by Tom Clynes
I realize that I am seeing a very different Taylor. This Taylor seems much more mature, gracious, and—I never thought I’d use this word to describe him—humble. I can’t help but wonder if “losing” at ISEF (though I would argue that he didn’t lose) was the best thing that could have happened to him.
Taylor’s humility is all the more surprising considering that he’s playing in a bigger arena now. At one point, I approach as he’s talking with an important-looking man in a suit; Taylor waves me over and introduces me to the head of the International Atomic Energy Agency. Later, he introduces me to Ed Moses, the head of NIF.
That afternoon I see him surrounded by half a dozen physicists hanging on his every word. “We don’t have anything to inspire kids,” Taylor tells them. “We don’t have an Apollo program, we don’t have something new like computers when they first came out. Going to the moon inspired a generation to get into aerospace. People like Bill Gates and Steve Jobs got a generation of kids to get into computers. There’s this historical precedent; people are looking for something to be inspired about.”
He continues: “Did you see that proposal Obama made at Argonne [National Laboratory] about sending a percentage of money from oil and gas leases to develop advanced vehicles? It was only two billion dollars over ten years! I watched that and I thought, Is this the best we’ve got? Why not take all that oil and gas revenue and do something really amazing with it? Why not do what Kennedy did and say something like ‘By the end of the decade, we will have nuclear fusion’?”
As I watch the lit-up faces all around him, I can see that what is dawning on me is dawning on everyone there.
Among the scientists gathered around Taylor is IAEA fusion physicist Ralf Kaiser. Taylor introduces us and says, “You guys should have lunch.” Kaiser seems keen to talk with me, but he’s booked for lunch; we make plans for breakfast the following morning.
I’m thinking Kaiser wants to sell me on the viability of fusion energy, as is often the case when a fusion scientist catches a journalist by the ear. Instead, the next day, I find that Kaiser wants to talk about Taylor.
“As a student in Germany,” he says, “I was in a special program for profoundly gifted students. You see, I was Taylor at one time. What strikes me about him is that there are only so many in each generation. These are the people who are more likely to make discoveries and affect society disproportionately. Taylor wants to create, and he wants to achieve something for the world, something beyond himself. Thus, the most important question is, which direction will he choose to go?
“Fusion is hard to do,” Kaiser continues, “but the technical problems are not as likely to kill it as its image problem. Why does it have such an image problem? Because of a lack of education. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stood in a pub with a pint of beer and talked with someone and told him what I do. It starts with, ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ After a half hour, it’s ‘Why exactly are we not doing everything we can do right now to make that happen?’”
He pauses. “Did you notice that the Nobel Prize in Physics was announced two weeks ago?” I tell him that I did, and he asks if I remember the co-winners’ names. I’m embarrassed; I don’t.
“I also don’t,” he says. “I can tell you exactly what the scientists did, all about the potential applications of their research. But,” he says, “I can’t tell you their names! I don’t remember! Considering who I am and what I do, that’s pathetic! Unfortunately, it’s the way the world is. But I hope it’s not the way it is going. Because which society will be more successful? The one that encourages scientists, or the one that encourages stockbrokers and movie stars?”
I ask him how society can best encourage young people to become scientists.
“We will have to make them famous, turn them into stars,” he says. “And this is where Taylor comes in. People always ask, why isn’t science cool? Well, with Taylor, it is cool. He is really an inspiration for young people—but not just young people! Everybody is inspired by him, and already more people are interested in physics because of him. Maybe someone like Taylor is just what we need right now. Maybe this will be where he really shines.”
On my last trip to Reno I pay my visits with a particular question in mind: What if Taylor had never come to Davidson Academy? What would have happened to him if he’d stayed in the public schools in Texarkana?
“He’d either fall through cracks and feel disillusioned and disenfranchised by the traditional education system,” says math teacher Darren Ripley, “or, well, there are some very bright mass murderers out there, your Ted Kaczynskis. Just joking—but when Taylor makes his first hundred million, I want a cut!”
