As a child, I was haunted by an unshakeable fear that my mother might pass away or go missing. Each morning, as I left for school, I worried that my home and family would not be there when I returned. I was constantly vigilant about my mother’s safety, turning down invitations from friends to spend the night, never wanting distractions that might pull my attention away from her. I often found myself unable to sleep alone, ending up on my mother’s couch or in my sister’s room, waking up repeatedly to check if she was still breathing, to confirm she was still there.
I struggled with telling time and recalling the days of the week and months of the year. As a mediocre student, it wasn’t until I took my first standardized test in middle school that my challenges were given a clearer definition. After my ERB results raised concerns, I was sent for further evaluations with a woman named Dr. Lila. The test seemed endless, requiring me to return every weekend for a month. Soon, I found myself in a different office, repeating the same test I had just taken. It was then I realized I had failed both Dr. Lila’s evaluation and the ERB. Why hadn’t anyone informed me?
I struggled to connect the dots between my anxieties and the test questions about capitals and famous figures. How could knowing about Genghis Khan or geographical facts explain my fear of losing my mother? It struck me that they were assessing the wrong thing. The issue wasn’t my intellect but my emotional state. Yet they were testing my intelligence and expecting me to know things I hadn’t been taught. Did other children know about Genghis Khan? Was there some intrinsic intelligence I lacked? My fears made me believe I was defective, that I didn’t measure up. I felt compelled to conceal my inadequacies, diving into humor and satire as a coping mechanism.
Every test I took brought significant changes: I repeated sixth grade and was placed in lower-level classes. I underwent countless evaluations to address an unspecified learning disability. I felt burdened by this label, longing for a visible defect that would explain my struggles and perhaps lessen the expectations placed upon me.
Despite my lingering doubts about the tests being misguided, I grew to accept that I was intellectually inferior, that the adults around me were right about my limitations. I second-guessed everything I knew and began to doubt my feelings, the most genuine part of myself, which led me to feel disconnected from the world. The tests ingrained in me the idea that there was one correct answer to every question, and I constantly sought validation for my responses, never receiving it.
The history of intelligence testing is rooted in a misunderstanding of its purpose. Alfred Binet, the French psychologist who developed the first intelligence test in 1905, aimed to identify students needing alternative learning strategies. He believed intelligence was not fixed or solely genetic; rather, it could evolve based on environmental influences. Unfortunately, when his test reached America, it became a tool for eugenics rather than a means of support.
H.H. Goddard translated Binet’s work, aiming to prove the superiority of certain races, categorizing individuals based on their IQ scores. This led to the misguided belief that intelligence was inherited and could be quantified. The Stanford-Binet test, revised by Lewis Terman, further entrenched this idea, promoting a vision of a new elite class identified through standardized testing.
Standardized tests have since shaped educational paths, dictating acceptance into schools and influencing self-worth based on right or wrong answers. Yet, they fail to consider the complexities of human experience. Emotional context, personal circumstances, and the environment are all overlooked. Instead, students are judged solely on their ability to perform under pressure in artificial settings.
I took more than twenty-five IQ tests between the ages of eleven and eighteen. It wasn’t until I turned twenty-five that I finally received a proper diagnosis for my childhood struggles: a panic disorder. This realization was liberating yet unsettling, as it challenged my ingrained belief about my intelligence. I understood that my challenges were conditional, something standardized tests didn’t measure, yet those flawed assessments shaped my educational and personal decisions.
While I believe intelligence comes in many forms, my experiences have often contradicted that notion. Society seems to equate intelligence with factual knowledge, something I often felt I lacked. I knew other things—like the taste of fear or the sensation of danger—but those insights didn’t fit the traditional mold of intelligence.
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In summary, intelligence is multifaceted and cannot be accurately measured by standardized tests that ignore emotional and environmental factors. The historical context of intelligence testing reveals a troubling legacy that continues to influence perceptions of worth and capability.