Loneliness & Genius (A Story of a Gifted Lad)

He was a terribly sensitive lad, so inward-looking, so self conscious, that even rising out of bed in the morning required every ounce of courage he could muster. His mother understood her son, realizing early on that he was a special boy, a being with special gifts way beyond those of his peers. He too was aware of these gifts but felt ashamed because it distanced him from his classmates because they really believed he was a freak of nature. The boy’s gifts were indeed extraordinary, an insight and natural skill for drawing realist depictions of nature and writing brilliant essays on life and love.

The young man’s teachers were astounded at his stories, including myself, however a few superficial teachers believed the quiet boy plagiarized his writings, copied the words from the great masters because really, they could not even write half as well as the boy. These small hearted and malice teachers soon had to relent in their accusations because, one day a few years back, the lad was made to sit in a classroom alone, a test of his integrity, and asked to write on a particular subject. The topic was unfairly a first year philosophy subject, Existentialism: and for any average Year 9 student, this was an absurd task. He was given one hour, and the question read as follows:

“Explain why the philosophy of Existentialism had such a major impact in post WW2 France?”

To be fair, most educated adults would struggle with this obscure question.
What truly upset me at the time was the attitude of these “teachers”; out of their small and black hearts, they wanted the lad to fail, reveal some sort of fraud therefore appearing “right” to the rest of the world. Of course this is pathetic, but I felt worse as these were teachers, my apparent fellow educators, one of the last Noble Professions, and they were smearing its name across the boards; treating a special child with contempt, jealousy and spite – I felt embarrassed and mostly shame.

(This was not one of the high points of my career).

Needless to say, our quiet lad sat for the hour and turned in a hand written 3000 word essay. This had been the most sensitive, insightful and informed piece on existentialism that it has been my good fortune to read. (I still have the hand written essay in my study as evidence…)

He turned the paper in to the doubters, and out of denial, psychosis or extreme anti- social behaviour, would not believe the lad had written the piece.

This is the point that I jumped in and attempted to set the record straight.

“You people are truly a cancer in our profession. The lad was not given a clue what the subject of the essay would be; you, like true fascists, searched him for hidden microphones and receivers and found absolutely nothing. We all observed him throughout the hour writing his little heart out…and still you do not accept the boy’s gifts!”

The ugly, and most sarcastic of the three, Mr. B, a teacher that is hated by most students, (and he likes it!) piped up: “Mr. M… though we appreciate your unbounding enthusiasm, this boy is obviously a fraud and it is our job to prove the fact.”

This teacher was not in the profession to nurture young people but to rise to power in his little pond of influence: though a small fish a very nasty one.

“Mr. B, you have had the opportunity to prove that our student is a fraud and you have failed. What is your next port of call...torture, getting the boy to admit to cheating as he is electrocuted to the point of passing out from the pain!?”

Startlingly, the worm’s eyes looked up to the ceiling, revealing my suggestion might have some credence! His reptilian eyes came back to mine, squinting like a snake in the desert sun.

“Mr. M…we do believe your arguments have some value. Let the committee come back to you with our judgement.”

Mr. Reptile, after making this statement, disappeared out the back, his shrivelled, pathetic cronies following in tow.

Our young lad waited outside in the hall looking like the end of the world had actually arrived in his lifetime, pale like a sheet; eyes full of fear and as large as an owls…his right leg shook at top speed to the point where I thought the boy was on the brink of a Cardiac arrest!

“You did fine, son. C’mon mate, I’ll buy you a coke…what do you say?”
He seemed to relax, and agreed to the coke, but after that experience, he never, really trusted people again.

The lad’s school work duly followed this change in attitude, his marks plummeted. He just did not try anymore.

Mr. B. and his legion of snakes looked smug, happy with themselves that our lad was a fraud and they had revealed this fact to the school.

It was a few years later that our lad reached Year 12. To be fair, I had to fight the committee again to let him into VCE (Year 12 curriculum) and with a little blood and sweat…and a few tears, he was permitted entry.

What followed was nothing less than astounding!

Every test the boy sat for he aced: 100%, perfect. And the snake patrol could do nothing because he followed State protocols and won top marks every time.

It was mid year that the lad began to look more sick than usual, he began to miss class too much, particularly for VCE, as this is frowned upon and affects one’s overall grade.

I began to become aware that our lad was slowly shrinking from the world. He gradually began to literarily disappear, fading like an evaporating fog in winter. By July, however, he made his exit, passed away to the other side, faded into invisibility with an appreciative, lovely smile. I believe he died because of the harshness of life.

As I sit in my study and read those wonderful works of literature and poetry, gaze at his art folio and marvel at the realistic brilliance of his style, I continue to wonder where he is now, such a beautiful, gifted young soul.

A true pleasure to know and teach …

I miss this lonely genius...