The Gift of a Restless Mind
The Gift of a Restless Mind
A Chapter About Growing Up with ADHD
By Gilbert Quinones
The Kid Who Wasn’t Listening
When I was five years old, I had a question that adults couldn’t seem to answer.
“How come the people in the South Pole aren’t upside down?”
I wasn’t trying to be difficult. I genuinely wanted to understand.
Adult: “Okay, so there is gravity, etc.”
Me: But how come they don’t know they are upside down?
Adult: “Because there is gravity.”
I knew they understood my question, because the adult would acknowledge, “And how come we are in the U.S. and not slanted to the side, right?”
Me: “Yes, Why!?”
I wasn’t looking for the word gravity. I wanted to understand how two people could be standing in completely different orientations, and each believe they were standing normally.
I was constantly questioning how the world worked.
The problem was that I didn’t know how to turn all of that curiosity off.
I would later learn that my mind worked differently from many of the people around me. I would also learn that the same characteristic that made school difficult for me could eventually become one of my greatest strengths.
But as a child, I didn’t know any of that.
I just thought something was wrong with me.
WHAT IT FELT LIKE
One of the hardest things about growing up with a hyperactive mind is that other people may not realize how much is happening inside your head.
I could appear to be listening while my mind was somewhere completely different.
Sometimes one thought triggered another, which triggered a memory, which led to another question.
I wasn’t necessarily ignoring people.
My brain was busy.
That distinction took me decades to understand.
I didn’t understand it as a child, and neither did the adults around me.
AGE FIVE: THE GEORGE CARLIN INCIDENT
I realized I had difficulty paying attention and remembering basic instructions from teachers.
It was very confusing, because if I was interested in something, I could remember all the details.
For example, I remember sitting on the floor in the living room watching the comedian George Carlin on T.V. My father was still married to my mother at the time, and we had HBO.
I was laughing hysterically. He was a vulgar comedian, but I thought he was hilarious. It was the first time I heard such graphic language used comically.
Apparently, I found the material memorable.
The next day I had to clean my room, and I was mad about it. As I was in my room, reluctantly cleaning, I began copying and repeating everything I heard George Carlin say, doing his entire act in my room.
Get the f out of the car, sh##, f bomb, f bomb. I imitated his act.
Then, as I went to put clothes in the hallway hamper, I bumped into my father, who was watching me the entire time, with the door cracked.
I looked up at him, and he pointed his finger down at me and said sternly. “If I ever catch you saying those words again, I am going to whip you.”
“Yes sir.” I said, and never copied George Carlin again.
How could I remember an entire comedy routine, but have such a difficult time remembering basic instructions?
I didn’t have an answer.
I wouldn’t have one for many years.
KINDERGARTEN – GETTING THE PADDLE
My kindergarten teacher was Mrs. Barber. She spoke in a soft, sweet voice most of the time.
But when she was angry, you knew it.
One day, Mrs. Barber stepped into the hallway to speak with another teacher. We had been given instructions to cut out drawings and glue them onto matching images on another sheet of paper.
Simple enough. Except I sometimes had difficulty remembering exactly what I was supposed to do.
As Mrs. Barber stepped out of the classroom, she didn’t go far, as she kept her hand on the door. But as soon as she closed it, the classroom became noisy even with her hand on the door handle.
She was in a deep conversation with another teacher. Several minutes passed, and suddenly there were kids by the chalkboard. I looked up and saw another kid take a cut-out paper giraffe and put it on the chalkboard with glue.
My five-year-old brain immediately made a connection.
Oh. That’s what we’re supposed to do.
It made perfect sense to me.
My paper was of a huge apple. I colored it red and green for the stem, then cut it out with my small scissors.
This apple was almost the size of a full sheet of paper. I turned it over, took a bottle of Elmer’s glue, and squirted heavily all over the back.
Then I walked right up to the chalkboard and slapped it on as high as I could.
I remember several kids making that sound children make when they know someone is about to get in trouble.
“Ooooooh.”
That alerted Mrs. Barber as she walked in, and a couple of other boys and I were at the chalkboard, and there was Elmer’s glue all over it.
