I am intelligent. I haven’t always known this. So many of my early memories are filled with the adults in my life gaping down at me before letting out hearty guffaws and exclaiming to my book-loving-never-baby-talking parents about the extent of my vocabulary, as if they hadn’t noticed.

So many of my elementary school years were filled with teachers wracking their brains because when I asked ‘why?’ I _meant_ it. ‘Because’ was not enough. And my peers urging me to speak English, not that I knew what that meant. Reading books where all the characters hated math and I wondered how this could be.

But I had never grasped that people saw me this way. My class had the giggly proto-popular girls, the-way-in-the-back-and-too-loud boys, the just-kind-of-there kids, the sort-of-my-friends-but-not-quite kids, and the smart always-winning-Kahoot kind of kids. And me.

And I’d observe the mental real estate as the teacher called out groups, estimating my chances of joining a powerful player, and determining the worst case scenarios.

And in eighth grade history, I scrutinized my group. I gazed longingly at groups far more cohesive than my motley crew.

“_Oh good_, Eliana’s in our group. She’s smart.”

I’m not an idiot, I know I raise my hand three times more than anyone else, I know my report cards are flawless. But I also know I’m _other_, I know I talk too much, I’m _weird_. If nothing else, I’m first on a list of _Spot the Difference_.

It never once occurred to me that I was considered a powerful player in this group project game.