Tag Archives: Dyslexic writer

1982 Brutal Truth: Sour Note

This is my brutal truth; unknowingly growing up with a learning disability in 1982

Music always hits a sour note when trying to learn while unknowingly dyslexic.

 

The hushed tones of my mother were barely audible but the deep baritone of Mr. Lanza was unmistakable.  Never had I assumed to be his star pupil but his words cut deep just the same.  

What was wrong with me? Why did I never learn?
Brutal Truth 1982: Sour Note
DW: Sour Note

At seven, I hadn’t known the difference between piano and organ lessons.  My music teacher taught both after all yet, the piano sat front and center of his tiny parlor while the organ was deliberately tucked into the corner.  Not until I was swallowed by the darkness of the car did my mother scold me for playing the piano.  

I had thought that I had broken the rules or that I had done something dreadfully wrong to embarrass my mother so.  By playing the piano at my intended organ lesson, I had betrayed my mother. So, she had put an end to my organ lessons.  This should have made me happy. After all, it was what I had wanted.  Was it not?

Music lessons were just another sharp piece of my childhood.

When it floated around I would break into a cold sweat and clasp my hands as a way to keep them from shaking. 

It was like scheduling a weekly nightmare.

Every Tuesday, at 6:30 pm, I would have to read aloud for an hour. This was my biggest fear. For half of the lesson was theory. Here, I literally had to read the music notes aloud.

The other half was practical, where my fingers outed me for the illiterate fraud I was, to an extremely stanch Mr. Lanza. In comparison to the many big scary men in my life, Mr. Lanza, my music teacher was a gummy bear.  A hairy stout gummy bear that smelled of spicy aftershave. But that did not mean that he could not be daunting. The way his shoulders hunched with every wrong note or careless fingering was worse. In some ways, his defeated slump was more difficult than any harsh word or deep scowl.  

In grade two, I had enough trouble reading words let alone music notes on a page full of clustered lines. Practicing never seemed to help, so I never bothered with it, in spite of my mother’s gripes.

Like every child, I wanted to be liked and accepted, especially by those who were likely to pass judgement or evaluate. 

Growing up Dyslexic; Music
Sour Note; pic 2

By continuously disappointing and  frustrating Mr. Lanza, he practically curled into himself.  Like every note was a slap.

As he shrank beside me, so did my hopes of earning his approval and favor.

This did not stop me from trying, though. True to my talents, I did all that I could to distract the man from the task at hand in hopes that he would overlook my musical misgivings. Maybe he would find something else about me that was likable.    

Each week, when I entered the bright parlor, the gleaming baby grand piano greeted me first. 

It was so beautiful. Dark cherry wood so stunning that I would stop in the doorway just to stare at it before I turned my back to it to sit at the organ.  Yep, an organ.  Neither of my parents played an instrument yet, one of their prize possessions was a flippin’ organ that did nothing in the front room of our home but collect dust.  Okay, that’s a lie. My sisters played.  Not often but way more than I did.

Thankfully, my feet did not reach the peddles so I only had to learn the notes and my fingerings.  Which was bad enough.

“Miss. Emily.  What is that note?  That one, right there?”  Mr. Lanza asked with more patience than I deserved, because after many weeks I still didn’t know. “Every, Good, Boy, Deserves, Fudge. Remember? Every. Good.”  His pointer scratched and thumped the page propped up in front of me with every word. “Every. Good.” He repeated and I realized that I was being prompted.

“Boy! B! It’s a B.” I said.

“It’s a B.” He said in the tired voice I was becoming to know. 

Dyslexic Writer; Sour Note
SourNote – 2

“Mr. Lanza?”

“Yes, Miss. Emily.”

“Would you play it for me, so that I can hear what it’s supposed to sound like?” I asked.

This was my usual request, one that he was reluctant to indulge but always did.  And it worked. I could feel the stress lift from him when he played. His odd hairy knuckles gently curled as he plucked delicately at the keys.  Not only did this break the tension which seemingly straightened his spine, but this was how…

I learned all of the pieces assigned to me; I watched his fingers, memorized the keys, and secured the melody to my mind. 

