Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Can't pass forever
From a disability prospective, to pass is to try and live your life without people knowing that you have a disability. Although all of my disabilities are hidden, I am proud of them. Well, I do not know if 'proud' is really the word that I want to use, but I am not afraid to let people know and to help raise awareness. Last semester I was asked by a former professor to appear on a panel in her class to help raise awareness of disability. The five of us on the panel all had at least one disability and they were all different. After I described my disabilities, the teacher told the class that she had no idea that I had so much going on. That was the class where I learned about passing and I had always just told my teachers not to use red ink when I would have to read it. It is not that I am color blind. Quite the opposite actually. I really quite enjoy all of the colors of the rainbow in all their variety. I can see the color red, I just can not READ what is written in red ink all of the time. Some days are good days, and some are bad days. Like most disabilities it varies from day to day. For me, it is easier to just blanket it and tell everyone that I can not read red. Period. I got some help on my resume this morning, and the never ending problem came up. I want to specifically work with those with disabilities. I plan to go to graduate school for Rehabilitation Counseling, and I would love start working in that direction. I decided that it would be good to put on my resume that I appeared on a panel to help raise awareness of disabilities. Then there is the question of how to word it when they ask me why I am so passionate about raising awareness. I could cite all of the people around me whom I have seen struggle with disabilities. That is a big part of it, but at the end of the day, it boils down to I am so passionate because I have felt beet down, down trodden and have had to fight my way through to get to where I am now in my life. Then there is when to tell and employer that I have a disability. They can not inquire period, however I can offer the information. I have done that, and I sometimes wonder if it in some way cost me the job.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
A little more....
As a way to explain things a little bit more, I am including a Memoir that I wrote for a college class, and I feel that it does a good job describing how I have felt about things growing up.
As the mother's pregnancy wore on, it became abundantly clear that issues with the fetus were beyond control. You might want to think about termination of this pregnancy. The doctor said to the parents, and not try again.
Those words stung and sank deeply within in their chests. They had four older children; and although she had been so sick, she wanted, or rather, knew that there was just one more. The knee jerk reaction of the parents was to keep the child; after all, what kind of monster terminates a child that they wanted so desperately? They knew that there could be concerns if they kept the child. What kind of life would she live? Would she be a vegetable? Would she even survive? How would the other children, her own siblings, treat her?
An additional weight on the parents' mind would be the health of the mother. As her pregnancy progressed, so did the mother's health issues. Her two doctors would give opposing view points.
You need surgery. The surgeon would say.
You need to wait. The OB would say.
You will ultimately die. The surgeon would say.
We can't put you under. The OB would say.
Three surgeries later a happy, healthy, baby girl was born. Defying the odds became her life's mission. She grew up in a home with two loving parents and four siblings, and though they made life difficult at times, they loved her and would be there for her.
At a young age her parents knew that she had a disability, but it was not a disability that could be seen. This was, however, something that would affect the rest of her life. It ran rampant in the family, and there was no cure for it, nor was there a way to prevent it. It just was.
The proctor of the test looked grimly at the mother and said one word. Dyslexia. It did not come as a surprise, she suspected it. Her sister did not learn to read at all until sixth grade. She herself never had a name for it growing up. Even her nephew was so severely affected that he did not learn to read until he entered the Navy. Part way through basic training he was pulled out for two weeks to teach him how to read. A twenty year old who never learned how to read!
Ma'am, the proctor said. This little girl is going to have a hard road ahead of her. She will struggle endlessly with reading and writing. She will have to fight her way through school. This will be a test for the whole family, not just for her.
The mother did not respond. She couldn't. She was not stunned. She knew exactly how her daughter was going to feel. After all, she had been there too.
