This was shared last November 14th but worth sharing again because the school year has begun!
Message to teachers and parents: Dyslexia is real! Dyslexia impacts more than just reading and writing but it also impacts a person's self-esteem. As a person with dyslexia, parent of three children with dyslexia, and a Psycho-educational Diagnostician & Educational Coach (I diagnose all types of learning disabilities & provide coaching/counseling services as well) I can honestly say that I'm disappointed that our educational systems continue to make it difficulty (both academically and social/emotionally) for people with dyslexia to receive an appropriate education. It's not like Dyslexia is new! Here's an essay that was written by a student with Dyslexia, David Raymond (born in 1959) while he was in high school and published in the New York Times in 1976. YES, this was published in 1976 but it could be written by a 17 year old student now, in 2014!!! There sure is something wrong with our education system if this experience hasn't changed in 38 years!
On
Being Seventeen, Bright, and Unable to Read
David
Raymond
One
day a substitute teacher picked me to read aloud from the textbook. When I told
her "No, thank you," she came unhinged. She thought I was acting
smart and told me so. I kept calm, and that got her madder and madder. We must
have spent 10 minutes trying to solve the problem, and finally she got so red
in the face I thought she'd blow up: She told me she'd see me after class.
Maybe
someone like me was a new thing for that teacher. But she wasn't new to me.
I've been through scenes like that all my life. You see, even though I'm 17 and
a junior in high school, I can't read because I have dyslexia. I'm told I read
"at a fourth-grade level," but from where I sit, that's not reading.
You can't know what that means unless you've been there. It's not easy to tell
how it feels when you can't read your homework assignments or the newspaper or
a menu in a restaurant or even notes from your own friends.
My
family began to suspect I was having problems almost from the first day I
started school. My father says my early years in school were the worst years of
his life. They weren't so good for me, either. As I look back on it now, I
can't find the words to express how bad it really was. I wanted to die. I'd come
home from school screaming, "I'm dumb. I'm dumb—I wish I were dead!"
I
guess I couldn't read anything at all then—not even my own name—and they tell
me I didn't talk as good as other kids. But what I remember about those days is
that I couldn't throw a ball where it was supposed to go, I couldn't learn to
swim, and I wouldn't learn to ride a bike, because no matter what anyone told
me, I knew I'd fail.
Sometimes
my teachers would try to be encouraging. When I couldn't read the words on the
board they'd say, "Come on, David, you know that word." Only I
didn't. And it was embarrassing. I just felt dumb. And dumb was how the kids
treated me. They'd make fun of me every chance they got, asking me to spell
"cat" or something like that. Even if I knew how to spell it, I
wouldn't; they'd only give me another word. Anyway, it was awful, because more
than anything I wanted friends. On my birthday when I blew out the candles I
didn't wish I could learn to read; what I wished for was that the kids would
like me.
With
the bad reports coming from school and with me moaning about wanting to die and
how everybody hated me, my parents began looking for help. That's when the
testing started. The school tested me, the child-guidance center tested me,
private psychiatrists tested me. Everybody knew something was wrong—especially
me.
It didn't help much when they
stuck a fancy name onto it. I couldn't pronounce it then—I was only in second
grade—and I was ashamed to talk about it. Now it rolls off my tongue, because
I've been living with it for a lot of years—dyslexia.
All through elementary school it wasn't easy. I was always
having to do things that were "different," things the other kids
didn't have to do. I had to go to a child psychiatrist, for instance.
One
summer my family forced me to go to a camp for children with reading problems.
I hated the idea, but the camp turned out pretty good, and I had a good time. I
met a lot of kids who couldn't read, and somehow that helped. The director of
the camp said I had a higher I.Q. than 90 percent of the population. I didn't
believe him.
About
the worst thing I had to do in fifth and sixth grade was go to a special
education class in another school in our town. A bus picked me up, and I didn't
like that at all. The bus also picked up emotionally disturbed kids and
retarded kids. It was like going to a school for the retarded. I always worried
that someone I knew would see me on that bus. It was a relief to go to the
regular junior high school.
Life
began to change a little for me then, because I began to feel better about
myself. I found the teachers cared; they had meetings about me, and I worked
harder for them for a while. I began to work on the potter's wheel, making
vases and pots that the teachers said were pretty good. Also, I got a letter
for being on the track team. I could always run pretty fast.
At
high school the teachers are good, and everyone is trying to help me. I've
gotten honors some marking periods, and I've won a letter on the cross country
team. Next quarter I think the school might hold a show of my pottery. I've got
some friends. But there are still some
embarrassing times. For instance, every time there is writing in the class, I
get up and go to the special education room. Kids ask me where I go all the
time. Sometimes I say, "to Mars."
Homework
is a real problem. During free periods in school I go into the special ed room,
and staff members read assignments to me. When I get home my mother reads to
me. Sometimes she reads an assignment into a tape recorder, and then I go into
my room and listen to it. If we have a novel or something like that to read,
she reads it out loud to me. Then I sit down with hen and we do the assignment.
She'll write, while I talk my answers to her. Lately I've taken to dictating into
a tape recorder, and then someone—my father, a private tutor, or my
mother—types up what I've dictated. Whatever homework I do takes someone else's
time, too. That makes me feel bad.
We
had a big meeting in school the other day—eight of us, four from the guidance
department, my private tutor, my parents, and me. The subject was me. I said I
wanted to go to college, and they told me about colleges that have facilities
and staff to handle people like me. That's nice to hear.
As
for what happens after college, I don't know, and I'm worried about that. How
can I make a living if I can't read? Who will hire me? How will I fill out the
application form? The only thing that gives me any courage is the fact that
I've learned about well-known people who couldn't read or had other problems
and still made it. Like Albert Einstein, who didn't talk until he was 4 and
flunked math. Like Leonardo da Vinci, who everyone seems to think had dyslexia.
I've
told this story because maybe some teacher will read it and go easy on a kid in
the classroom who has what I've got. Or, maybe some parent will stop nagging
his kid and stop calling him lazy. Maybe he's not lazy or dumb. Maybe he just
can't read and doesn't know what's wrong. Maybe he's scared, like I was.
---Article from the New York Times 1976
I recommend all teachers be given this essay to read (share this blog post or print it out) so that they can understand what it is like to be dyslexic. I was 10 years old when this was published and how I wish my teachers would have understood what it was like for me in school. I was mislabeled as lazy and made to feel ashamed that I could not read like my peers. Like, David , I went on to graduate successfully from college. I earned a Master's Degree and currently working on my Ph.D. dissertation. What David and I had in common that helped us achieve academic success was an underlying knowledge that we were smart, just learned differently so we had tenacity. I worry about those who don't know how smart they are and continue to believe they are stupid. Therefore, I'm on a mission to make sure every person knows how wonderful he/she is and that we don't need to "fit in a box" to achieve success.
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