The Unbearable Weight of Random Talent

I won the elementary school Geography Bee, and all I got was this stupid complex (and a medal).

The Geography Bee came out of nowhere and without warning. We were just suddenly having in-class competitions about land masses, bodies of water, and capitals. Each fourth through sixth grade class sent two winners to the Geography Bee in front of the whole school, and for my sixth grade class, I was one of them.

On stage in the multipurpose room, I looked out at the crowd of kids and teachers. While geography wasn’t near and dear to my heart, getting questions right on tests was absolutely the simplest way to be lovable and worthwhile, in my twisted little perfectionistic mind. So I tried my best, and I felt the pressure.

With each right answer, I stayed on stage. With each wrong answer, the other students joined the audience. Soon, there were only three of us remaining, all sixth graders. Two boys and me.

I was asked which state had a certain lake. I looked out at the audience and saw my friend Rachel making intense eyes at me. I knew instantly: the answer was New Hampshire, her favorite state. She loved to say she lived “half the year in New Hampshire,” which was an exaggeration by several months but probably true in her soul.

“Michigan,” I said, knowing it was wrong but not willing to risk cheating. The answer was New Hampshire, of course, but the boys missed their questions too, so we all lived to see another round. 

Eventually it was down to just two of us: John and me. For the final showdown, we answered the same questions, writing them on paper and revealing them at the same time. We tied a time or two, the pressure mounting as we inched closer to success and elimination. And then, I wrote New York City and he wrote Manhattan, and I won. The facilitator hung a medal around my neck, and everyone clapped. I. WON.

My friends rushed around me, cheering. “It was New Hampshire!” Rachel said. “I was hoping you’d read my mind.” 

“I did,” I assured her. It hadn’t even mattered that I’d thrown the question. I’d won!

My sixth grade teacher congratulated me, told me she was proud. Younger kids approached, excited to talk to me. I felt like a minor celebrity with an uncommon skill I’d never considered valuing. I’d always wanted a talent, something I could be known for. All my friends were so special. I was surrounded by sixth grade violin virtuosos, angelic singers, school record-breaking athletes. I would’ve loved a flashier talent than geography, but it would do. 

My fifth grade teacher held her clipboard and pen out to me. “Please, Savannah, please! Can I get your autograph?” She played the role of a fan vying for a superstar’s attention. I laughed, uncomfortable. I may have felt like a B-List celebrity moments earlier, but now I just felt 11 and stupid, and I wanted her to stop. But she waited, pushing her pen at me, trying to humiliate me.

I laughed it off and played along, taking the pen and scribbling my name. She wasn’t flattering me or congratulating me. And I know this because of what she said next, resentment thick in her voice: “I guess now you know everything, don’t you?”

The only thing I knew then that I didn’t know before was that answering a few questions right on a two foot tall stage was a good way to turn people against you. At recess, a girl from another class told me gleefully, “People are saying you cheated and John should have won! But I’m glad you won.” Who were these alleged “people” saying this? Everyone at school, except the messenger? Or her, too? I could see how much better it would’ve been for everyone if John had won. I was in the GATE (Gifted and Talented Education) class, and he wasn’t. It seemed like an inherently unfair system, and kids from other classes were often telling us GATE kids we weren’t smarter than them. John winning would’ve been great for their mission and morale. Should I have thrown another question? Would people like me more if I had lost? 

Now that I think about it, I did have a map of the world on my bedroom wall growing up, and I do recite state capitals when I can’t sleep.

There’s a term used in Australia and New Zealand to describe how peers react when one of their own grows too successful: tall poppy syndrome. The other poppies “cut down the tall poppy,” criticizing them. “You’re not better than us. You shouldn’t have won. You cheated. You think you know everything, don’t you?”

It might start that way, but eventually the poppy learns to cut herself down. Over a decade later, I kept thinking about the Geography Bee. I was once again standing on stages, answering questions, this time at film festivals talking about a short film I’d written and produced. I had fun up there, talking about my ARTISTIC VISION, but inevitably I’d start to feel sick. I’d stare out at the audience and hear them rooting against me, loudly, in their heads. “You think you’re so special? You think you’re better than us? Because you did this one little thing no one cares about?” I was a poppy with its head cut off, unable to feel pride without shame.

Except I loved the story I’d created and the team I’d made it with. I cared much more about the craft I’d worked on and the career I was building than I did about maps and trivia questions. I wanted to be able to enjoy those moments of celebration, stand tall, keep my head on, my petals intact. So I tried to unlearn the message my child brain had internalized from this formative experience. I talked about it in therapy. I meditated and reprogrammed and journaled and saged. And something must’ve worked. Because on stage again two years later, answering questions about a second short film, I looked out at the audience and knew I didn’t know what they were thinking. I just felt happy, excited, and proud. I was a poppy, regrown, well-watered, facing the sun, knowing she needs all that to survive, at any height. 

The day after the Geography Bee, a third grade class gave me handmade cards congratulating me. Half the class wrote to me, and the other half wrote to John, the runner-up. Most of the girls wrote to me. They were happy. They’d rooted for me. They wanted me to win. So maybe it was good I won, for the girls.

But that doesn’t even matter. Because the fact remains: John didn’t win.