A few weeks ago, I overheard an adult referring to someone as dyslexic. I wasn’t sure how they meant it. I turned and told them, “I am dyslexic.” Then the apology came. I wondered how the comment was meant. Ever since that moment, I have reflected on my seven-year-old self and what she would have felt. I find myself writing this not for sympathy but to let someone on the dyslexia spectrum know, you are not alone.
When I was seven, I had no clue what the word dyslexia meant, or even that there was a word for what I was dealing with. I never heard the word until I was an adult, advocating for my own child. Reading was hard, and I never really enjoyed it until I was probably in my 30s. I wasn’t really interested in school to begin with, I wanted to go to work with my dad.
When I got to first grade, things got really hard. My sweet mom would spend hours working with me. I hate flashcards to this day. I could spell the words verbally, but when I wrote them on the day of the dreaded test, they were backwards. Therefore, I never passed a spelling test that year. I was so desperate to pass just one test that I even tried cheating. Not only was I embarrassed by getting caught, the words were still backwards.
I can tell you exactly where I was the moment my mom broke the news to me that I would be repeating first grade. That summer, I went to tutors twice a week, with those flashcards again. They were retired teachers and a blessing to both me and my mom. When school started again, I would go to a small room one hour a day, not much bigger than a closet. I had a projector for films. I would try to read each sentence and then take a test. I was better at changing the film than understanding the stories.
As time went on, the anxiety at school grew. I felt dumb and didn’t fit into the traditional box of learning. Most teachers were great, but there was one in sixth grade from whom I was moved after Christmas break. The tears I shed every day after school told the story. That was the only time I ever remember my dad going to school. After I was moved, that teacher told the class the reason, because I wasn’t smart enough to be in his class.
Luckily, Jack Funderberg intervened with my father. A friendship started that day between Jack and my family. Jack was always one of our biggest cheerleaders. There were others who understood that I learned differently than the conventional way of teaching. From the teacher who put my Clifford the Big Red Dog drawing on the bulletin board, noting I was actually good at something, to the no-nonsense teacher who took me into her class, I seemed to find my way.
I understood more when I went through this journey with my own child, who, it turns out, also had dyslexia. By then, he was actually tested and received modifications. Tests were read to him. He had an amazing teacher who believed that the most challenging children are also the most rewarding. She was there to counsel both my child and me.
Take note, if your little one writes backwards, has a hard time distinguishing left from right, or wears their shoes on the wrong feet, they are not stupid, and they are not lazy. You have to advocate on their behalf. By the way, I slept in those pink rollers for that school picture.
I am pretty proud of that little girl and forever thankful for those who were in my corner throughout the journey I lived.