After we switched places he was taller than me again.  The music changed him; it had the power to lighten him. The always proper Mr. Lanza would be slumping again with the turn of a new page.  My random jabs at the organ keys, my wandering eyes over the foreign lines and notes weighed him down.  Biding my timing, I waited for that pointer to slap the page, a sure sign of his growing irritation for his unteachable student.

“Mr. Lanza?”

“Yes, Miss Emily?” He asked, his question was more of a sign of exhaustion.

“Could we maybe play at the piano?” 

Beneath his large caterpillar like eye brows, his gaze slid from me to the piano then back to me. 

Did he know that this was an effort to distract? 

With a slow nod he seemed to decide on something bigger than switching instruments.  With that, I pulled the music book from its decorative stand and sat in aw behind the enormous beautiful piano. That particular piece did not sound any better even to my ear.  In fact, I was sure that my playing alone was an insult to the baby grand`s craftsmanship.

The agony did not last long before we heard my mother slip into the adjacent waiting room.  Her boots bumped off the snow as quietly and politely as possible. With that, Mr. Lanza stood and tugged at the bottom of his jacket.

“Miss. Emily, I would like for you to now work on your scales.”

“Alright, Mr. Lanza.” I said happy to be at the end of our lesson even though it seemed rather early.

That’s when I heard it. 

I had completed the scale in C major and set in the pause of my hand repositioning,  I heard the hushed tones of my mother. Straining to decipher her soft words, Mr. Lanza’s were unmistakable.  Bass travels further than treble. Did you know that? 

“Give up on this one Mrs. Wright.” He said. 

A stone I hadn’t known to be on my chest swelled coldly until it pressed against my throat.  It was hard to breathe and harder to swallow.  With panicked trembling hands, I flipped the pages of by book nervously as a way to drowned them out. Not wanting to hear the rest of their conversation, I busied myself by playing C major scale again and again, not daring to make a mistake. Pain shot through my lips as I bit them together in hopes to will my eyes not to well up or drop tears on his beautiful piano keys. 

 

Rejection, even if warranted can leave its scars. 

 

“Emily. Its time.” My mother said and I slipped between them and out the door as soundlessly as possible. 

 

The car ride home was quiet and cold.  The December dark had swallowed the early evening sky leaving even the clouds lonely.  The heater blasted, but offered no comfort. There, I waited through her deafening silence because I knew that she was beyond mad.

I had disappointed her again with my failure to learn, my defiance to play, and my betrayal of the organ. 

She never told me that I would not be going back to Mr. Lanza’s but the icy spot on my heart knew that I would never see the kind man again. My chance to say good-bye and thank him for his hopeless efforts was gone forever. 

 

It was four years later, that Mr. Lanza made it through to the forefront of my thoughts. 

My grade six teacher loaded a wire contraption that held and aligned 5 pieces of white chalk. Immediately after pressing it to the black board with one long straight stroke, I recognized the music stand of my childhood books. 

For the first time at school I was familiar with a lesson before my teacher could begin. 

In every space between the lines, Mr. McGregor drew a circle. In each circle he wrote a letter. F-A-C-E. Then he moved on to the lines. In these circles he wrote E-G-B-D-F. I saw it!  For the first time in my life I saw it.  Right there laid out in front of me, so simple, so basic.  

 

Before I could stop myself I was standing.  In the middle of my class room staring at the chalk board.  “I get it!  I finally get it!” 

 

The jeers and snickers from the other kids were easily ignored.  My fellow classmates did not phase me. It was as if someone had flipped on a light and I was finally able to see.  The joy I felt bubbled up and fizzed, making sitting an impossibility. 

The stars had somehow aligned and I could see something that had been right in front of me all along. 

One disapproving glance from Mr. McGreger did not quash my enthusiasm but it did sober me enough to take my seat.  

 

For a long moment I could only stare at the two distinct note arrangements on the board.  Right there in black and white I could see the piece that was missing from the beginning. The alphabet.  Why would you separate the notes by lines and spaces to come up with ridiculous sayings?  

 

“The spaces are F-A-C-E and the lines make up Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge; E-G-B-D-F.”  They would say.

