Everyone has chromosomes,

Twenty-three of them times two.

That math doesn’t work for me,

Forty-six is one too few.

 

As soon as I was diagnosed

With forty-six plus one,

The experts thought they knew for sure

Just who I would become.

 

These experts all suggested

I’d develop really late.

I wish that they would understand

That is just what they create.

 

I accomplished all the milestones

When they said I surely couldn’t.

I never gave it any thought,

It never occurred to me I wouldn’t.

 

The psychologist suggested,

I wouldn’t read or learn the math.

The fact that I already could

Was what really made us laugh.

 

Since I already was proficient,

And read beyond my seven years,

They said, “Don’t teach him phonics,

The frustration might bring him tears.”

 

Why would they think that letter sounds

Would cause me such frustration,

When at age three I’d used that skill

To improve my articulation?

 

“Let’s not teach him cursive writing,

His fine motor skills are weak.”

I proved that I could write quite well

By anyone’s critique.

 

“Modify his spelling list,

He surely can’t do ten”.

I proved that I could do them all,

And my grade was ten times ten.

 

At ten I’d learned all math facts,

And could carry and could borrow.

These seemed to be the skills I’d need

For what we’d learn tomorrow.

 

My fifth grade peers were learning

To double-digit multiply.

They won’t teach me, they say “he can’t”;