I had no idea what lay ahead, but my little mind, although unable to truly understand what was going on, decided however that I wanted to learn the names of all 50 states, just like my sister. I struggled for years to find my place in this world, and yet, realizing I was slower to read than the other children people would always look at me as dumb, no matter how hard I tried. For years I read books such as “The Bernstein Bears” or “Babar.” Frequently I would go to the local library and sit in the children’s section reading such books, because the school did not carry them, and I didn't want for other kids to see me reading them -- even into high school. My senior year, when I decided that it was time to learn to read, I began with Harry Potter. I started by borrowing the first book in the series from a neighbor, and once I got through the first chapter of the first book, I realized that I could read. It was amazing. That summer I read through the first four books in the series.
I knew from a young age that something was different about me. I knew that every year I would be the only one in my class to be pulled out and tested by some man sitting behind a desk throwing pictures at me asking for me to identify them. I knew that I would be the only one pulled out once or twice a week in elementary school to trace my fingers along a line. I still am not sure what that was about. I knew that I would be one of the few in junior high to be pulled out several times a week for special one-on-one help with a tutor and one of the few in my high school to have a standing appointment with Consuelo Mercier, the school tutor every Thursday, to take the place of one of my electives; in a high school of 1,200.
Throughout my junior high and high school days my mom stood by my side, and together we fought for an education that she knew I deserved; and I was learning that I wanted. When I went into college, I learned that it was up to me to fight for the education that I had discovered I deserved. I watched my sister, who was nearly five years older than me grow up and move away to school. I heard of all the things that she was learning, and knew that I wanted to make a life for myself. I knew that there was more to life than to sit back and not do anything to further my education. I wanted to be just like her. Soon after staring college, I decided what I wanted to do to make a life for myself. I wanted to help the kids like me. I wanted to help prevent them from feeling the same neglect from the school system that I felt.
Banished to the opportunity room in 6th grade, curiosity about what kind of opportunity was really given there revealed a room full of trouble makers. I was no trouble maker; I just couldn't read, and, therefore never did my work. Apparently, it was more effective to put me in this room rather than help me read. This was how life worked. I was banished. What exactly was I supposed to think of myself after that? Two weeks of falling behind in class, all because I was already behind. Physically, that may have affected just two short weeks of my life, yet emotionally, it affected me for years to come. I can still remember Mrs. Cudd's voice as I entered the class room each morning raspy and across the room full of children. The ting, clunk, ting of my feet coming up the aluminum ramp and into the classroom, Just the day before I had been organizing my desk and trying to stay caught up, all the while lost in a day dream. The door clunked open to the classroom as I opened it, knowing, yet anticipating what is about to happen. The musky perfume of the thirty sixth graders jumbled into an old trailer used as a class room struck my nose as sixty two eye balls stared at me as if knowing my secrets. As if they knew what I was thinking, feeling, knowing and doing.
I see you, the aged woman said over the other children. You may now leave.
Turning to walk away in shame, and all the while trying to not let the tears fall from my eyes. I took my textbooks, pens, pencils, and jumbled mess of a self as I clunk, plop, clunked down the ramp. My walk of shame lasted for what seemed like an eternity. Walking past the basketball courts, the tether ball, the monkey bars, the empty poles that once held volleyball net, and past the poles that stood alone, naked and cast away from everything else, where the swings once swung. Yes, I walked past them all and clunk, plop, clunked up the ramp to my new home for the next two weeks. My new home where I would spend from eight in the morning until almost three in the afternoon every day. Yes, the home with the bad kids, when all I did wrong was not doing my homework. The room where my butt would tire from sitting in the hard plastic blue chairs for seven hours a day and my eyes would tire of staring at the wall. The room that I would be excused from, only to get lunch and come back to sit in confinement.
The room was continually kept quiet. If anyone talked, they got in trouble.I entered the 'opportunity' room, and quickly noticed the rows of desks, with children wearing a rainbow of colors. The teacher had her desk situated in such a way that she could sit back, put her feet up on her desk and watch everyone. One dropped pencil, one muttering sent her through the roof, and everyone heard as the child got in trouble.
Over there, Jamie,” said the teacher as she poked her head above her newspaper.
What? I said looking around.
Your desk, it's over there. She said pointing to the corner with her eyes.
