escape. In books, people understood me, they were my friends. I was praised for reading so much, but as I grew older, I stuck with the same books I had already read because they gave me comfort. Again, I wasn’t fulfilling my potential. People were catching up to me. I was filled with panic at the thought of my ‘intellect’ not being enough anymore. Not being anything special anymore.
When I reached high school, I failed my first test. It was like a slap to the face, though I deserved it. For the first time in my life, I realised that I needed to work at something to get better at it. I had never learned how to study effectively because I had never needed to – when something got challenging, I framed myself as ‘bad at it’ and stopped working to improve on it. I couldn’t change. I couldn’t get better. I couldn’t ask for help, because then I wouldn’t be the ‘smart’ kid anymore. My main motivation for everything was the paralysing fear of failure.
In her research, Dr Carol Dwecker found that when the emphasis was placed on effort (a factor people can control) rather than talent or intelligence (a quality that is intrinsic) students were more likely to see mistakes as an opportunity for growth rather than failure. Children who were encouraged by effort were more willing to take on challenging work while those who were praised for intelligence were reluctant to be placed in a situation where they might lose their identifier as the ‘smart’ kid by making mistakes. Being framed as ‘smart’ from a young age is damaging because it characterises setbacks and mistakes as a blow to one’s innate intelligence rather than a learning opportunity.
To me, ‘smart’ doesn’t mean anything anymore. It’s often used as praise, but feels like punishment. No child should be categorised as anything at a young age, or even as they grow older. No child should think they have a natural advantage over the other. No child should ever be made to believe that they are not good enough. And maybe one day, we will all be labelled ‘smart’ in our own way.
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