Bob Davidson is more serious. “He would have inevitably ended up as a high-achieving, successful person, mostly because of his parents. Much like our philosophy, they never limited him. But it wouldn’t have been as easy or early, and with as much understanding.”
Taylor had achieved more than would seem possible in his first eighteen years. And yet, his story began much like David Hahn’s, with a brilliant, high-flying child hatching a crazy plan to build a nuclear reactor. Why did one journey end with hazmat teams and an eventual arrest while the other continues to produce prizes, patents, television appearances, and offers from around the globe?
The answer is, mostly, support. Hahn, determined to achieve something extraordinary but discouraged by the adults in his life, pressed on without guidance or oversight—with nearly catastrophic results. Taylor, just as determined but socially gifted, managed to gather into his orbit people who could help him achieve his dreams: the physics professor; the older nuclear prodigy; the eccentric technician; the entrepreneur couple who, instead of retiring, founded a school to nurture genius kids who might otherwise be overlooked. There were several more, but none so significant as Tiffany and Kenneth, who overcame their reflexive—and undeniably sensible—inclinations to keep their son on the ground. Instead, they gave him the wings he sought and encouraged him to fly up and reach for the sun.
I drive over to the Hub café and park behind the electric hearse out front. “Regional science fair’s coming up,” Brinsmead tells me, after I grab my coffee and sit down, “and Taylor’s borrowing the van so he can bring some stuff over.”
Brinsmead smiles. “Yep, he’s starting to learn about mentoring. Last week, he brings in this wide-eyed Indian kid who wants to make a cloud chamber for ISEF. And there’s also a Thai kid I’m helping; he was on Fusor.net and Taylor introduced us. He’s sort of like Taylor Version Two, but in Thailand. Last time I went over there I brought a whole bunch of parts for his fusor, and Taylor coughed up a neutron detector for him.”
Brinsmead asks if I’ve heard the latest from Tiffany and Kenneth. I tell him that the Wilsons’ house is my next stop.
Bill slips his spoon into his coffee and looks down, silent for a moment.
“When he got here he was such a little guy,” he says, shaking his head. “And to think it all started when he was even littler, stirring up his grandma’s pee and getting that crazy idea . . .”
I’m in the car when Taylor calls, as excited as I’ve ever heard him. “Did you hear about NIF?” he says. “They’ve done it! They hit scientific break-even with one of their shots!”
He reads the news report to me: “‘U.S. scientists announced an important milestone in the costly, decades-old quest to develop fusion energy, which, if harnessed successfully, promises a nearly inexhaustible energy source for future generations. The National Ignition Facility, in Livermore, California, has generated the first break-even nuclear fusion reaction.’
“I should call some of my friends there!” he says.
It’s obvious that Taylor won’t be calming down for a while, so Tiffany and Kenneth and I go out for a meal. They’ve made a big decision, they tell me: They’re moving back to Texarkana so that Joey can be with his friends and, hopefully, find his feet again.
“We had some meetings at the high school there,” Tiffany
says, “and they were honest that they’ve got nothing to offer him academically. So he’s going to finish up through the Nevada homeschooling system. But he’ll be able to go to school activities in Texarkana and keep busy socially.”
“He’s also opening up a little more about college,” Kenneth says. “Apparently, several people told him he’d be good at engineering and would enjoy it. Now he wants to look at a couple of different universities.”
I ask what Taylor will do. Kenneth says they’re not sure if he’ll go with them or stay here; he’s still deciding. But he tells me that Taylor’s been offered a grant from the Arkansas Development Corporation if he locates his company there. Kenneth and Taylor recently flew to Little Rock to meet with the governor, the head of the University of Arkansas, and the leadership of Stephens Inc., the nation’s largest off–Wall Street investment banking firm, based in Little Rock.
