I went to small school. I was a good student. I was said to be intelligent because of excellent grades. Me, I wasn’t sure. I often thought of nonsense. I said it and I did it too. SO ?
At a desk behind me, in the other row, sat a boy who was said to be stupid. His average was disastrous, he would have to start his year again.
However, at the flag, he was a fine strategist. And he knew the words to cheer me on in softball, who had the worst batting average. SO ?
So who was dumb? Me who didn’t know how to make him understand the rule of three? Or he who advised me to hold back, a question that I reach, at least once in my life, the first goal?
All that didn’t seem very clear to me when one day, a teacher—whom I’m holding back on both hands from naming—confused my little intimate dilemma a little more.
I go to the front of the class to get my paper; I had missed the perfect score by two points. Returning to my place, to be interesting in the eyes of my neighbor blonde, I pretend to break my ruler in a fit of spite. I took it badly. The Marylin with two duvets then exclaims:
“Ma’am, he wants to break his rule!” »
The teacher, sure that it is the official dunce sitting nearby, replies: “Let him do it, he’s crazy. »
So, the charming little collaborator to clarify:
“It’s Christian Vézina, ma’am. »
Prohibited class. Moment of awkward silence. The teacher’s final verdict:
“When you want to break your rule, you are crazy. »
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, and you will have learned it in our pages! Sharp judgment if any. More Salomé than Salomon! But that brought a lot of grain to grind to the mill of my doubts…
I was milling about on my bike when I saw, the following Saturday, the top of the class who rarely missed the perfect mark, neither by a point nor by two, and who was seated on her balcony almost overlooking the Street.
The picture lacked neither charm nor humor. You should know that in this village of my childhood, you would have thought you were in the heart of a painting by Marc-Aurèle Fortin. Between hills and river, the Chemin du Roy weaved among colorful houses, luxuriant maples; the light itself was glad to be there. The touch of humor came from the presence of this little girl sitting in a rocking chair like a grandma, with her hair done like Nellie Oleson and too well dressed. Model student even on a Saturday morning!
I stop at his height, stay astride my bike; we chat a little. Suddenly, something catches his attention… Turning around, I see on the sidewalk opposite a young girl with curly hair, almond eyes and a delighted smile, who is holding the leash of a magnificent dog who surely means a lot in this moment of happiness.
The young girl in question was what was called, in those delicate times, a “retard”. Still, the brilliant top of the class challenged her in these terms: “Roxanne is taking her fellow man for a walk? It was said with a broad smile. Faced with my immediate disapproval, she retorted in a low voice, shrugging her shoulders: “She didn’t even understand!” »
And you, thing, do you understand what you say?
Personally, I believe that, without being sure what the word “similar” meant, Roxanne had, on the contrary, grasped a lot of things…
To tell you, truly and completely, all that animated the features of her face and the clarity swallowed up by her eyes, the moment she was struck by this handful of words launched in an enamelled grimace, would certainly take me several pages. Let’s make it brief.
From this beginning of contentment produced by the simple fact of being addressed to her, to her loneliness suddenly renewed by her habitual incomprehension of the world and its tricks, of the deep need to simply respond to one kindness with another until to her deaf concern in front of this unusual smile, I saw all her morning happiness disconcerted, her lively and brief disappointed hope, her fear of being faced with a double mockery all the more cruel as the meaning escaped her, pushing her away , again, within its limitations.
Her beautiful smile froze, disappeared, like the dog, the maple trees, everything; suddenly, the light turned its back on him. Marc-Aurèle would have thrown this painting into the fire. I know she couldn’t have described it that way. Yet what crossed his face, in an instant, this series of diverse, nuanced, subtle, contrary expressions, was of a complexity that far exceeded the intelligence of the strong in math or ChatGPT.
I learned something about intelligence that year, besides the fact that there were different kinds. Yes, I understood, once and for all, something that stuck with me and has often served me since. What ? Basically, I call it batting average. And the interest of the thing is to relativize our judgments with punch, often wobbly and superficial.
Indeed, as soon as we have established that someone is intelligent, or brilliant, or, on the contrary, a little silly, we tend to imagine that everything he does and says will be of this order. However, it is not. Intelligence does not immunize against stupidity. Nor does being a little slow prevent the occasional eureka. It’s all about batting average, like in baseball. And, like in baseball, a home run is still a home run, even when hit by the worst player. Just as a three-strike out, with the bases loaded, does not become a success because the best was at home plate.
Yet we will writhe our minds to find what the great artist meant when he burped into the microphone while we suggest that the brilliant find of a former dunce, to solve a practical problem on his place of work, is just a stroke of luck. But that is unfair.
A great author can write real banalities, in a moment of fatigue. A poor comedian can turn out to be a great president during a war. A sublime melody remains so, even invented by a musician without great stature. I know they say you know a tree by its fruit. Without a doubt. But the human being bears very varied and changing fruits; this is probably why it is often referred to by pointing to what it produces “on average”.
This idea of average can also be expressed in other fields, notably ethics. I stopped in the field of intelligence because of this anecdote that came back to me, probably because we are in June, a month marked forever by the school evaluation, the end-of-year awards ceremony, the cleaning of the desks and the start of the holidays. Perhaps also the AI has something to do with it, which forces us to define better than ever what human intelligence is…
In fact, in junior high, I’m sure ChatGPT would sit in the front row of the class, ahead of Nellie and me. Still, he’s an idiot. His secret to being first? He cheats: he has cameras everywhere and copies on all the desks in the world at the same time!
Roxanne is smarter than him.