Where is Mr. Schmidt?

I have a brother who is one-and-a-half years older than me. Nico is a good guy. He is a smart kid, and he's fast, too. Way faster than I ever was or ever will be. He was the intellectual pride and aspiration of my parents. My dad often told me that such a kid is one out of a million, "Like Mozart."

Recently he explained to me again just how amazing it is that I was able to find my way with such a brother. That I did not just somehow completely vanish beneath him. I did not respond — though I could have — that I find it rather surprising, too. Especially since my dad tells me at every occasion how beyond my natural ability Nico's is.

In all my objective misery this is the one thing that I did not manage to accomplish: To actually find my way to admitting how much less talented I am than my brother. Well, I'll have to bear it for the rest of my life that he was able to talk about four weeks earlier, able to walk about eight weeks earlier, able to graduate about three years faster from high school than me. I guess the facts are hard enough. It would be ridiculous to be concerned with the details.

At one time I cried, but only once it seems. I must have been five or ten — I don't remember, except for that it happened and how it felt. My mother spoke to some tea-and-talk friends of hers on Nico's intelligence. She was very casual. It was just taken so much for granted. I guess there must have been really no need to talk about it when I was around. She could have waited. Maybe she expected me to be proud of it, too. Besides, it was obvious how it was; everybody saw it. I'm fortunate to say she loved me in spite of everything. People just like to be casual when they take pride and Mummy was no exception to that. I do not blame her for that.

I have been slow at everything I have been doing so far. For instance my brother reads much faster. But I'm a very slow reader. He eats faster and runs faster. The only thing I'm good at in the world is being slow. I hope that's why I'm so slow. I almost can't finish this piece — that's how slow I am. I like to get off topic. I like to dream. I like to be among colors.

When I was in tenth grade, Dad made me take an intelligence test. My brother had been tested years before. Finally, I was going to be certain of my stupidity after all.

My dad believes in science, but he likes numbers even more. I did well. It must have been my diet. Certainly it could not have been natural talent, because that was so scarce with me for all my life. I do not know how it happened. Nobody understood it. Suddenly, I had A's in Math and Latin where I had C's before. Things turned upside down. I mean, I was still slow. It was kind of an accident, how I see it. All kinds of things happen in this world. I, myself, afterwards went to the only school in Germany for the highly gifted. The one and maybe most important thing I learned there is that intelligence is not about numbers at all.

People have different minds; I'm convinced of that. There is no mind in this world just like any other. You can't put them into numbers. Deep inside me I feel that it would deny everything I am.

Sometimes people saw that I was able. Then I was very grateful to them. Maybe more than one should usually be. My brother, for instance, once said that I'm naturally curious, and I felt that he meant it. It may be absurd, but in my family, he was the only one to believe in my ability and to praise it beyond what I'm used to. I am rather grateful for him about it. I sometimes hope it isn't just pity.

In third grade I used to talk to my teacher, Mr. Schmidt, about the universe. My cheeks would glow.

Mr. Schmidt was a good man. When I would read philosophy later, it seemed that I knew all of it. I have not heard of him since. Do you think he is dead? I'd like to hear of what became of Mr. Schmidt.

Once Mr. Schmidt told my parents that I was his favorite little kid in years. I believe he said there were so many colors in my head. I, too, believe there are colors in my head. I see them and they are beautiful. My parents must have disregarded Mr. Schmidt. They never quite see the colors; all they see in their head are the numbers and the time.

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At this moment, I am stoic about my inferiority. I have been stoic about it all my life since the night I cried. It became clear to me that I would not be able to change anything about it, except maybe for myself.

But repetition is just so strong. If your family forever believed that the sky was one color, wouldn't you come to believe it some day as well? Some day I fear I might cry again. Even more I fear that I will some day tell my children or my wife just how incredibly superior my brother is, and that they will believe it too.

Ronny Dosenbach '04 is from Hannover, Germany.

'A Glimpse Within' is a weekly column in which we ask members of the Princeton community to share personal experiences. The 'Prince' welcomes submissions of about 650 words to The Newsroom.