“They’re the ones who got Walmart and Tyson going,” Kenneth says, “and they offered to help Taylor get his business up and running. They really took a liking to Taylor, and we had a lot of laughs.” At one point, Curt Bradbury, who heads Stephens, said, “Here’s the governor and these four men in their sixties, at the pinnacle of their careers, and we’re all at the mercy of the eighteen-year-old boy in the room.”
“I’ll tell you something,” Kenneth says. “Taylor’s given us a lot of challenging moments, but a lot of fulfilling ones too.”
I find Ron Phaneuf in his laboratory, slowly packing up. “It’s getting a little lonely around here without him,” he says, glancing toward the fusor, which still occupies its spot near the corner, surrounded by yellow radiation-warning signs and tape.
“It was very fortunate happenstance that brought Taylor to us,” Phaneuf says. “He became such a catalyst for so many things around here.”
I mention to Phaneuf that, at his graduation ceremony in the spring, Taylor told Jan and Bob Davidson: “Of all the things you’ve done for me, the one I’m most thankful for was that you gave me the opportunity to meet Bill and Ron.”
Phaneuf smiles and shakes his head. “I can tell you one thing, and I know Bill will tell you the same: We learned as much or more from him than he learned from us.”
I ask him to tell me more about what he learned.
“The strength of ideas,” he says. “Like he said in that TED talk, ‘I just believe I can do it; I don’t accept that I can’t do it.’ That’s his philosophy of life. He’s got passion and a sharing personality. And all those ideas. And now he’s turning some of them into things you can sell. But mostly, he’s selling science.”
Phaneuf’s phone rings; it’s a quick question from one of his two last postdoctoral fellows. When he hangs up, he motions for me to follow him over to Taylor’s cluttered side of the lab. “Have you seen this?” he asks, nodding toward a contraption hooked up to the fusor. It’s got neutron detectors and other instruments and a vacuum chamber with a motor inside that’s attached to . . .
. . . a roll of Scotch tape.
“This has to be the most heavily instrumented roll of Scotch tape in history,” Phaneuf says, laughing. “But you know what? He really discovered something.”
So it wasn’t so crazy after all?
“Not at all. When he started that I thought, What’s he doing? But it’s related to the optical phenomenon of triboluminescence, which generates light when you stress materials and break chemical bonds. It’s not unknown, but it’s not well understood—and this is the first time anyone proved there were energetic particles coming off it. Taylor used a magnet and observed the bending. Those results are pretty convincing.
“One thing I’ve learned is, don’t underestimate Taylor.”
Now it’s Taylor who drives, toward the Reno airport. He’s got a lot of speaking engagements coming up, and he’s enjoying traveling and meeting people and “getting people inspired about science, which is really the point of all of it.”
I ask him if he’s got a regular, prepared talk that he typically gives.
“No, I still don’t prepare anything,” he says, laughing. “It’s always different. The world is always changing, and so is my talk. Science is always making new discoveries. Just look at NIF; that’ll probably be in my next talk.”
I ask him something else that’s been on my mind: Now that he’s an adult, has his approach to science changed?
“I think so,” he says. “At first I was exploring things because I was interested in them. It was fun, but in a way it was selfish too. Then there was the thing with Grandma dying, and it turned out that I was really good at science, and it became a responsibility. I realized I had the capability of doing things that could really change the world. So now I’m doing things for bigger reasons. It’s still fun, but there’s that responsibility on top of it.”
Taylor’s early successes defined him as a child prodigy, a boy genius. What, I wondered out loud, would his next act be?
“I always tried to shunt off those labels; they kind of bothered me,” he says. “But now I see that kids sometimes have an advantage when it comes to invention, because they have a less constricted view of the world. Older scientists sometimes get this mentality that it can’t be done or you shouldn’t even try it, whereas kids are not so closed-minded. They can see things in ways that adult scientists often can’t.
