From the time I was quite small, my mother made it perfectly clear that her main goal for me was to be her caretaker later on in life. I found this odd, since she insisted that my older brother would graduate from high school and go to college.

            Why the difference? Well, for one, she believed that he was much smarter than I was.

            There was some justification behind her belief. He taught himself how to read, so when he entered first grade, he was reading above grade level. Me, on the other hand, still couldn’t identify all the letters of the alphabet by name or by sound.

            He was doing basic math, which, again, he’d taught himself. I was the dunce who didn’t understand numbers.

            He was placed in the advanced groups in elementary school, without first attending kindergarten, which wasn’t mandatory back then. I was driven to kindergarten, where I was the lowest of the low. By the time the year was over, I knew the letters by name and sound, but couldn’t formulate words. I understood how numbers worked, but still couldn’t add or subtract, and got confused with time and money.

            When I entered first grade, I was immediately assigned to the nonreaders group. These kids were odd. Weird. None had friends. In fact, they weren’t even friends with each other. You’d think odd would bond with odd, but it was more like a magnetic pull in the opposite direction.

            Back then IQ tests were given every year. My brother had scored very high in first grade. No one expected me to be anywhere near his IQ. Imagine everyone’s surprise when my IQ turned out to be high, not as high as my brother’s, but higher than many of my classmates.

            I loved those IQ tests. My favorites were any having to do with manipulation of objects in space. I could see three-dimensional objects even on a flat piece of paper. When shapes had to be flipped or turned to fit a puzzle, I never got one wrong.

            I surprise a lot of people: my teacher, my parents, my brother (who was offended that my score was close to his) and especially me.

            Imagine being six years old, having repeatedly been told how stupid you are, then to find out that all those words were a bunch of lies! My head exploded! Well, not quite, but you get the picture.

            Now that I knew I wasn’t dumb, I concentrated harder and focused on my lessons. I’d take home papers with incorrect answers, erase the mistakes, and teach my stuffed animals the lesson. Then I’d complete the work again, this time every answer correct.

            For years I did this.

            At school, things began to change in terms of where I was seated (no longer in the dunce row at the back of the room), and how my teachers treated me. Before, it was with disdain, as if I didn’t warrant the attention of a slug. Now, however, the teacher dropped by my desk on a regular basis to see how I was doing.

            My paperwork was always returned at the bottom of the pile, meaning my scores were among the lowest. After teaching myself, my papers moved to the top! I was now among the smartest in the class.

            Unfortunately, my school success did not alter my mother’s expectations for me. She made me her housekeeper: every room had to be picked up, dusted and vacuumed every day before I could study. She attempted to make me her cook, but I had no talent or interest. Even easy things, like cornbread, I messed up.

            I was assigned to be her entertainment when she was ill, which was frequent. My mom suffered from “nervous disorders” which I understood to mean she was nuts. While she lay in bed, I was expected to sit in the room with her. I wasn’t allowed to read books or study during those long afternoons. But, there was no prohibition against coloring, drawing or building model cars.

            Because my spatial awareness was quite developed, I loved gluing those tiny pieces in place, using tweezers and toothpicks to get them situated just right. I also loved to paint, applying coat after coat until the model sparkled.

            I asked if I could get a paying job so as to be able to save for college. My brother was working, so I figured I should as well. My mom permitted me to work, as long as I kept the house tidy and never needed the car when my brother had to go to work.

            I tried working in a clothing store, not understanding how commission works. When I shop, I hate it when a storekeeper follows me around. Because I was on commission, I was instructed to tail every customer and show them interesting outfits. I lasted three days.

            My next job was at a deli, an odd choice since I didn’t know how to cook. The boss gave me ten minutes of instruction, then left. Seriously! He walked out the front door just as lunch was beginning. I had no idea what I was doing, even though pictures of finished products hung over the counter.

            I screwed up order after order. When the boss returned, I quit.

            I loved the smell of KFC. They must have blowers that send the aroma into the air, enticing in customers. I applied there. I was to be the counter clerk, no cooking involved. I took orders and made change. Piece of cake.

            When strawberry season arrived, crates of berries needed to be prepared into pies. That was something I knew how to do, for I’d been helping my mom for years. I was assigned that station for the remainder of the season as I was the best! The best! Me.

            The coleslaw back then arrived in giant ceramic tubs. I had to pour in the dressing, then sink my hands deep into the tub (no gloves!) and mix and mix until the dressing was evenly distributed. While it was a simple job, requiring no mental acuity, it froze my arms to the point that they’d turn blue.

            Meanwhile, I was excelling at school. Because of my work at KFC and at home, I couldn’t open the books until after dinner. I’d stay up past midnight, reading and rereading material until I had it memorized.

            My grades, in high school, were practically perfect. Every time I brought home a report card, my parents were shocked. This was not the dumb kid who barely passed elementary school. This was not the stupid girl who wouldn’t even have made a good wife.

            I was somebody. I knew this as I walked the halls, sat in classrooms, ate by myself during lunch. I was incredibly smart, smarter than my brother. Yes, my IQ scores surpassed his.

            There was no denying it: I had the ability to go to college.

            Imagine starting out as an idiot in the eyes of your parents, then seventeen years later being one of the smartest students in school, a scholarship recipient that would pay my entire tuition to any school in the state of California.

            Through my own hard work when I was six, I defied expectations.

            While my mother still halfheartedly said I was to be her caretaker later on in her life, she also understood my desire for a higher education.

            I loved the word grit. Grit is what I employed, grit is what helped me achieve, grit is what assisted in my defying expectations.