One afternoon we read the poem “Thumbprint” by Eve Miriam. We talked about the metaphor in the poem, comparing the uniqueness of the thumbprint to the singularity of the individual. Suddenly one of my fifth-graders “Edward” blurted out in panic, “What if I’m all there is? What if everything is just projected inside my head and nothing else is real?”

Calmly, I reassured him, “That’s a philosophical position called solipsism.” I quickly googled solipsism, showing him the definition and that the term had been around since the ancient Greeks. “This is an idea that people have thought about for a long time.”

“Oh,” he said. “Ok.”

“By the way,” I added as I walked him back to his seat, “questions about what you know and how you know it are part of a branch of philosophy called epistemology. If you are interested in questions like that, you might want to study philosophy.”

“Ok!” Now he looked interested instead of like his world was caving in.

Of course, the boy next to him said, “I want to study science!”

“Giftedness” simply means asynchronous development. Gifted students can be advanced—often far beyond their age peers—intellectually, in a particular academic field, in music or art, in athletics. At the same time, they can be behind their age peers in other areas.

The philosophy question about solipsism wouldn’t arise for most students until high school or college. But Edward’s first existential crisis hit far earlier than his age peers.

I needed to let him know he was normal. That it’s ok to think about those questions. That other human beings think about those questions.

Every teacher needs to understand their student population in order to help meet their social and emotional needs.

The gifted population has some common issues. One is anxiety.

A Vox article gave reasons why kids are anxious, including, “Kids today live with the baggage of their parents’ economic anxiety.” For HC kids I would delete the word “economic.”

Gifted kids hear/notice/pay attention to world events and crises. They have the intellectual ability to comprehend large-scale problems, but they can’t implement large-scale solutions. They don’t even get to vote! That frustration leads to stress and anxiety.

Everyone has felt high levels of anxiety in 2020. Imagine if that was the way you felt all the time!

In March of 2020 I fielded endless questions about the coronavirus. I introduced relative mortality rates, explaining how much more dangerous it was for older people (like me!) than for my students. (“Which is why I am washing my hands all the time.”) I explained the concept of flattening the curve.

After I got done, I asked if they felt better or worse. They all agreed they felt better.

By necessity, I use information and transparency as much as possible to alleviate anxiety in my classroom.

Then there is a related anxiety, one that arises with hyper-empathetic HC students. Awhile ago I was talking with some of my students, processing a conflict that had happened at recess. Suddenly “Jaime” jumped up and ran out of the room.

He ended up in the bathroom, throwing up. He had to go home.

Just hearing about that level of conflict was more than he could bear.

I had to give Jaime tips on how to be compassionate without it being emotionally crippling.

Finally, there’s what I call the Grimness Factor.

When I teach the 20th century, I walk a line between revealing the horrors of the past and being mindful of the emotional vulnerabilities of my students. Discussing the Holocaust, I constantly scan the room for emotional responses. Once I see students look overwhelmed, I stop, saying, “It was a lot worse than what I’ve told you about, but you don’t need to hear everything about how terrible human beings can be to each other.” I suggest a few age-appropriate books so they can do their own research if they truly want to learn more.

If we portray the world as an awful place full of awful people doing awful things—well, I know one gifted nine-year-old who contemplated suicide because of what he was taught in social studies. 

In the midst of lessons on the ills and injustices of the last century, I make sure to celebrate the fun. We have Decade Days where we immerse ourselves in that time: we eat treats, play music, maybe learn a dance, play games, and watch a movie from the decade. My students come to school in costumes, and we have a blast. Even last spring, I sent directions to families so they could do their Decade Days at home!

It’s a great way to remember that ordinary people lived ordinary lives—and managed to have fun—even when times were hard.

It’s a critical message to give our students now.