 

When you put them together you get E-F-G-A-B-C-D-E-F. Why would no one ever point out the already known pattern of the Alphabet? 

 

Did no one ever consider that there may be a different way of teaching, especially when faced with a student who seems unteachable but not unwilling?

 

I am dyslexic and this is my brutal truth.

 

 

1986 – Sad

1984 – Fever

1989 – Panic

1990 – Fear

1992 – Anger

1993- Crushed

1995 – Fraud

1993 Brutal Truth: Crushed

High school was worse!

Unknowingly dyslexic in 1993. I was crushed.

The humiliation was not nearly as often but was far more scarring.

I am dyslexic and here is my brutal truth. 

Dyslexic: 1993
My Brutal Truth

 

Sunlight, pouring in from behind me, caught on something unexpected and shiny. I was already flinching when hairy knuckles rapped on my desk.  If it were my attention that he had wanted, he got it.   His hand in my direct eye line and the glinting gold band squeezing around his finger had been distracting enough.  The startling knock, inches from my face, was unnecessary.

Bent over my desk, I had been lost in my own continuous stream of thoughts and the ink was struggling to furiously keep up.  The words I had been about to scratch down halted at the end of the pen and I willed for my memory to desperately snatch them while I lifted my eyes.  Too late,  they were gone; at the speed of a thought into the abyss of forgotten fragments of time. Before me was a sentence left unfinished, my train of thought was reduced to a wreck.

More disappointed than annoyed,

…I looked at my Grade 12 English teacher.   His back was to me as he walked towards his desk.  Lowering himself into his chair, Mr. Fenton peered at me over his reading glasses, made tiny by his rutted round face.  When he raised his wiry brows without breaking his impatient stare it suddenly occurred to me that I was meant to follow.

We were studying Shakespeare’s Hamlet, a play I knew well thanks to Mel Gibson. The remainder of the period was ours to begin the written assignment.  Before I reached his desk, Mr. Fenton jutted his chin.

“Bring your work.” This was an obvious oversight on my part given his tone.

More annoyed than disappointed,

…I approached the big desk that stood demanding respect front and center of the classroom.  A sitting Mr. Fenton was at an awkward height and I could see the oily pores of his slick near-bald head.   It was hard to ignore the heat shooting up through to my ears brought on by the open glance of curious students.  An anonymous snort pulled Mr. Fenton’s eyes from my paper to the instantly quieted class.  No one dared to meet his gaze and before us, a plain of crowns lowered.

The painful silence stretched on while his dark eyes challenged his students.  My discomfort only grew.  Why was I there? What was going on?  Should I grab a chair?  What was I supposed to do with my hands?

Doubt and Insecurities invaded me entirely.

The scent of garlic polluted the air when Mr. Fenton returned to my work and huffed.  Never had he apologized for his weakness for the cafeteria Cesar salad; an omission he often made as an explanation to his sour breath. 

Our assignment had just been given to us at the beginning of class, not even twenty minutes earlier.  What could I have possibly written that would warrant this much scrutiny? How could he evaluate me on my preliminary notes which were more of an illegible flowchart? 

“Blood.”  He finally said and I nodded.

Realizing that he wasn’t looking at me I confirmed with a typical teen response. “Yep.”

“Yes.” He held the ‘s’ until garlic tainted the air again.

“Yes,” I echoed.

Referring back to my paper he started listing off all of my points thus far.  I wasn’t about to lean over his desk to follow the tip of his fancy pen as he tapped it around my written notes.  Even at sixteen, I was well aware of the scene that would create. Self-consciously I slid the small charm at my throat back and forth on its chain while taking stock of my shirt with its scoop neckline. Nope. No leaning today.

“All of your examples are in the literal sense. Battle, death and sickness.”  From over his shoulder, his eyes found me again.  “Come on think. What else?”

I knew that I was staring at him blankly, but not for lack of an answer, more from the pure shock that I had been centerd out like this.

Although I felt colour rise to my cheeks, my lips grew cold from my gaping.

Suddenly, Mr. Fenton rolled back and stood snagging the attention of the entire room.  “You sit here and think about it.”