Mrs. Barber got upset, and everyone had to sit down. “You don’t put glue on the chalkboard!” she said as she sprayed cleaner on it, wiping it with a rag.
The classroom was quiet as she cleaned, letting out her frustrations while lecturing everyone.
I felt terrible.
I wasn’t trying to disobey her.
I had simply misunderstood what I was seeing.
Later, after recess, we were standing in line at the water fountain waiting to drink. A kid named Marcus was kicking me in the back of the leg, trying to get me to fall.
Eventually, I turned around and pushed him.
I didn’t see Mrs. Barber walking by as I shoved him.
She had apparently reached her limit for the day, because that’s when she said, “I am going to whip you both.”
I tried to explain, “but Marcus was kicking me!?” but she was not having it. Mrs. Barber was still flustered because I put glue on the chalkboard.
When she said she was going to whip us, my stomach sank. I never got spanked by a teacher before. When a kid was getting paddled in the hall, you could hear it from inside the classroom.
They would come back to the classroom crying, which made it even more scary.
And yes, in 1984, teachers used to give elementary kids spankings with a paddle. It was called corporal punishment, and it was a real legal thing.
It was actually kind of formal. There were other teachers present, and we had to go out into the hall. Marcus got it first.
He had to bend over, and it was like slow motion.
Each whack was done with a controlled motion and a few seconds’ pause between each strike.
Pow. Pow. Pow.
Three whacks with the paddle, and I remember seeing his face, and although he was sad, he didn’t cry. So I wasn’t going to.
I tried really hard not to, but I let it out a little after it was over.
Weeks later, during an open house, I heard Mrs. Barber tell my mother, “I did spank him one time.”
On the drive home, my mother said, “You didn’t tell me you got spanked?”
I just put my head down and didn’t say anything.
That’s how it used to be. There was no notification or letter about my punishment. I was ashamed and frustrated with myself for not being able to pay attention.
To Mrs. Barber: I am not mad or bitter, and I think you were an amazing teacher. I’m proud that you were my kindergarten teacher. Thank you for your service.
FIRST GRADE – RUNNING AWAY
By first grade, I had developed another problem.
I could look directly at someone and appear to be paying attention while not actually processing everything they were saying.
My teacher was Mrs. Jacot at Fairview Elementary in Copperas Cove, Texas. I remember her telling us a story about how she was in a hurricane in Hawaii and how scary it was. I was listening, but my mind would wander in and out.
One day she was talking to the entire class when I snapped out of a daydream.
I heard my name.
“Gilbert’s eyeballs are always up here at the chalkboard, paying attention! Stop being distracted and look at me when I am speaking like Gilbert.”
If she only knew.
My eyes were looking at the chalkboard.
My mind wasn’t necessarily there.
That became a recurring problem.
As she lectured the class about paying attention, I felt guilty for not knowing what was going on, and I often missed important instructions.
Sometimes my subconscious seemed to hear what someone was saying while my conscious mind was racing through other thoughts.
One time she gave us two worksheets to complete and turn in, but I lost one of them.
Our instructions were to take the two worksheets and we could complete them anywhere we wanted in the classroom. It was intended to be a fun assignment that gave us the freedom to be anywhere scattered on the floor in the classroom.
I was scared of getting in trouble because I lost one and was afraid of getting spanked again. Mrs. Jacot was not someone I wanted to be spanked by. She was a very sweet but firm teacher.
So I did something that made absolutely no sense to the adults around me.
I ran away.
I remember choosing to do my work on the floor by the classroom’s entry door. When no one was looking, I opened the door and took off down the hall.
It was cold outside, so I quietly grabbed my jacket from my locker and made my way to the exterior hallway door and jetted as fast as I could. I envisioned the scene from Rambo, First Blood, when he was running in the cold woods away from the police, but instead it was school.
I ran across the asphalt pavement, which was a huge open area (it’s now grass with a playground), and all the way to Alpha Time Day Care. That’s where my mother worked.
When I arrived, my mother looked at me like I had completely lost my mind.
“What are you doing here?!”
My mother had to take a break from work and drove me back to school.
As my mother took me to the office administration, they were shocked and didn’t even know I had left. “What, he ran away from school?!”
They used the two-way intercom system to notify Mrs. Jacot, and told her they would be bringing me back to class.
