My parents and grandparents were this condescending to me. As well as my first-grade teacher.

Just the other day, Evangeline shocked me by picking up Louis Menand’s collection of essays “American Studies”—the actual book—and peering at its pages.

I was sure that this was some sort of pose, or a lark. It was impossible to imagine that she was actually reading it. But having picked it up, she then took the book outside and, as we put her brother in the car, stood with it open, in her hands, looking engrossed. She kept reading it in the car, until she finally put it down with a sigh.

I was reading National Geographic magazine in first grade. I constantly had to “prove” that I understood it to everyone, when in reality it was quite easy for me to understand. I think I typically understood more of it even then than the adults around me. Me reading “inappropriate” material in class was my first experience of getting into real trouble at school.

It was about that time that I realized school – at least for me – was a big batch of bullshit and stopped paying it any mind.