In fourth grade, I was presented with a task that I found quite enjoyable; I was required to write a short story that would be bound in a hard cover. Every kid in my elementary did the same thing...it was kind of a school tradition that still goes on to this day.
Even though I truly hated reading, especially at that time in my life, I still loved to write. Writing has always been an escape for me (hence the blog) and so I gladly faced the challenge.
I believe that the book pages I was given to fill with words and pictures was about 10 pages. Me being the rather wordy person that I am, filled up all 10 and had to request another 10 so that I could finish my story. It was a story about a jockey whose horse broke its leg but still got to compete by riding a another horse that looked exactly alike. I had a thing for horses back then and I know now that horses are put down if they break their legs. But it is a story that is near and dear to my heart, and I will always defend it even when my dad reminds me about the horse being put down part making my story illogical.
Now back to the part about being dyslexic and writing this story. My class had a student teacher at the time and she would help us out with our stories or words we couldn't spell. She came up to me and started making suggestions but I don't recall what about. The only thing I really remember about our conversation was her telling me something to write and me getting stuck on the word "saw." I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to spell it. She looked down at me with the to-sweet smile that teachers give when they know a student is struggling and needs help. It was the look that says, "I know you're not as bright as the others, but I will take pity on you and help." She asked ever so kindly if I knew how to spell the word saw. I told her no and then she spelled it out for me. For the longest time the only way I could remember how to spell saw without an "h" thrown somewhere in the middle of that three letter word, was by thinking of how it was "was" spelled backwards.
It's something that I laugh about now, but back then it was really demoralizing. I knew I wasn't up with the other kids in reading and spelling, and I hated when a teacher made me realize my inabilities. It brought out anger and frustration that I only rarely let show. Writing for myself was a way I could escape from my problems and learning disabilities, but when it collided with school and the necessity for correctness, it became a hindrance and a reminder that I didn't belong.
I look back on the times in elementary and how crucial a time it was. It was a period in my life when I wish I could have shared my frustrations with a like soul. Not in the shrink type way, but how it was in Texas--a class full of kids who were all at the same level I was. I strongly feel that that was and is the best thing someone with my disabilities needs. A class room that covers the same materials as any other class, but just at a different rate and with teachers who know how to teach to those types of kids.
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