But I would run away from school two more times in the same year after that. Usually it was for the same reason. Because of something to do with paying attention or following directions, and I was afraid of getting in trouble and getting spanked.
After the third time of running away, Mrs. Jacot had a talk with me during lunch period. She had me take my lunch tray and sit next to her in one of the school’s private rooms. She wanted to find out why I kept running away from school.
“Are you scared of me Gilbert? Do you think I’m going to hurt you? I’m not going to hurt you Gilbert!”, she said in a gentle but flustered voice, trying to understand me.
I would sit there with my head down.
I didn’t know how to explain what was happening inside my head.
I couldn’t tell her:
I’m not running away because I hate school.
I’m running away because I’m scared of failing at something I don’t understand.
I didn’t have those words yet.
To Mrs. Jacot: I am sorry for always running away. I realize now it was not helpful for your career. You were my favorite teacher.
5TH GRADE – GOOD AT FLASH CARDS BUT BARELY PASSED
By the time I got to 5th grade, I was excited because I felt like an older kid when the bell rang and we got to switch classrooms just like the older kids on TV shows.
But changing classrooms also created more opportunities for my attention to get pulled in different directions.
Everyone had an assigned “Homeroom teacher.” Mine was Mrs. Phillips. I remember her talking about the hurricane on the news and taking questions. I raised my hand, and she called on me, “Gilbert, the storm boy!” That was the name of the hurricane that year.
I remember feeling respected.
Then she brought out a set of math flash cards.
I had practiced with flash cards with my family before, and something clicked.
She started going through the cards. I answered almost instantly.
One after another.
She became so impressed that she called the entire class’s attention.
“Kids, watch him. He’s fast!”
When I was done, the entire class started clapping. I turned red and was shy as I walked back to my seat during their applause. I was embarrassed and proud at the same time.
As quick as I was at math, I was struggling. I didn’t understand why, if I was so smart, I was barely passing my classes.
Towards the end of the school year, my parents pulled me out of school about 2 days before the last day because we were scheduled to drive to Minnesota for the summer.
We went to pick up my last report card and sign me out of school early, and I remember my step dad asking Mrs. Phillips, “Did he pass?” He knew how worried I was, and how I was struggling.
Mrs. Phillips answered promptly, “Oh yeah, he passed.”
Although I made it, she did not realize how hard I was struggling.
6TH GRADE – PROOF THAT I COULD DO IT
Sixth grade was a good year. I made friends, looked forward to band trips, and once made the A-B honor roll.
That mattered to me.
It proved something I desperately needed to know.
I could do it.
The problem was that I couldn’t figure out how to do it consistently.
JUNIOR HIGH – HUMILIATION AND SUMMER SCHOOL
Then everything changed again.
New classes.
New teachers.
More instructions.
More things to remember.
All the changes made it distracting again. I had difficulty paying attention to the little things, even how to put on football pads in UIL.
One time, the coaches were hurrying us up to get dressed and out to the field, almost drill instructor style. I felt rushed and had no idea how the pants strapped on. They may have been broken, and it made my pads in my pants sag.
As I ran by a group of kids, the coach looked at me and made a joke out loud. “That boy looks like he has a 10-pound turd in his pants!”
The whole team laughed. Kids made fun of me the whole year after that.
In 7th and 8th grade, I had to attend summer school to advance to the next grade. This was only possible if you failed up to 2 or 3 classes.
On the first day of summer school, all the students met in the cafeteria. Mr. Copeland, the principal, addressed everyone, “You are here because you didn’t do what you were supposed to do in the school year, so now it’s time to get it done!”
I was embarrassed.
But I kept moving forward.
HIGH SCHOOL – THE PART I NEVER WANTED TO ADMIT
High school was overwhelming. I remember telling myself, “Okay, I am going to try hard and pass all my classes.” I worked so hard to focus, yet only passed 2 or 3 classes.
I thought to myself, “How are these kids passing all their classes, this is so hard?!”
I would end up failing more than the allowable number of classes to be able to go to summer school.
By the third year, I was supposed to be a junior at age 16, but was still a freshman.
And here is something I had never publicly admitted.
I failed ninth grade three times.