“What?”  I could not keep the chilling surprise or volume from my voice.

Equally confused expressions looked back at me from the rows of my peers.  Mr. Fenton’s fingers curled around my upper arms and dug in as he plopped me into his chair and steered me towards his desk. Panic and embarrassment swelled inside me and a bolt of pressure raced to my head.  Wildly, I scanned the room looking for a kind understanding face when I spotted a friend. Her contorted mouth said it all.  Clearly, the odd behavior of our teacher had not gone unnoticed, but…

…no one else felt the uneasiness coil coldly down their spines. 

Paralyzed by a fear, forever tethered me to the fourth grade, I sat motionless at the front of the room.  Feeling so small and fragile, a single breath could cause me to break, my mind whirled around the senseless humiliation.  I tried to reach back to where I was before Mr. Fenton interrupted my work. Fingers of thought flicked through my memory trying to grasp at anything that had been there but my pounding heart pulled all threads from my grasp.  I had nothing.  It was gone.

I picked up my teacher’s heavy pen and lowered it again upon sight of my trembling hands.  Did he really expect me to be able to explore the concept of blood in the play more deeply from his desk? 

Thankfully, the bell rang blared before I had to find out.  Mr. Fenton was leaning on the window ledge at the back of the class when I darted back to my desk to collect my things and flee from the room.

By the following day, I had reasoned that Mr. Fenton had no way of knowing the deeply rooted fear he had inflicted upon me with his actions the day before. So, I did all that I could to push it from my mind and not drag it with me back to English class. I had barely sat down when Mr. Fenton began to bellow instructions to the class.  We were to pick up where we had left off the day before and then to my horror he said my name.    

‘Ms. Wright,’ he hissed the ‘s’ like a ‘z’.

My eyes snapped to his and he motioned for me to follow him out into the hall.  The mass that had collected in my throat was too much to swallow so I took to chewing on my tongue to ward off the tears.  My heart clobbered so hard that it hurt to breathe.  Out the door, I went, but he was already walking down the hall. Then he turned, where I hadn’t known there to be a room.  When I got there, it was the side entrance into an office I didn’t recognize.  The name on the desk was not Mr. Fenton, it was Mrs. Blackwell the Vice Principal and my teacher looked disturbingly satisfied as he slid into the big wing back chair.  Cautiously I took the seat across from him. 

There was one window looking out over the courtyard directly behind the desk and Mr. Fenton’s glowing silhouette was almost ironic. Shadows created by the few secretaries in the main office, blurred beyond the closed blinds of the wall of glass to my right.

“I see that you have enrolled into OAC English class next semester.” His gaudy ring caught the sunlight again as he steepled his fingers, pressing his elbows into the soft arms of his mobile throne.

This wasn’t a question and I had.  My plans were well thought out and precise.  My high school excelled and specialized in the sciences, not my particular expertise. The idea was to take all the required OAC courses needed for my university application as quickly as possible so that I could add electives to my transcript my final year.  That way, I could enroll in courses available from other high school’s from the surrounding area and use my spare for commuting.   As well, English was by far my worst subject, by taking it early I could enroll in an upgrade summer course, offered only to students who had already completed OAC English. 

I had no illusions about my limitations and academic challenges.  My plan was to accept my disadvantages and get ahead of them.

It was perfect.  Or at least I thought it had been before this blindsided ambush.

“I want you to take a look at this.”  Mr. Fenton opened a folder that had been sitting on the plastic desk protector and plucked out papers.  He held them towards me but I had to stand to retrieve them.  There were three or four pages neatly stapled together. “That is an essay written by a student of mine last year.  It is an example of where you are expected to be.  Where your writing should be.”

Flipping through the pages I feigned interest all the while the date kept flashing in my mind.  It was October! The semester had just begun. This was hardly enough time for teachers to learn all of their student’s names let alone their potential. How could Mr. Fenton possibly know anything about my writing?  We had yet to hand in a single assignment.   The next thing he said tore me from my thoughts.

“I think that you should drop out.”

I froze without being able to look up.

These few words crushed me. 

“I teach OAC English, and you don’t have what it takes to pass that class.”

