When I was six years old, I asked for piano lessons. It was so wonderful and exciting to think that I could
learn to play the piano, just like my father, just like my grandmother who used to give lessons on our piano
when my father was a child.

When I practiced the piano, my father used to shout in from the other room, "Flat!" or "Sharp!" or "Wrong!"
or "Count!" No one ever intervened - music was Dad's territory. Sometimes he would come down into the
basement where I was playing and stand over me, and I felt very afraid of him. My piano-playing posture
became very defensive: my shoulders up at my ears, my back curved to protect my belly and my fingers
retracted to touch the keys in the lightest, most inoffensive way.

I see now why I never learned to play by ear. Learning to play by ear requires being relaxed and fully in your
body, maybe even closing your eyes, feeling around on the keyboard until you hear that you've played the
right note. I was not fully in my body when I played the piano because I was afraid of losing my
concentration and making mistakes.

I didn't have much room to make mistakes, but I soldiered on. In fact, I excelled as I soldiered on. It was my
coping mechanism: to excel, to be super-smart, to learn quickly and to never need anyone's help. I realize
now that it was actually the healthiest coping strategy possible for me. As Peter Buirski and Pamela Haglund
(2001) state in Making Sense Together: The Intersubjective Approach to Psychotherapy:

... a fundamental conviction of the intersubjective perspective is that a striving for psychological health
motivates all people ... even the most self-defeating and outrageous characteristics of patients are
thought of as their best efforts at staying safe and solid given the entire constellation of their personal
history and individual qualities.
(Buirski & Haglund, 2001, p. 42)

Well, it wasn't just a coping mechanism; it slowly became a persona, as I saw how "brains" were rewarded. I
developed the persona of a super-smart, brilliant, quick student who could learn anything perfectly. If anyone
challenged my understanding of anything, I blew up. Measurable intellectual intelligence was always highly
prized in my family. I studied hard but I would downplay that, because really smart people don't need to
study. Dad hardly ever studied when he was a student and he always got excellent marks. This persona fooled
a lot of people (though not many of my classmates at the Espritedu school), but the one who was most taken
in by this persona was, of course, me.

I have always thought that I was extremely smart. If I didn't learn something quickly and perfectly, then it
was never my fault, it was that the material was poorly taught or just plain stupid, in and of itself. Or it wasn't worth knowing. Or I hadn't really made much of an effort to learn it, and if I wanted to apply myself, I could learn it easily, handily, no sweat. I developed all of these defences to keep myself from acknowledging that I did not know something, that I could not teach myself and that I needed someone else to teach me.
But deep down underneath my super-competent student persona are feelings of fear, confusion, desolation,
vulnerability and loneliness. I don't know everything. I don't instantly understand the concepts and ideas
presented at the Espritedu school. I feel lost and alone. It feels as though my brain is in "Park". It can't save
me from the fear of not knowing, the fear of being mocked and humiliated, of being called stupid and
ignorant. So I pretend to know, or I memorize just enough key phrases and ideas so that I seem to be at the
top of the class. But I can't hang on to what I've learned, either the details or the big picture. Days later, the information has escaped me.

When I was in Grade 6 - the most terrible year and the most wonderful year - one of my few friends was a
very gentle girl named Sally. Sally had fallen off a swing and hit her head when she was two or three years
old. She told me this story herself to explain why she was slow. The other kids called her Retard. In contrast,
they called me Computer Brain.

Why were we friends? First of all, I didn't think Sally was all that slow. Second of all, we were outcasts
together. But most of all, I could be myself with Sally - vulnerable and upset when the girls didn't like me,
again. I wasn't cool, I didn't wear the right clothes and I wanted desperately to be liked. I was very
tender-hearted in Grade 6, with almost no defences. I was scared and confused and didn't understand
anything. I felt emotionally and socially clueless. Nothing made any sense, no one explained anything and I
couldn't figure anything out. But over the course of that summer, I developed a rock-hard shell, and in Grade
7, I was a different person: smart - and arrogant about it - viciously funny and untouchable.

I have struggled to write this essay. It is really only since March of this year that I have come face to face
with this naked part of me. It is very hard for me to stay connected to this part of myself. I don't like to admit

ignorance or, even worse, that I have a learning block. I do believe that learning blocks are simply (and
complexly) emotional blocks that get in the way of a person's ability to learn - except when I apply the term
to myself. Then I think that the term "learning block" is a nice way of saying "stupid". This is because I have
built my whole life around the belief that I am intellectually invincible. It has been very necessary to my
emotional survival to believe this about myself. To admit that I don't know is very uncomfortable and, I
reluctantly admit, terrifying. I just don't want to let go of the illusion that I am a genius in all areas. It sounds ridiculous and transparently insecure, but deep down it has been my lifeline: I can do anything, can
overcome anything, can save myself from any danger because I am so smart. And I don't need anyone
because I am so smart. I can do it all myself, I can figure it all out myself. I had to believe I could do
everything myself because as a child I felt so totally alone.

These insights have come after many years of self-exploration. I have spent a lot of time revisiting my
childhood, including that wonderful and terrible year of Grade 6, a year I vowed I would never, ever go back
to. I have also discovered more about myself thanks to my two young nephews, who always teach me
something if I pay attention. During a visit a month or so ago, my five-year-old nephew rolled up his sleeves,
raised his arms, bent his elbows and clenched his fists. "Look at my muscles!" he said through gritted teeth.
There was a barely perceptible bump at each bicep. I saw how desperately he needed to have muscles, to be
big and strong and all-powerful, a super-hero. I saw his vulnerability, and through it, I saw my own. I saw
that children create stories about themselves to feel secure in the world.

I think I am strong enough now to let my story go. I think I can put down the mask of The Great Brain, my
great protector and my greatest block to true learning. I think I am finally ready to learn in an embodied way.

References
Buirski, Peter & Haglund, Pamela (2001). Making Sense Together: The Intersubjective Approach to
Psychotherapy. Northvale: Jason Aronson Inc.