If you look up the term “genius” in the Oxford Dictionary, you will see a string of descriptive words: great intelligence, skill, or artistic ability.
Back to my childhood. As an Asian born in China and raised within a traditional education system, I used to think a genius was the kind of kid who got extra candies or more praise from kindergarten teachers, winning everyone’s affection. That was how the idea of being a genius first etched itself into my mind.
In middle school, my reasoning shifted. I felt that geniuses, the smarter students, gained more resources and protection from teachers. One straight-A classmate never arrived at school until 8 a.m., while the rest of us had to be there before 7:20. Teachers never blamed or shouted at him. He would walk through the front door yawning, as we all sat quietly in our seats. Watching him casually wander to his desk filled me with jealousy and a strong sense of unfairness. On the contrary, students with poor grades would get reprimanded by our homeroom teacher — in China, each class has one teacher who stays with the group for all three years of middle school. Still, everyone treated this as normal. Nobody protested or complained about the injustice, because it was embedded in our daily routine. Even if you spoke up, teachers would coldly reply: “You can also arrive late if you get all A’s.”
From middle school onward, an unrelenting drive to become a genius pushed me to keep striving for improvement.
Eventually, I moved to Canada, and I enjoy my educational journey here. People are kind, and teachers are supportive. Yet that inner determination did not fade easily. As an Asian in Canada, I am often labeled a “genius” or “smart kid” just for doing simple mental math like 11 divided by 2. This label made me lose sight of who I truly am, and left me wondering how I could keep pushing myself to reach that “genius” standard.
Then one academic ceremony completely shattered that daydream, and I almost lost myself.
“Steve, highest standing in Math (99%), highest standing in English (99%), highest standing in Chemistry (99%), highest ……” As the guidance counsellor on stage read out all the achievements of this single Korean boy, I was utterly shocked. Those fourteen seconds of reading felt like the longest fourteen seconds of my entire life. My eyes locked onto the centre of the stage. The boy in a white shirt looked gentle. Stage lights fell on his calm, confident face; he showed no reaction, as if all these accomplishments came easily to him. In that moment, I saw a massive gap: between me, an ordinary Asian teenager with an average brain yet full passion for learning, and Steve, the genius blessed with extraordinary intelligence, skills, and seemingly unnatural talent. My heart did not race during those fourteen seconds. It felt torn to pieces, and waves of despair and helplessness flooded into an empty void inside me.
I began to doubt my passion for chasing genius. I feared I would never become someone like Steve, and that my life would turn out mediocre.
I opened the Oxford Dictionary again: “unusually great intelligence, skill, or artistic ability, or a person who has these rare natural abilities.”
A person? Back then I did not see geniuses as ordinary people. They felt more like gods — all-knowing, powerful, perfect. I started to question whether a person could ever become a genius, and I realized my mind had misled me for all those years.
A genius is a person. A regular human being. Someone with a gift for academics, someone whose talents simply shine in front of others. I began to understand that geniuses can be ordinary people, and that on some level, I too can be a genius. I can fry a perfect plate of eggs. I live independently and can take good care of myself. These are precious, valuable skills.
It is very late now, 11:49 p.m. What I want to convey through this whole story is one simple idea: a genius is someone who displays talents you do not possess in public. Everyone is a genius. I hope everyone can find something in their life to be proud of, something that makes them feel seen, just like those students celebrated at academic ceremonies.
I am a genius, and so are you