After that, I didn’t hear anything else he had to say. He had just obliterated my plans for high school, shattered my expectations for graduation and quashed any hope I had for getting into university.  I had been judged and unfairly evaluated without any grounds or cause. There had yet to be anything for him to come to such a rash conclusion.  I vaguely remember nodding and floating out of the room.

Three months later,

I sat hunched over another desk.  Rows of them had been set up in the gym for exams.

It was believed that lower temperatures were stimulating and more likely to keep students alert.  I must have been the exception because being cold made me want to curl up and sleep.  Being my third exam, I had come prepared with a piping hot tea, a giant box of tissue, and a toque.  The thick wool of my puck bunny sweater helped too. Before me was my English exam and I was ready. There was no stressing because I knew my stuff. It helped too that I wasn’t enrolling into OAC English until September which knocked my plan off course by a year.  By dropping the course as suggested by my teacher I would not be eligible to apply for university until the year after my classmates; a reality I had learned to accept over the last few months.

A hairy knuckle dropped onto my desk knocking mere inches from my pen. The scent of garlic had preceded him.  Beneath my enormous sweater, I stiffened and gripped by Papermate so tight the tips of my fingers turned a ghostly white.  Then, Mr. Fenton crouched beside me. So close, in fact, that I could see a roll of skin attempting to fold over the wire arm of his reading glasses in my peripheral. This time I did not lift my pen nor turn to him, my sights were set on the last few words to finish my train of thought.  He seemed to wait, but still, I wrote. Finally, Mr. Fenton placed my last assignment upon my desk.  The grade was hard to miss in its giant red ink. 

Our final independent study, making up 40 percent of our final grade had multiple components.  Mine was on a local poet and after much research and obscure digging, I had discovered the poet’s glossary.  As if he had his own language, I used the glossary to decode and translate a number of his poems.  No doubt about it, this poet was a sexist womanizer and I said as much in my oral presentation, except I think I went as far to say he was a pig. 

There I was, where I shone brightest at the front of the class prepared to present on a topic I knew inside and out.  Having a completely entranced captivated audience was exhilarating until my teacher interrupted. As luck would have it, or my bad luck as it were, Mr. Fenton knew the poet.  They had gone to school together and shared pints just a few weeks earlier.  This blow took the wind right out of my sail.  I had just openly trashed my teacher’s buddy. 

After a long awkward moment, Mr. Fenton choked out a laugh and announced that I had ‘hit the nail on the head’ with all that I unearthed;

another potentially brilliant day gone badly.

That had been weeks earlier and the anticipation of my grade for that blunder of an assignment had been overshadowed by only my exams.  I gleaned no insight to my results, not through rumor nor teacher’s meeting.  The hopefulness I had for the written component withered. Let’s just say that my presentation had been kind and humorous in comparison to the strong language I used in my essay. 

Words like predator and pedophile lack in comedic value and sharpen the edges of real accusations with well-argued points.  Learning my teacher knew this poet personally was enough for me to enroll into summer school to redo grade 12 English upon my certain failure of the class.

Staring down at the bleeding red ink, a 98  looked back at me. Disbelief snatched my response as I forced myself to consider the mark. Percent, right? Was he for real? The air in my chest turned to lead and a flood of emotion took hold, rattling me to the core.

Flattening his hand over my paper, Mr. Fenton’s football ring failed to glint under the harsh fluorescent lights of the gym.

“I underestimated you.  Good job.”  Still, I stayed silent. Standing, Mr. Fenton slipped his oversized hands into the little pockets of his suit jacket.  “It’s too bad that you dropped my course next semester.”

To that, I could only dip my head.

Again, he had crushed me

…and I refused to allow him to wreck my thoughts.  The scent of garlic faded as he strolled away.

Undefined emotions milled about my brain until my eyes landed on my pen. There was a task at hand that deserved all of my attention.   After a number of centering breaths, I absently slipped my near perfect assignment beneath my exam and continued to write.  

I am dyslexic and this is my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

1984 – Fever

1986 – Sad

1989 – Panic

1990 – Fear

1992 – Anger

1995 – Fraud

1986 Brutal Truth: Sad

Not every day at school was dark, but the saddest were those when I was evaluated.