Yep. Three times. I couldn’t pass.
Eventually, I dropped out of school because I got tired and was so ashamed about it.
And I had started to believe something far more damaging than any bad grade.
Maybe something was wrong with my brain.
How could I be so smart but so dumb that I could not pass my classes?
I didn’t have an answer.
THEN THE INTERNET ARRIVED
Then something changed.
The internet.
Later I subscribed to a dial-up connection from a company called VVM.
It made those ridiculous chirping and connecting noises every time I logged on.
But to me, it was something else.
It was freedom.
For the first time, I could learn about something I was interested in without someone standing over me telling me what I was supposed to learn.
I could read, explore, and follow a question wherever it took me at my own pace.
And slowly, I began to understand something.
Maybe I wasn’t incapable of learning.
Maybe I had been trying to learn in an environment that didn’t work well for the way my mind operated.
The internet gave me something traditional school had rarely given me.
Control over what I was curious about.
Once I learned how to teach myself, everything changed.
With the help of others and by learning about leadership, I eventually built businesses that generated tens of millions of dollars in revenue before I was 29.
From agents to staff members, I employed over 175 people within a 15-year period.
I don’t say that to brag.
I say it because the kid who couldn’t pass ninth grade eventually became an adult responsible for payroll, employees, customers, and businesses.
The kid wasn’t stupid.
The kid was struggling to learn in a system that didn’t make sense to him.
THE SECRET I WAS AFRAID TO TELL PEOPLE
For years, I carried shame about not graduating.
I never told the people who worked for me.
I worried that if they knew I hadn’t graduated, they would think less of me.
I thought they might not want to work for me.
Eventually, I learned something.
A diploma isn’t what makes people respect you.
They respect you because of what you know, how you treat people, whether you keep your word, take responsibility, and whether you can lead.
I wish I had understood that earlier.
I also wish I had told people earlier.
Today, I don’t carry that shame.
I’m grateful for the people I work with and consult with every day. Many are highly educated, including people with master’s degrees, but what I value most isn’t their education.
It’s their character.
Their integrity.
Their intelligence.
Their willingness to challenge me.
And their belief in what I’m capable of doing.
WHAT I FINALLY LEARNED
My mind wanders. It seeks constant stimulation and gets bored quickly when something doesn’t interest me.
Kids who grow up with the same condition or have difficulty staying on task are not dumb. They just learn differently.
I learned that even though I may miss instructions, I remember details that people normally don’t.
I learned how to control my hyperactive thoughts, harness my curiosity, and use it to my advantage.
I consider it a superpower.
Not that ADHD is magically good. It isn’t.
It caused me real problems, embarrassment, and affected my education.
But it also gave me a mind that constantly asks questions, notices things, and wants to understand how things work.
A mind that doesn’t easily accept, “That’s just the way it is.”
Those characteristics have value.
The challenge is learning how to use them.
FRAME OF MIND
If your child has ADHD, dyslexia, autism, or another diagnosis, the way you talk about it matters.
There is a difference between helping a child understand how their brain works and teaching them to believe something is wrong with them.
If your child happens to have a disorder, they most likely have the ability to think differently and see what others may not.
Intuition, being perceptive, good at math by seeing it visually, or creativity. They probably have a gift.
TO MY MOTHER
Thank you for being patient with me and never making me feel like something was wrong with me.
You didn’t have all the answers.
Neither did I.
But you gave me something I needed more than an explanation.
You gave me room to become myself.
TO THE KID WHO IS STRUGGLING
If you’re the kid who can’t seem to stay focused…
Gets in trouble for not following directions…
Gets good grades in one subject and fails another…
Seems incredibly smart but can’t figure out why school is so hard…
Feels embarrassed because everyone else seems to understand something you don’t…
I want you to know something I wish I had known.
You are not your report card.
You are not your test scores.
You are not the class you failed.
And you are not the label someone put on you.
You may simply need to discover how your mind works.
I spent years thinking my inability to focus was my greatest weakness.
Today, I understand that learning how to focus and how to use my curiosity have become some of the most important skills I have ever developed.
The difficulty, shame, and failures were real.
But so was the gift.
I just didn’t recognize it until much later.