I looked and saw the brown desk sitting alone with the plastic blue chair behind it. As the day progressed, I realized that there was a couch directly to her left. Oh, how I would love to sit there, I would often think. Every once in a while the other kids would find their way to the couch, a slipped word here, a slipped word there. I felt all alone in this corner of a room called 'opportunity.'
Ms. Luthy, I don't allow any of my other students to talk. Do you think you are special just because your mom works here?
No ma'am.
Then sit still and do your work.
Humph! I said as I hunched back in my chair, arms fold across my chest. I can't focus any more! It just isn't happening. I just can't!
Well, I suggest you learn, and fast if you ever think that you want out of here.
I wanted out so badly. I felt I was in a death trap. Let me out! I thought to myself.
My mother also worked with the hoodlums in the “opportunity” room. A good majority of them were trouble makers, however most of them just needed some love and encouragement, which she was able to give them. At least I had a familiar face to turn to. She was there for me. But there were moments when she wasn't and I was left alone. Me, the other students and the 'real' teacher. What exactly is two weeks to an eleven year old? I will tell you what two weeks is to an eleven year old. It means scars that never go away. It means feeling like you are never good enough, like you will never measure up.
I later realized that if I could make it through sixth grade, I could make it through anything. I had weathered the storms and had come out victorious. When on the recommendation of Mrs. Cudd, because she thought that I would never succeed the school wanted to hold me back, my mom said no, and pushed me forward. She always pushed me to do better each time that I fell.
As a seventh grader, I was blessed to have a wonderful teacher who cared. She did everything in her power to make me feel like I could succeed in and out of the classroom. I had been taught by her in the second grade and although five years had passed by and there had obviously been changes and growths that had taken place in that time she had an inkling as to how to help. Life as I knew it would get better, one step at a time. This was a welcome change.
As I walked to the door, the walk seemed long and again, the door creaked as I opened it. There is still a musk in the room. Possibility caused by thirty seventh graders. This was before the time of 'No Child Left Behind.', and because the campus was so small and it was the only school in the area they had a hard time preventing over crowding. This time I can make it work, I thought to myself. This time, a smile crosses the face of Mrs. McAlece, a welcome grin that could brighten Antoine's day. This time there were only two eyeballs that stared at me. The room is bright and I thought to myself This is going to be a good year. I found my seat front and center. Not because I wanted to be the center of attention, but because I realized that at 4' I was easily the littlest in the class and knew that there was no way that I would be able to see the wall past the huge head that I somehow have managed to get stuck behind every year since Kindergarten. The head that screamed, See Me? I am your worst nightmare. You can not read because of me.
Mommy, can you help me study?
We sit down on the ugly variegated brown couch that sat uncomfortably on the slate floor in the living room, backed up against the adobe fireplace that hadn't worked in years. She sat at one end of the couch, me on the other.
Together.
T-o-g, I can't do it.
T-o-g-e-t-h-e-r, now you spell it.
T-o-g, I don't remember. I said in despair, throwing my hands in defeat, and we were just on the first word. It would prove to be a very long night. I'm never gunna get this.
Yes you will. Sign it with me.
Together our hands moved simultaneous and formed the letters needed to make up this one word. This was just the first word and it was taking an endless amount of time to get through.
T-o-g-e, she said as her hands moved with her mouth. I'm stuck. Tears began to well.
Try again.
T-o-g-e- th, what makes the th sound?
Again, together. T-o-g-e-t-h-e-r. Our hands moved in unison yet again. She had learned to use sign language as a way to communicate ever since before she could talk. It started as a way to help with the terrible two's, but her parents discovered it's helpfulness is aiding her memory by being able to see, say, and do, which is so important to the dyslexic world.
T-o-g-t
No, again.
T-o-g-e-e
Again, together. Again, their hands moved in unison, to form this word.
Remember, it's to-get-her. It makes no sense, but it works.
T-o-g-e-t-h-e-r.
Good, again.
T-o-g-e-t-h-e-r.