In 1986, I was tested again and never told of my learning disability; dyslexia.

Every time they pulled me out of class I wanted to cry.

As if trapped in a spotlight without warning, the heat instantly burned my cheeks. Sweat broke within my hairline and my skin grew hot before my teacher could speak my name. The urge to grit my teeth and glare defiantly at the chalkboard was strong. Refusal to leave was evident in my unwillingness to move or even look toward the stranger at the door. But, that would have only created an even greater spectacle.

So instead, I render myself invisible by disappearing as quickly and quietly as I could.

My sadness was like a stack of books weighing me down.

Not one destroyed day, in particular, stands out. No actual dates mark my dark calendar of baggage. I only remember being yanked from so many classes at least twice a year.  The slow walk down the empty halls to a yet another tiny office unknown to students was unforgettable. As was, of course, the relentless testing. These memories are impossible to tear from the childhood scrapbook in my mind.

Merely recounting these sessions makes me sad.

Dyslexic Writer; Brutal Truth 1986
Sad

No one ever asked me if I wanted to go. And no one ever told me why I was being tested. In fact, my parent’s weren’t even aware of these back alley assessments. Make no mention of my results.
I knew why I was being tested. I was stupid and THEY (the faceless that no one ever calls by name or identifies) wanted to know how stupid I really was. They wanted to determine if I was worthy of my current grade or attending an institution.

Staring unfocused at something just over their left ear while allowing spittle to collect at the corner of my lip was tempting. If only to give them something more to report than…

…my inability to read.

But I was terrified of where that may land me.

A kid in my class once said that I was being interviewed for special ed or the community living classes as we called it back then.
The truth was I wasn’t sure what the outcome of my results would produce and fought the strains of tears that threatened.

It was not until university that I discovered that I had a learning disability called dyslexia.

Did they really think that they could pluck me from class for an hour and have me return without notice?

As if, elementary kids are known for their empathy and sensitivity. That the discretion of my classmates not to make mention or ask questions was understood.  Some would say that I was lucky to have a change of atmosphere and would assume that where I went was fun. Until another would not so subtly announce that…

dumb kids don’t get perks.  

It was so unfair and disruptive.  It took hours before something else would steal away their attention.

And, all for what?

It wasn’t as if anything changed. Once my brief absents was forgotten by my fellow students, life returned to normal. I would continue struggling along through school doing my best to blend in and avoid outing my stupidity, until the next surprise evaluation.

This was my reality throughout elementary school. It didn’t occur to me to miss my secret testing sessions until a teacher in grade 12 nearly ruined my high school career. But that’s another story.

I am dyslexic and this is my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

1984 – Fever

1989 – Panic

1990 – Fear

1992 – Anger

1993- Crushed

1995 – Fraud

1992 Brutal Truth: Anger

Anger

This is my story.  A brutal truth, unknowingly living with dyslexia in 1992.

Dyslexia: Anger
My Brutal Truth: 1992

High school is a lonely and unkind place for a student struggling with a learning disability that no one talks about.  Anger is an emotion easily sparked.

“What is wrong with you?” Her question alone was heart-wrenching but the tone nearly earned her a slap.

The lines being read aloud were slow and careful.  The unbearable silence that followed her intrusive question made me tremble.

A group of us had gathered in the only classroom with a carpeted area and fabric covered furniture.  I had just landed a speaking role in the high school play and we were meeting to do a run through. Clueless to what that meant, I hadn’t known to be nervous. I was still humming from the excitement of being a cast member. This was a really big deal for me. There were many exceptionally talented kids at my school. The auditions had been a testament to that. Beautiful voices, amazing dancing, and tremendous acting commanded the stage and I had not felt worthy to claim a spot.

There I was, with the script in my hand, sitting among the best and brightest.  I was in awe. Then the reading began.

Cue the panic.

The lead male role was awarded to a very popular, charming and ridiculously hot senior who was a triple threat. In fact, he still is.

