380. Why Jumbled (GUEST POST)

A few notes before the actual post:

I took the image above from Dyslexia.com. If you'd like to visit the site to learn more, click on the photo above.

Earlier this year, all ninth graders at my school participated in a month-long writing workshop. The culminating project was to create a short essay with certain characteristics:

• contain 4-8 paragraphs
• have one clear focus
• refer to one of the texts we read
• include an anecdote and concrete examples

Below, you'll get to read one of the final essays. This one is by Olivia Carney, Hotchkiss '29.

Here's her essay:

I sat in class, my hands tracing over the lines on the page, waiting for the teacher to call on me to read aloud. When it was finally my turn, the words flipped, flopped, and fluttered uncontrollably across the page. I sat in silence, fighting my brain to subdue the letters, but the words kept flying across the page, and that's when I heard whispers and giggles from my classmates. The mocking was quiet at first but got louder as time went on, and as the noises got bigger, I felt myself shrink into my seat, slowly becoming smaller, smaller, and smaller.  

My teacher put an end to the noise, but the harm was done. I started to question if the other kids were right. I mean, what if something was wrong with me? This wasn't a one-time thing; it had become normal for me. When asked to read out loud, I froze. When the other kids flourished, my confidence withered away. Every time the words became fuzzy, it made me feel like I wasn't as capable as everyone else.

I compared myself to my classmates, and I thought I wasn't as smart as they were. I mean, I could barely sound out the words, and they had started to read advanced books. This pattern went on for what seemed like forever, which led my teacher to make a phone call to my parents, telling them I might have a learning difference. I was soon transferred to the Carroll School, a space for students like me.

I thought transitioning to my new school would be easy. I was wrong. Every day, I had private tutoring. In these lessons, I spent most of the time doing what I hated most, reading. I didn't hate reading because it was boring or tiring; I hated it because I couldn't understand it. I felt so frustrated at myself when I failed to read the simplest of sentences, having to try over and over again and again, only to fail anyway. Each day in school chipped away at my confidence every time I read. It felt like my own brain was against me. When I read, even if the words weren't jumbled around, I could never understand what was going on. It made me feel like I was missing out on something; unfortunately, I didn't know what that “something” was.

I practiced reading at recess, immediately when I woke up, and driving to and from school. I read everything from magazines to street signs. By the time I was in third grade, I was finally able to read short stories. However, that wasn't enough for me. I wanted to master chapter books. I needed to understand why everyone around me loved books so much. I stayed up into the late hours of the night, every single night, re-reading short stories and practicing reading out loud to my dog, Lulu. My dog had been my best friend since the day we got her; she was one of the few I felt comfortable reading aloud to because I knew she would never judge me. 

I continued to work hard in and out of school, and a few weeks after I arrived at Carroll, my tutor picked out Percy Jackson for me to read. At the time, I didn't realize how much Percy would mean to me. I found comfort in him because we shared dyslexia. He understood how it felt to stumble over the “easy” things and how lonely it could be. At times, he would mix up words and stumble, but he refused to give up. I mixed up words and stumbled over the long chapters, but I also refused to give up. I refused to let my dyslexia take control over my life. As the story unfolded, something beautiful happened. The characters came alive in my imagination. This was the moment I fell in love with reading. As Sherman Alexie wrote in his essay Superman and Me, “My father loved books, and since I loved my father with an aching devotion, I decided to love books too.” I decided to love books because reading makes me feel understood, even when I don't fully understand myself.

I still sometimes find myself tracing over the lines in a book, not in fear of getting called on but in confidence. Reading didn't teach me just how to flourish in school; it also taught me to be empathetic when it's hard to be, never to give up, and never to stop believing in myself.