With my mothers’ help I was always kept one step ahead of where I needed to be in order to be in Resource. In my mind I was always too smart to be in special education, or resource, and yet too dumb to be in main-stream. Where do I fit in? I would frequently ask myself. My pediatrician who was also a good family friend always thought that I was 'just lazy.'
Mrs. Luthy, can I see you? The lady doing the umpteenth testing said to my mother. They closed the door, and all I heard were hushed tones. The door opened, and they invited me in.
Jamie. You are dyslexic.
I hope that statement was not meant to come as a shock. By this point I had already been diagnosed and had lived with it for several years.
You will struggle with reading the color red or anything printed in red for years, probably forever. There are some colored sheets that you can use to place over your work to help, but ultimately you will always have to ask your teachers and others to specifically not use the color red. I would later come to realize that this is not a very common problem, but when it is a problem, it is a huge problem.
We were in the house of a friend of my fathers. This was a new test to just come available. Writing on the white board with a rainbow of colors excited my mind. I felt like playing around, and yet my young mind grasped that this was not just for fun, no, this was to see if there was something, anything that would help. As we stood in the small white walled room she showed us what each of the different colors did to my ability to read. She would write a sentence in green and have me read it aloud. Then move on to yellow, blue, red, purple and so forth until she had exhausted all of the different colors. Each color had a different effect. Red produced the worst result, blue the best. I used a blue colored sheet off and on for many years, mostly reserved for use at home, to go over my textbooks and my music when I played the clarinet. If the other children could make fun of those wearing glasses what would stop them from making fun of me?
Please don't use red.
I said cringing as I spoke with my physician while he was writing up instructions for me. While using his favorite choice color; red. I can't read red; it's part of my dyslexia.
I am dyslexic, he said, but I have no problem with red.
I stood there in disbelief. I thought that of all people he would understand me the best, after all, as he pointed out, he was dyslexic. We were in his dingy, dark office. Or, rather, he was in his office and I was standing leaning on the door frame.
From my recollection, this would be the first of many times that I would have to say these words to anyone outside of my family. This would be the first time that I would feel that I had to be proactive. I would need to get used to having these words come out of my mouth, I would be saying them a lot over the next several years. Often they would come out of my mouth as a laugh. Looking back I think that I would laugh to try and cover up the knowledge that I was different. I was not normal.
I can't read red.
What do you mean you can't READ red, you mean you can't see red?
No, I mean I can't read red. I'm not color blind. I can see that your shirt is red, I just can't read what's written in red.
This would become a frequent conversation that would take place for the rest of my life.
It was an afternoon in early September 1999. Nearly 100 degrees outside, and I stood out on the blue ramp to the classroom, enclosed by the railing. Staring out towards to parking lot, waiting for my mother who had yet to show up. Despite the intense heat of the California sun, the leaves were glistening in beautiful shades of reds, oranges and greens. There were four people sitting in a circle, when there were supposed to be nine.
“You have fifteen minutes from now, Ms. Luthy, said Mr. Vaughn, my sophomore English teacher.
“I don't want to get started without her.” I said.
“I have a volleyball team to go coach.”
She's coming, I promise. I said. She wouldn't leave me stranded with 'you,' I thought.
I was fourteen, and although I probably could have handled this situation myself, had it not been for the intimidation that I felt from a man two feet taller than I. I needed to have Mom by my side, as she always had been.
This was the moment I first glimpsed the worlds harshness. This was not the first educator to diminish my educational importance. We were to take place in a meeting with my parents, all seven of my teachers my councilor and myself to discuss how they could each help me. Some were more than happy to be there, others were there by obligation only, and others excused themselves because of prior obligations or because in the case of my PE teacher, there was no need for him. My mom worked at the junior high school just up the road and was trying to get to the school just as fast as she could. She knew the importance that this meeting would have on my success through the rest of the year. We had had these meetings annually and we had them down pretty well by this point. First they would discuss what we would do for curriculum that year, then they would ask for certification of a disability, then lastly we would discuss my needs. This meeting was called a student study team.
