Tag Archives: fear

1984 Brutal Truth: Fever

Fever

Every day in school a feverish nightmare was likely to occur.  Back then I was unaware of my learning disability and knew nothing of dyslexia.

This is my story.  A brutal truth, unknowingly living with dyslexia in 1984.

1984 Brutal Truth
Fever

“…fever…”

Fever should rhyme with never. Right? This was my only thought as I stared at the foreign word. Standing at the front of the room, I could barely see over the podium. I clutched the open book in my hands. The black letters swelled as the many faces of my grade four class blurred and shimmered in my peripheral.

“What?” Mr. Moir asked not bothering to leave his desk.

Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose from beneath his glasses. He was a stout man who liked to wear the color of oatmeal. Across the top of his shiny head strands of hair laid like lines in the sky after an air show. There was no sympathy in his expression once he dragged his palm down his rough chin. He looked tired and even a little annoyed. Meanwhile,

I was the one facing my worst fear;

standing in front of my entire class reading a passage I had never laid eyes on before.  It took everything I had not to cry or pee my pants and my teacher looked bored.

He scratched the air with his finger as a gesture for me to bring the book to him. When I did so, I pointed at the word with my chewed down finger nail.

“Fever.” He said these two ugly syllables in a way that showed his crowded bottom teeth.

I had never been eye level with Mr. Mori before and did not care for it at all.

“Fever.” I echoed in a whisper. “But it looks like never,” I dared to explain.

His face crumpled as if he were refraining from saying,

‘stupid girl.’

Then, from behind me, the tempered giggles and snorts that I ignored, became alive. The entire room erupted into laughter and I saw the jagged line of Mr. Moir’s teeth again. He too was laughing.

My face grew hot and my eyes burned. I felt so small and naked.  Ice cold realization hit me;

this was where my nightmares lived. 

Closed in by the chalkboard wall, the giant teacher’s desk, and the podium, I was trapped by fear and humiliation. This moment stretched on and slithered around me, swaying the room. Once the clatter of laughter subsided there was no apology or even pointless face covering. I was not asked to return to my seat. Instead, mercilessly, Mr. Moir pointed to the podium.

“Proceed.” He said as if nothing had happened.

I was not yet freed from this nightmare.

I am dyslexic and this is my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

1986 – Sad

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

I Choose Vigilance

Upon sight, I was terrified.

masked man in camouflage on subway
masked man

It had only been moments earlier that I was engrossed in a game on my phone and only mildly aware of the other passengers that had stepped on and off the subway around me.  There are so many stops along my route that I just get used to the movement of the train. But on this Saturday afternoon, I happened to glance up and instantly began to shake. He was in full camouflage garb and under his raised hood was a black mask. All of his features were undecipherable

camouflage with a mask
masked man in camouflage on the subway

but, it was not just what he was wearing. His stance and behaviour caused me alarm. Although he was not a particularly big man, he stood with his back against one door while admiring himself in the reflection of the adjacent entranceway.  He shifted from one foot to the other, gyrating while tugging at the wrists of his black gloves. Every so often he would slip a hand into his jacket and begin the ritual all over. There is no other way to describe his behaviour other than he appeared to be preparing to do something. He was amped up.

I froze, not knowing what to do. I slowly took in my surroundings and realized no one else noticed him and I considered that I been gripped by paranoia. Then, I looked at the map above the door nearest me to assess how long until the next stop.  We were half way between the two stations which were the furthest apart. My ears began to burn and my eyes began to sting; all signs that I was not okay.  This is my visceral response to the fear, helplessness, and doubt this stranger had provoked just by standing twenty feet from me.  The train was slowing. We were nowhere close to the next stations and my heart began to thunder in my chest.

suspicious on public transit choose vigilance
choose vigilance

The thought that perhaps security had spotted this man on their cameras and had suspended the train as a way to organize a plan at the next platform not only calmed me a little, it twisted my fear into vigilance. It was still possible that I was being paranoid. Then, once the train made its complete irregular stop the man turned and started walking towards me.  I had considered taking a video but my shaking hands and his proximity botched that idea. What I saw next changed everything.

The panic and fear that prickled at my spine had been replaced with a burn.  There was no camouflage on the back of his jacket. Except for his sleeves, it was all beige. Markings that I

symbol on the back of a camouflage jacket
W or guns?

could not identify, with my limited knowledge of anything middle eastern were scrawled in black across his shoulders. What I was seeing appeared to be Islamic lettering with two symbols that resembled hands either using the thumb and fourth finger to make a broken ‘W’ or guns. Regardless what it was, it pissed me off.

