Dona E. Bowens

Around about when I was in the 6th grade, I was accepted into an academic summer camp that was hosted at Kent State University. The camp was for kids who’d scored well on some standardized test, probably the Iowa Basics Test, remember that one? Based on testing, I was deemed gifted and talented and was given a t-shirt to prove it. I attended camp with another girl from my grade school named Beth. Now, that girl was the truth academically and by the time we would get to the 8th grade, they had us take the SAT just for shits and giggles to see how we’d do. I scored in the 25th percentile, which I found disappointing even though my teacher reminded me that I scored better than 25% of kids years older than me. Beth, on the other hand, scored so well that colleges started recruiting her in the eighth grade.

Beth decided to take creative writing at Kent State that summer, which proves to me above anything else that Beth had a big old brain. I hadn’t discovered my love of writing, yet. I chose to study biology, which cracks me up now, because I grew into a language person who admires people who get math and science. Our parents took turns driving us to Kent State everyday for the duration of the camp. Beth’s dad seemed to respect my choice to study biology especially when I got in the car all muddy one day. We’d spent the day trekking through the woods to a spot the professor knew that contained quick sand.

“How many people will be able to say that they jumped into quick sand in their lives,” the professor asked. “Actually, it’s quick silt,” he said, which made no difference to us 12 year-olds. What we saw was a shallow pool of clear water, about 6 ft in circumference, with a gray mud bottom. It was only when the professor began to walk across the pool and suddenly sank up to his neck in the gray mud that we were truly impressed. We collectively gasped. Then we dove in. First you sink, and then the sand buoys you back up and it’s cool and refreshing. Muddy, but refreshing on a sweltering summer day. The hardest part was climbing out on the slippery bank, but it could be done even without a classmate extending a stick for you to latch on to.

So in the car that evening, after I’d happily explained to Beth’s dad why I was muddy, he turned to Beth and asked, “And what did you do today?”

“We wrote some couplets and critiqued them,” was her answer. Not impressed at all, Beth’s dad said, “Oh! You critiqued, did you?” He threw the car in gear and said no more. In hindsight, though the quicksand became a bucket list item I never knew I needed, if given the choice now, I’d welcome a few weeks of writing and critique. Some days in biology, we’d work on getting our ducks to hatch (they never did) or study cells and all that. And each evening, Beth’s dad would drop me back home in the ‘hood where the aunties on the block would compliment me and take pride in my camp t-shirt that proclaimed me to be gifted and talented.

Then The Akron Beacon Journal came to Kent State to do one of those “human interest” stories on the gifted and talented program. The reporter, a white man who, in my memory was dressed like Dustin Hoffman in All The President’s Men, wandered around the classroom just observing in a friendly way. Then he asked the professor if he could interview a few of the scholars. Professor pushed me forward saying, “This is Dona. She’s from Akron.” I mean, the white man reporter did work for the rag from Akron. But nahhhh. He barely glanced at me before making a beeline for a chubby blond boy from Solon, Ohio. Why do I remember that the boy was from Solon but I don’t remember his name? I liked the kid. We played together everyday. I remember trying to spin him around in chair and him laughing and proclaiming, “You can’t do it! I weigh 120 lbs!” The shit I remember.

Speaking of shit I remember…the professor tried again. Pushing me towards where the reporter was interviewing the boy from Solon. It was the female professor and she interrupted the interview and said, “Dona’s from Akron. Maybe you’d like to…” And she trailed off when the white man reporter returned his attention to the blond boy from Solon.

Why am I remembering this story today? Probably because I haven’t slept, much like many of you. A fatigued brain, such as mine is, wanders down strange avenues looking for explanations for the unexplainable. In trying to understand the election of Trump over Harris, I hit upon she was gifted and talented but it wasn’t enough. Gifted and Talented took me back to that summer at Kent State when I wasn’t enough to be interviewed…no, I was enough, but I wasn’t what was expected. Racists, misogynists, and 59% of white woman looked at Kamala’s qualifications and said, “Nope! I’m with the brain-addled felon because at least he’s white with a mushroom dick.” Yes. Yes. That’s exactly what happened. And fuck you if voted for that man and you’re lying to yourself as to why. Unfriend me now. I don’t care about you anymore.

See, America always reverts to form. It’s in the American DNA to ignore Black Women no matter how talented and gifted they may be. Misogyny and racism…as American as apple pie. And so the suffering begins. Whole bunch of fools about to enter the find out phase.