A Tragic Comparison
The first memories of my childhood, are of when I was around two or three years old. I remember, my father trying to calm me after I had seen a spider on the wall next to my bed. My mother making us popcorn, as my dad talked to me about the stars in the sky viewed from our backyard. I even remember sneaking out of my room to watch TV from our hallway. These memories seem to be pretty typical of a middle-class family in the early 1970s. Unfortunately these memories changed, when my parents divorced. Their separation, led to memories of my mother moving my one-year-old sister and myself to an apartment. I remember missing my father dearly, of trying to call him and letting the phone ring until a recording broke the connection, telling me “The party you are trying to contact is not answering, please try again” (This was before the advent of answering machines, cell phones and much of the technology we have today.). But as a three-year-old boy, I could not understand why my father would not answer, much less why he wasn’t living with us anymore. As you can imagine, this has impacted my life in a number pivotal ways. But, none of this has impacted my life as much as being born dyslexic. As an adult, I have been able to rebuild my relationship with my father. I have come to understand, how hard it is for people to stay together. But as a dyslexic, I struggle every day to read, to write, and in some cases to speak in an understandable manner.
The Struggles of Shame
I was first diagnosed after years of being demeaned, shamed, laughed at, yelled at, and set aside. I remember tutors accuse me of being lazy, and telling my mother that she needed to discipline me more. My father would scream at my mother, telling her how she was a neglectful parent and shouldn’t be raising my sister and me. He couldn’t have known how hard my mother (who is also dyslexic) worked to help me learn language. Watching all of this as a child, diminished my esteem and made me feel like a burden to almost everyone around me. In turn, burdening me with more and more shame.
Who Could have Helped?
School, was hell on earth; dyslexia was only the beginning of my challenges. As a single parent, my mother moved around a lot, from one boyfriend or husband to the next, each time we would be put in a new school. Each new school came with a new set of bullies, who used any impediment as a weapon to destroy you. Dyslexia gave them extra ammunition, some of which would be supplied by my frustrated teachers; who would highlight my failings publicly. In middle school, the teachers started to talk about dyslexia as a newly discovered learning disability, but they really didn’t know anything about it; so dyslexics like myself, were sent to special ed. Some school's special ed program was a dumping-ground, where the semi-retarded and in some cases Down Syndrome children were placed. In other schools, I found peers who like me were dyslexic. In either case, dyslexia was something teachers had not yet been trained to deal with. Everyone had their theories of how the dyslexic brain worked. Some would say words appeared backward on the page, or the words and letters would scramble in our brains, making reading hard to comprehend. While all of these theories made for great conversation, the dyslexic brains of the world were rotting. I don’t blame anyone for how this played out; for any of them to have any real idea, they would need to be a dyslexic. Think about this for a minute, how could a dyslexic person become a language teacher. They would have to muscle through teaching college, then choose and successfully navigate the study of language. The whole time struggling with their own learning disability, in order to become a teacher who could understand and work with other dyslexics. As a dyslexic, the idea of becoming a teacher, much less a language teacher was unthinkable.
Doing it "My Way!"
As I reflect on this time, I have discovered the embers of my academic salvation. Each summer my grandmother would visit her sisters in Edmonton, Alberta CA. She would fly up, then ask my mother to make the eleven hour drive, to deliver her car to her. On one of these trips, we stopped at a gas station, where I purchased a 300 page paperback novel (Book 1 of 'Death Lands'), with really cool cover art. This was the first non-mandated literature I would read. I wasn't able to read a third of the words, but it sparked my love of reading. Sense then, I have developed a fairly robust reading skill; allowing me to attend college and maintain a fairly successful career. Interesting note; when I took the college entrance exam, my reading skill was measured at a 7th-grade level; this being my ability to read a word by itself. But my reading comprehension, the ability to read sentences and comprehend the message, was scored as 2nd year of college. Yes, I do judge books by their cover.
In high school things started to turn around; I found that my interest and knowledge of history was more advanced than my peers. In my world history class, I had to correct my teacher three times in the first week. Though, this may not have totally reflected my vast knowledge of history; considering this teach gave me an “F” on a report regarding an influential figure in history. When I challenged the grade, she told me she had never heard of Genghis Khan; she then changed the grade to a “B”. My reading skills, had not quite fully developed; so again I failed to keep up with the work. After two years, I transferred to what was called “Alternative”. In Alternative school, students didn’t complete courses just by showing up, each course was given credits to earn, much like college credits. This was a great system for me, I could work at my own pace, taking the time needed to read and understand any given subject; now, it did take me an extra twos years to graduate, (there was some detractions like partying to much related to that delay, but you know..). This experience, prepared me for college and allowed me to improve my reading skills. By this time, I had acquired a substantial vocabulary; vocabulary being the core of my method of adapting to dyslexia. You see, when I read I use vocabulary to fill in and words I can't read out right. This makes reading technical ligature hard to comprehend, though I have managed to maintain a career in a technical field. My vocabulary method of reading has allowed me to tame the "Dyslexia Demon", however my struggles continue. It takes me longer than most to read, write, and process language. The Dyslexia Demon has shown me, that adversity not only makes us stronger; but can force us to develop unique skills and talents. I once read, “Those with dyslexia think in a more three-dimensional way than most people”. So while most people are able to process linear tasks easily; dyslexics struggle to contain their three-dimensional mind within the linear tasks of reading, writing..... I consider this a strength and have used it to better my life. I also seem to view the world from more of a macro level; this of course is at the expense of the micro aspects of life. But knowing how one processes information compared to others, holds great value and allows me to focus my efforts.
Dyslexia has dominated my life; as a child it tore me apart, but as an adult, I have turned it into my greatest asset. This asset is a lesson I believe everyone can benefit from; that is adversity should be embraced. That demon you are fighting more often than not is your friend. You need to find or develop the methods needed to tame your own personal demon. It may be changing how you perceive a given challenge, or do you need to drop the baggage of other people's expectations. You may need to confront other destructive areas of your life; such as the divorce of your parents or the social-economic condition you were born to. If you feel something is holding you back, I encourage you to identify the issue; this will allow you study how the issue affects your life. What comes next is rarely easy, but taking hold of and conquering your "Demon" is worth it.
