Here we go again, labeling our children.

Mary comes home at three thirty, sits down and studies her math.

She does what her mother and father expect of her.  To not do so would make them unhappy, maybe even incur their wrath.

She wouldn’t want to shame her parents or her family.

So she does far more than just homework.  She does additional exercises.  And she practices her piano and violin.

Report cards say Mary is advanced for her age.

It’s been a real pleasure to work with Mary this year.

Johnny gets off the bus and knows he should check in with his mom, but it’s just so fun to hang with the other boys.  They’ve been told all day to remember to raise their hand if they want to talk.  To line up, to wash hands, to finish up the exercise they’re on because the bell will ring in a minute.  To sit down and stay seated.  Your bottom needs to stay in that chair.

There’s a great old tree not far from the bus stop.  The coolest treehouse ever could be built in it—that’s how perfect the branches are.  Johnny has a design in mind. Several, actually.  He’s even sketched them out in his room.  But the tree isn’t his family’s.  Oh well.

It starts to get dark outside, or maybe Johnny has to use the bathroom and comes inside, where he’s promptly waylaid by his mother:  “What about your homework, son? What about cleaning your room a little?  Your drawings are everywhere.”

There are no violins.  And tonight, there are no multiplication tables, either. Johnny’s mom is making cookies.  Johnny’s baby sister just took her first steps last week, and she’s wobbling on her feet over by the coffee table.  “Tell your friends outside that you need to come in for family time,” his mother says.

She’s tired of the endless homework that is expected of Johnny.  “Schoolwork all day, and then more schoolwork all evening?” she once said to some other parents. “Why can’t he have time at home to do what he wants?”

Today, right after the bus, Johnny fashioned a really awesome spear out of a shard of broken beer bottle that he found near the rain gutter.  He tied it with twine to the split end of a stick, winding the twine around and around tightly so that it looks real, just like something an early hunter would have made.  Johnny and his friends brandished it in the tree branch, gesturing to squirrels and passing dog-walkers with a “Huh!  Hi-YAH!” They laughed and laughed, imagining themselves as hungry cavemen having to hunt down their dinner.  Meat on a stick, just like the skewers Johnny’s mom taught him to prepare for grilling when they went camping near Lost Lake.

Mary was tested for giftedness at school.

She has never gone camping.

Climbed a tree with friends.

Fashioned a spear.

She’s in fact never played outside a whole lot, beyond what’s required at recess.

But she can multiply numbers.  And parrot information in well-formed sentences.

She’s one of the district’s best and brightest. Gifted Services has just received her cumulative file from the secretarial office.

Mary has a bright future ahead of her.  Because not every kid is…gifted.

Right, Johnny?