My sophomore year of high school proved to be my most challenging time. It was a time of great struggle and resentment. And although I would not recognize it then, it would be a time of great growth too. You know how there are always those teachers who march to the beat of their own drum? There are those teachers who care? Also there are those who just don't care. Or, at least it seems that way. This was my year to have the one who didn't care. The way I figured was, if he didn't care, why should I? I often thought to myself. This was the year that I didn't care. Mr. Vaughn, a man who should have had my best interest at heart, ultimately would not care less whether I succeeded or not. This is not to say that all of my teachers were bad. I would be misrepresenting my experience in total if I continued to let you think I hated all teachers because of this one man and the teacher prior. One teacher, in particular, saw me for who I was and not as a baby sister to four previous students. He would prove to have a heart. I will always be indebted to him. Although I always knew in the back of my mind that he knew of my disability he never made me stand out, and I always felt like a part of the class.
I am so sorry that I cannot make it to the meeting today, I have another appointment. Please send up any notes from the meeting and instructions for me, I will be sure to do everything in my power to help.
This note was received from my Spanish teacher, such a wonderful man. He is one of those few gems who really care. The fact that we had lived in the town for years mattered not. The fact that he had taught all of my older siblings, did not matter. I had a pulse and was his student. That is what mattered.
My sophomore English class most assuredly had to be repeated. This would be the beginning of my time on the independent study program, and I loved it. I remember the excitement I felt as I met with my teacher that first day. I knew that this summer would change my life. I did well that summer, ultimately deciding that I wanted to spend my junior year there. It would be this year that I truly began to realize that I could do whatever I put my mind to. My doctor was severely dyslexic. If he could make it in this world where no one seemed to care, surely I could I would remind myself. One of my teachers was also diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder. If he could make it all work, why couldn't I?
Can I talk to you?
The familiar voice of my theater teacher came on stage while attempting to learn my lines for a one act play. Mr. Huizing pulled me off stage and he all of a sudden got serious.
You are ADD aren't you? He said.
Yes Sir.
So am I. You can do it. I believe in you. He may not have actually said those last few words, but I felt it.
Finally! I thought. I have someone behind me.
In college I would have to meet my professors individually.
Knock, knock. Yes Ms. Luthy.
It is the first week of class again.
I need for you to not use red, please.
A confused look would always cross their faces, and I would have to clarify.
I can't read red, so need I for you to not use red on the board or on my papers.
Oh, just remind me if I do.
My shoes would squeak on the linoleum as I turned away from each professor’s office.
“Utah State Disability Resource Center.”
“Yes, hi. I am transferring up there and need to know what I need to do to be in the DRC.”
“Do you have a certifiable disability?”
“Yes ma'am.”
“What is it?”
“I am Dyslexic and have ADD” I felt as though I had had this conversation far too many times in my 24 years of life.
After being disappointed by teachers and others around me whose paycheck came by being my advocate, I learned not to expect too much out of the people around me, and have ultimately suffered from shutting out those who truly wished to help. Although I am proud of where I have come from and where I am now, some days I wonder what more I might have if I would have let some of the people who wanted to help into my barricaded heart. I guess I will never know. I still have a hard time trusting people around me and letting people in.
College has proven to be a time of great growth and inner searching. I spent many years at Fresno City College in California. I had many wonderful teachers and administrators there, and I will forever be indebted to them for all of their help and encouragement. I have since learned to a greater extent what my strengths are and am now facing new challenges. You know those moments when you say to yourself ah, ha, I belong here. I can do this. Those moments have come little bits at a time. I still have lingering self-doubts, and feel like I am not good enough. Graduation from a university is in sight and, for the first time in my life, I feel that Graduate School is a possibility. For one of the first times in my short life, I feel that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Both of these are things that I spent many years believing were so far out of reach I shouldn't even get my hopes up. I have realized that I will never be 'normal', however, with the strength that I have from being forced to be proactive I can help others in similar circumstances as I have been and continue to be. Life will never be easy, and everyone is faced with their own unique challenges, but it is what you learn from them and what you do with them that matters.