When he read, my heart swelled as I listened in amazement. No one seemed uncomfortable or worried about reading their lines. I, on the other hand, was fearful of peeing my pants. Luckily, I only had two lines, one in each act.   There was plenty of time for me to find them and burn them to memory before my character was introduced.

The star of the show was speaking very slowly and carefully. This affected me deeply. I was thrilled that he read like me, except without any of my visible anxiety. So, when the girl beside me interrupted him with her outrageously rude question, I am sure I bared my teeth.

“What is wrong with you?” Her wrinkled nose and furrowed brow froze on the last word.

A long, dreadfully awkward moment passed and something inside me fractured for him. He looked to her and then passed his gaze over all of us.

“I’m dyslexic.”

He said this evenly; simply.  There was no apology. It was a fact that he shared in a way that made it her problem, not his.

The breath I released once he returned to his lines was one that I had been holding my entire life. I was amazed by him and this revelation of not being alone was truly freeing. A bubble of glee made me grin when the ignorant girl beside me raised her script to conceal her blazing cheeks. It was a beautiful thing.

Even to this day, he has no idea how the delivery of those two words changed my life.  Before then, I had never heard of dyslexia nor had I known anyone to openly admit to something so hushed with such confidence and conviction.   He is unaware of the impact that he had on me that day. And I wish I could say that I was no longer afraid, but that would be a lie.  Just learning that others struggle and prevail with dyslexia was immensely inspiring.

For that, I will continue to write.

I am a dyslexic writer and this is my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

1984 – Fever

1986 – Sad

1989 – Panic

1990 – Fear

1993- Crushed

1995 – Fraud

1990 Brutal Truth: Fear

Fear

This is my story.  A brutal truth, unknowingly living with dyslexia in 1990.

Eventually, the constant chatter over my panic attack seizure, AKA choking episode, quieted. The most recent and dramatic stunt yet, to get out of reading aloud. The attention of my class mate’s was quickly claimed by other gossip and more pressing events like grade eight graduation. Until of course, I was called to the principles office one beautiful spring day.
This happened a lot, but the sinking feeling in my stomach told me this time would be different. The principle and I were on better speaking terms than almost all the students, even some faculty. This was because I spent a lot of time in the office. Three days a week, I volunteered to answer the phone and file documents over the lunch hour and after school.
This was one of the many perks of having a teacher’s daughter for a friend. In grade eight, my friends had a huge impact on who I was. Not only was I lucky enough to have beautiful popular friends, they were all brilliant. I mean honor role, enriched classes, smart. I guess that guilt by association isn’t always a bad thing. Many people assumed that I was a brainiac too because of the company I kept.  Who was I to argue? But, boy, were they wrong.
Volunteering in the library probably reinforced this false image of my high intelligence.  Yep, illiterate me, worked in the library and was good at it too. I took the dewy decimals system very seriously and was nice to the Librarians. Meaning, I acknowledged them and recognized them as being human and not just moving figures within the aisle of books like most kids at my school. I am sure that had something to do with them requesting me specifically to help rid the carts of returned books.
This walk to the office, however, had nothing to do with my volunteer work. I could feel it, something was up.
The secretary ushered me into the principle’s office as soon as I arrived. His door was already open and he sat at the conference table, not his desk. The sunshine streaming through his wall of windows muted the features of his face. So it was not until after our pleasantries that I noticed his weighed down expression.  He was unreadable but my instinct told me to worry. The clunk of the door closing as I sat down, vaulted this bad feeling into mild anxiety that was quickly hurling towards panic.
Before him was a very official looking document. At first, I thought I had interrupted his work.  Still, I had no clue what I was doing there, in the principle’s office during class, just the two of us.
Even at fourteen, I understood that his polite questions were an attempt to disarm me as a preamble to the bad news. Yet, I still had not expected him to refer to the sheet of paper on the table.  After slipping on his glasses, the principle explained how he did not have time to read all of the papers that crossed his desk. Instead, he skimmed them by reading the first and last sentence of every paragraph.  My throat started to close with the onset of panic but I managed to smile and nod; my ‘go to’ response in the face of anxiety.

Oh, no! He was going to be asked to read, legal adult jargon – ALOUD!.

Before my attack had a chance to alter my breathing, he told me that I should use this method to help me read more quickly.