He stopped at another doorway to watch himself rock back and forth while pulling at the cuffs of his gloves and touching inside his jacket. This time he threw tight little air punches. It was as if he were antagonizing us; begging for everyone to notice and daring someone to say or do something.

Where the hell were the drunken sports fans who often take this very train?  Three burly guys with the bravado that came with being in an excited energized group was exactly what we needed right then.  No luck.  Most of us were single passengers or paired up in couples or young shoppers. Some had noticed our trouble maker and were slowly processing what he was and what could be going on and decided to ignore it.  The train jolted forward again and the man bolted back to his original spot two doors ahead of me. At this point, not only was I watching him, I was trying to figure out if he was alone and if anyone else around me was on alert. A few puzzled expressions looked his way but seemed disinterested.  The voice came over the speaker system announcing the next stop and he turned and stalked by me before returning to his secondary position

suspicious masked man on subway
fear on the subway

again.  As the train turned slightly to the right, I lost sight of him and purposefully moved to the other side of my car.  We turned again, this time to the left and I returned to my seat, all the while never taking my eyes off the man. Finally my actions and, I can only assume, intense staring caught the attention of other passengers who began to take notice of the man in full combat gear and mask taunting his own reflection.

The gentleman nearest me looked my way and said shakily, “Is that..?”

“Fucking suspicious?! Hell yes.”

I said without looking at him because at the same time the man started toward the front of the train.  I got up and bolted towards him refusing to let him out of my sight.  As people stood for their nearing stop, he was more difficult to track. The train slowed and l maneuvered my way through the crowd. When I caught him in my sights again he was right at the very end of the train. He was nearing the conductor’s booth. I did not know what to do. The train stopped and the man turned and stood strangely close to the last set of doors.  When they opened, he swayed back and forth, as if playing with the decision to get off.  I stepped onto the platform but was prepared to jump back on. The doors closed and the man stayed on board.  The subway began to move and accelerate past me.  I ran to the stairway while looking for a train number. In doing so I looked right into the frightened face of the gentleman who had been sitting near me. I will never forget that face and expression of fearful confusion.

fear on public transit
fear on public transit

Now, what do I do?  Do I get on the next train?  Was this worth being late for work? If I am over reacting and being paranoid, how do I explain that?  How can I get on the next train with my suspicions? What if I am right?  What good will I be to anyone if something happens?  I will just be stuck on the next train, stuck underground. With that, I ran up the stairs and found the first uniform I could.  It turned out to be a bus driver to whom I reported what I saw.

The sound of my own voice trembling was enough to convince myself that the threat was real.  Even if it was not a terrorist attack in the making, what kind of ass-hole gets on a train to provoke terror?  I was afraid for me, for my children and every single person on that train. I was angry at the way he made me feel in my own community and how defenseless I felt.  I think that I am tough but doubted that I was tough enough to take him down. But what if I were wrong?  That was the question that stirred the most inner commotion.

The bus driver did not waste any time. He ran to the subway booth operator and after they exchanged words both sprinted in opposite directions.  I stood there all alone, not knowing what to do.

Finally, I reasoned that I had done all that I could and climbed into a cab once I reached street level.  Traffic was terrible and the cab driver looked at me strangely when I asked him to avoid routes that followed the subway. In all fairness, after everything, what sense did it make for me to remain within proximity of that train?  It was a few minutes after my start time once I reached work. At first, my colleagues laughed at me for allowing my imagination to get the better of me. But after a few minutes of discussion, they all agreed that there is something just not right about wearing a mask and behaving so strangely on public transit. The agreement being; no organized terrorist group would be that obvious. I agreed but a wannabe terrorist could be just as dangerous. What if he was looking to be recruited and this was his act of loyalty? What if he were just a punk trying to get a reaction? Well, he succeeded. I was afraid and then I was angry. Hell, I am still angry.  The general agreement was that no one would have blamed a soccer mom for getting up and kneeing a punk on the train who was clearly an idiot and potentially dangerous.

I spend the next few hours waiting for something on the news and was grateful that there wasn’t anything. Then I spend the next two week scouring the internet looking for the lettering I saw and a general image of what he looked like. Two weeks later there was another attack this time in Brussels.  My experience was terrifying and so insignificant in comparison to what all of those people felt and continue to feel.  The images of people fleeing and victims struck down are devastating and heart wrenching. I refuse to let my fear outweigh my anger but I will continue to be pissed off and vigilant.

And as soon as I can find an image that best depicts what I saw, what he was wearing and what was on the back of his jacket I will post it. This person could have very well been a woman, so pardon the constant use of ‘he’.