A Different Kind of Smart
Jack Jenk never gave much thought to the world outside New Oslo, Minnesota.
He was too busy coasting through his fifth-grade classes, playing linebacker for the New Oslo Lumberjacks junior football team, hanging out with his friends, and tap-tap-tapping on his phone.
In other words, life was pretty great.
So when his language arts teacher, Ms. Bergson, gave her class their homework assignment one ordinary October Monday, Jack wasn’t expecting it to send his life cartwheeling off in a whole new direction.
“Your task,” said Ms. Bergson, “is to watch the news tonight. You’re going to see lots of problems, because that’s what news is. Pick one of the problems, think of a solution, and write it down.”
Jack yawned. “How long does it have to be?”
Ms. Bergson ignored him. “Make a plan. Something a person could do. Something YOU could do. Your plan is due next week.”
Jack raised his hand this time. There were certain class rules Ms. Bergson did not bend.
“Yes, Jack?”
“How long does it have to be?”
“As long as necessary,” she said.
“So I could write, like, one sentence?” asked Jack.
Most of his classmates giggled.
“
Jack didn’t like Mark Farkle because Mark Farkle teased him about being stupid, and because Jack wondered deep down if Mark Farkle might be right.
“Maybe you could just tackle something,” hissed Mark Farkle.
Mark Farkle was, like some kids, both smart and cruel. He had an ability to sense people’s weak spots, and poke at them. Mark Farkle didn’t like Jack Jenk because Jack was outsized and sunny and easy in his skin.
Jack didn’t like Mark Farkle because Mark Farkle teased him about being stupid, and because Jack wondered deep down if Mark Farkle might be right.
Ms. Bergson shushed the class. “Yes, Jack. You can write one single sentence — IF that’s all you need to describe your plan.”
“Is there a maximum length?” asked Keisha Thompson.
Jack exhaled, loudly, and rolled his eyes. Showoff, he thought. He disliked Keisha Thompson almost as much as he disliked Mark Farkle, but for different reasons. She was smart and nice. She was a good person all around, the kind that makes you uncomfortable if you’re someone who likes to glide through a life of least resistance.
Ms. Bergson shook her head and smiled. “As long as necessary,” she repeated.
In reality, though, Jack was smart. It was just that his way of being smart isn’t the kind that’s usually called smart. It was more like he had a natural feeling about how life should flow and where he should be in that flow. It’s what made him such a good linebacker. But it wasn’t just football. There was a rightness to things he could sense and it bothered him when things got out of flow, got “scratchy,” as he called it.
He was also curious about the world. He liked puzzling his way to answers about things. The trouble was he got distracted.
A lot.
And because he was packaged in a big body for his age, he and his parents and most of the grownups in his life felt that his future pointed toward the football field, toward tackling and toughness.
Jack stared out at the bright October day. For a moment he thought about just getting up and walking outside. But then he wondered where he would go and what he would do and in the end he stayed where he was and thought about football.