“I want to grow a business that allows me to create really useful things. But hopefully I’ll never have to grow up too much,” he says. “Because what makes really good scientists is a healthy disregard for limits and conventions that say you can’t do this or that.
“I hope I never lose that.”
I say goodbye to Taylor and check in, then move through security, stopping and raising my hands in the scanner (which I now know is creating an image from radiation emitted from my own human body). My head swirls with memories: checking the box of radioactive bomb parts onto the plane, making yellowcake, feeling the heat of the Father of All Bombs in my face . . . and visiting the place, if not the moment, where a small boy stirred his dying grandmother’s pee and came to the outrageous conclusion that the world revolving around him was one that he could actually change, and improve.
It’s not just the world now, it seems, but a whole solar system revolving around Taylor, this kid who dared to believe he could literally create his own star. I’m in his orbit too now, I suppose, and as far as transformations, I have not been immune. What I learned most profoundly from Taylor’s journey is that our most energizing insights can arrive at the moment when our struggles reach their apogee and burst open, illuminating an image of a transformed future—one that’s still imagined, but already filled with sparkling immensities.
Taylor built a star, then he became one. And now he’s lighting up the world.
Epilogue
THERE’S ONLY ONE Taylor Wilson, but his unique experiences and stellar trajectory contain lessons we can apply to all the gifted ones among us. I happen to have two young geniuses of my own. They attend public school in Ann Arbor, Michigan—the town, you may recall, where 99 percent of parents who responded to a school-district survey identified their own children as gifted.
No one needs a PhD in evolutionary psychology to understand why we parents believe our own children deserve exceptional treatment. And the latest science actually supports our intuition that our children are gifted. A growing body of academic research suggests that nearly all children are capable of extraordinary performance in some domain of expertise and that the processes that guide the development of talent are universal; the conditions that allow it to flourish apply across the entire spectrum of intellectual abilities. Parents, the primary creators of a child’s environment, are the most important catalysts of intellectual development. While there’s no single right way to rear a gifted kid, talent-development experts say there are best practices for nurturing a child’s gifts in ways that lead to high achievement and happiness.
Nearly everyone is capable of extraordinary performance, but not in every do
main. The challenge is to find the outlet that best fits a person’s unique set of interests and characteristics. As a start, give kids lots of exposure to different experiences in their younger years, and pay attention to what they pick up on.
“Take your kids places,” say talent-development experts, whose research has convinced them that the development of creativity and innovation depends on exposure to unusual and diverse experiences during formative years. Early novel experiences play an important role in shaping the brain systems that enable effective learning, creativity, self-regulation, and task commitment.
These experiences can become more targeted when children develop interests they want to explore. Don’t be afraid to pull your kids out of school to give them an especially rich and deep learning experience, especially when it relates to something they’re curious about. Parents often focus on attendance and grades, forgetting that, especially in a child’s early years, grades are far less important than actual learning.
As you help your children make contact with as many activities and subjects as possible, stay on the lookout for signs of strong interest and unusual talent, then move quickly to provide opportunities to develop those passions and talents. Research has shown that these sparks of curiosity are critical windows of opportunity, and they are fleeting; if they go unnoticed and uncultivated, they usually fizzle out, often permanently.
It’s worth noting that some children who appear untalented are simply late bloomers. “Sometimes,” says psychologist Barbara Kerr, “you have to keep the door open a long time.” But once a child finds an intellectual passion, the learning process can accelerate rapidly, as he or she becomes inspired to excel. At this point, the key role (and challenge) for parents is to support their children—without being pushy—and connect them with resources that allow them to extend their interests. The odds are that most kids will get into something less harrowing than hands-on nuclear science, but parents who encourage their children to take intellectual risks must be willing to take some emotional risks and give their children the freedom to discover who they want to be. This can be difficult if a child chooses a quirky path (painting or playwriting instead of medicine or engineering) that seems chancy or radically different from a parent’s own path.