Over his glasses, he pinned me with his brown eyes. I almost peed my pants. Then, his weathered face quirked into a smile and I was dismissed.

I didn’t get a chance to thank him for the tip even though I knew it would not work for someone like me. By the time I sifted through a paragraph to find the beginning of the last sentence, I may as well read the whole dang thing. That was the thought that carried me back to class until another one stopped me in my tracks. My principle had been troubled as if he had a big decision to make. He alone held my future in his hands.  

He would determine if I graduated with my class or was held back to repeat grade eight.

Dyslexic Writer; 1990 Brutal Truth. Fear
DW: Fear

The fist of fear that clenched my heart was enough to bring me to my knees. I fought it but was not so lucky in holding back the well of tears that stung my eyes.

Never before had I been pulled into his office to lightly discuss my studies.  That hadn’t been a polite preamble. That had been the entire point of the meeting.  The panic started to rise again.

Would he really hold me back?

Three weeks later, I got my answer.  In a puffy sleeved dress with big fluffy bangs to match, I was the happiest of grade eight grads.
High school, here I come.  It couldn’t be worse than public school. Right?

I am dyslexic and this is my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

1986 – Sad

1989 – Panic

1990 – Fear

1992 – Anger

1993- Crushed

1995 – Fraud

1989 Brutal Truth: Panic

Panic…

was an everyday occurrence for me in school. Back when I was unaware of my learning disability and knew nothing of dyslexia, all I felt was stupid and panic when centered out and forced to read.

This is my story.  A brutal truth, unknowingly living with dyslexia in 1989.

Panic has got to be the worst sensation next to dying.  Everything seems to happen at once. My throat goes dry but not before an impossibly thick lump forms. My vision begins to blur around the edges and my limbs go numb.  Then, there is the internal turmoil. My lungs don’t stop working as much as I forget to breathe. I can feel my heartbeat thrashing against my ribs and my lunch squirms its way around my gut. All of this because my grade-eight teacher has just passed around the school’s code of conduct that we are expected to read aloud in turn.

Dyslexic Writer, panic over reading aloud
Dyslexic Panic

Once the roar of my pulse lessens, I can hear and I realize that we will all be assigned a paragraph. Frantic blinks, restored my vision and count the number of students that should be before me, as a way to find my paragraph. This routine is all too familiar but no less stressful. I read my part over and over in hopes to burn it into my memory. This is doable, I assure myself in hopes to calm my body’s commotion.

My breathing is almost back to normal when I hear my name.

Looking up, all eyes are on me. Panic rises again as I realize that the person next to me hadn’t been reading. I was to read after them, now all preparation time has been lost.  The teacher has switched directions on me and it is now my turn.  I haven’t a clue where we are or how to find this foreign paragraph that I have never laid eyes upon. Bile curdles in the hollow of my stomach and I feel my face grow cold.

Before I can think, I throw myself onto the floor seizing.  The shaking is so violent that I whack my head on the leg of my chair. But that doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as what happens next.

All the students are on their feet. Desks and chairs screech out of the way. Girls are screaming, some are crying. I hear the teacher order someone to the office when I am picked up like a rag doll.  Massive arms encircle me while a double fist slams into my chest.  The first blow nearly breaks me in half and the fifth surely busts a rib.  That’s when my lunch decides to make an entrance. At this point…

vomiting is more of less involuntary.

Faking a seizure seemed like a good idea at the time, although I failed to have an exit strategy. I did not foresee, Randy Caligan the captain of the basketball team and Boy Scout extraordinaire to jump to my rescue. He was so eager to perform his new found skill the Heimlich maneuver that it didn’t matter that I was not choking.

None the less, minutes later, there I was in the dimly lit nurse’s room a complete and utter hot mess. With sore ribs, a bruised chest, and blood shot eyes I curled up on the prison style cot and waited for the final bell of the day to ring. The puke scent that I called my own was inescapable. Still, this was a far better outcome than having to read out loud.

I am dyslexic and this is my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

1984 – Fever

1986 – Sad

1990 – Fear

1992 – Anger

1995 – Fraud