Participating entailed my getting out of school early on a Friday and having my mom drive me to the testing center in Southeast D.C. for an afternoon, and again on Saturday afternoon. At intake I was told that after six hours of testing (!), although there would not be any monetary compensation, that I would be entitled to a private consultation with the psychologists and learning experts. They would share the results with me and be open for questions.
I think it 's because I have two older siblings who always did well in school that I grew up with a sanguine attitude about testing. In those days we never heard or thought about "SAT coaching." And I've always thought that a big reason I did so well on those tests was because I found them kind of fun and never stressful. I remember being very curious about what on earth I'd be doing for six hours over two afternoons.
The journey through every intelligence assessment known to man that each of us went through one-at-a-time on a staggered sequence was utterly fascinating. Numerous written tests, tests of my reflexes, peering into machines and pushing buttons, throwing balls through targets, verbal association, drawing pictures, balancing, following instructions, guessing how long ten seconds or one minute is in silence, matching tones, and an extensive interview about my learning and school history .... well, they were two action-packed afternoons, to be sure.
At the end of the Saturday afternoon session, I was given the option of making an appointment for the following Saturday to meet with the study leaders and have a twenty-minute conversation. Or not. I opted in, and the next Saturday I decided to take public transportation (at least two buses to get to SE DC). I did this the long way not only because my mother was always a busy person, out volunteering for one of her many good causes, but primarily because I wanted to go it alone.
And why? I actually didn't care much about the results of all the testing. I figured I did pretty well and so what? But I did really want that twenty minutes to get some advice from these psychologists.
Two women and a man sat behind a table in a basement room. They greeted me cordially and did their best to set me at ease. The woman in the middle started out. She was apologetic. They needed to tell me that they had to "throw out" my results and could not use them in the study. Say what?
Our Chevy Chase, Bethesda and Arlington study subjects were meant to be used as a "control group" to form a basis of comparison with the District students. Yes, and? With a rueful smile, the man told me that I had tested "off the charts" and that using my comprehensive IQ numbers would skew the study. Would I like to know my "compiled quotient"?
I was seeing the minutes disappear and I was anxious to get the advice I came for. Please know, dear reader, that even hearing the, for me, meaningless number of 162 did not pump me up as much as their "advice" brought me down.
The warm lady on the right thanked me for my stellar participation and asked if I had any questions. Well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. Was it all right to talk about something other than intelligence? Why, of course. What's on your mind?
"You see, I'm a homosexual and I don't know whether I should share this with my family or how to do it?"
Tick, tick, tick. The two women quickly looked at one another. The man sat and blushed. After what seemed like an eternity, the woman in the middle spoke up.
"Surely you don't really know yet that this is the case. Many teenagers go through a confusing time as they begin to come to terms with their sexuality. No sense in jumping to conclusions."
"And this is nothing to worry about, nothing to feel shame about," stuttered the man. (Excuse me! You were the one who went beet red.)
I think it was because I'd saved my question up and thought about it for a couple of years already (and you may recall, I was sexually rather precocious) that all their bending over backwards to find a way of responding just seemed sad and disappointing and not horribly embarrassing to my 15-year-old self.
I made it clear that I wasn't in any doubt. I'd been gay all my life. But now that I'm starting relationships and sex with guys, it really didn't feel right to be hiding this from my wonderful parents. Clearly all their training and all their professionalism had not prepared them to give me any kind of advice or support. Yeah, I know, this was back in 1965. Olden days.
Any way they sliced it, I knew I'd rather be normally smart and free than a claustrophobic genius in the closet. So it was a sadder but wiser me who caught the bus to the bus that would take me home that day.