As the mother's pregnancy wore on, it became abundantly clear that issues with the fetus were beyond control. You might want to think about termination of this pregnancy. The doctor said to the parents, and not try again.
Those words stung and sank deeply within in their chests. They had four older children; and although she had been so sick, she wanted, or rather, knew that there was just one more. The knee jerk reaction of the parents was to keep the child; after all, what kind of monster terminates a child that they wanted so desperately? They knew that there could be concerns if they kept the child. What kind of life would she live? Would she be a vegetable? Would she even survive? How would the other children, her own siblings, treat her?
An additional weight on the parents' mind would be the health of the mother. As her pregnancy progressed, so did the mother's health issues. Her two doctors would give opposing view points.
You need surgery. The surgeon would say.
You need to wait. The OB would say.
You will ultimately die. The surgeon would say.
We can't put you under. The OB would say.
Three surgeries later a happy, healthy, baby girl was born. Defying the odds became her life's mission. She grew up in a home with two loving parents and four siblings, and though they made life difficult at times, they loved her and would be there for her.
At a young age her parents knew that she had a disability, but it was not a disability that could be seen. This was, however, something that would affect the rest of her life. It ran rampant in the family, and there was no cure for it, nor was there a way to prevent it. It just was.
The proctor of the test looked grimly at the mother and said one word. Dyslexia. It did not come as a surprise, she suspected it. Her sister did not learn to read at all until sixth grade. She herself never had a name for it growing up. Even her nephew was so severely affected that he did not learn to read until he entered the Navy. Part way through basic training he was pulled out for two weeks to teach him how to read. A twenty year old who never learned how to read!
Ma'am, the proctor said. This little girl is going to have a hard road ahead of her. She will struggle endlessly with reading and writing. She will have to fight her way through school. This will be a test for the whole family, not just for her.
The mother did not respond. She couldn't. She was not stunned. She knew exactly how her daughter was going to feel. After all, she had been there too.
I had no idea what lay ahead, but my little mind, although unable to truly understand what was going on, decided however that I wanted to learn the names of all 50 states, just like my sister. I struggled for years to find my place in this world, and yet, realizing I was slower to read than the other children people would always look at me as dumb, no matter how hard I tried. For years I read books such as “The Bernstein Bears” or “Babar.” Frequently I would go to the local library and sit in the children’s section reading such books, because the school did not carry them, and I didn't want for other kids to see me reading them -- even into high school. My senior year, when I decided that it was time to learn to read, I began with Harry Potter. I started by borrowing the first book in the series from a neighbor, and once I got through the first chapter of the first book, I realized that I could read. It was amazing. That summer I read through the first four books in the series.
I knew from a young age that something was different about me. I knew that every year I would be the only one in my class to be pulled out and tested by some man sitting behind a desk throwing pictures at me asking for me to identify them. I knew that I would be the only one pulled out once or twice a week in elementary school to trace my fingers along a line. I still am not sure what that was about. I knew that I would be one of the few in junior high to be pulled out several times a week for special one-on-one help with a tutor and one of the few in my high school to have a standing appointment with Consuelo Mercier, the school tutor every Thursday, to take the place of one of my electives; in a high school of 1,200.
Throughout my junior high and high school days my mom stood by my side, and together we fought for an education that she knew I deserved; and I was learning that I wanted. When I went into college, I learned that it was up to me to fight for the education that I had discovered I deserved. I watched my sister, who was nearly five years older than me grow up and move away to school. I heard of all the things that she was learning, and knew that I wanted to make a life for myself. I knew that there was more to life than to sit back and not do anything to further my education. I wanted to be just like her. Soon after staring college, I decided what I wanted to do to make a life for myself. I wanted to help the kids like me. I wanted to help prevent them from feeling the same neglect from the school system that I felt.
Banished to the opportunity room in 6th grade, curiosity about what kind of opportunity was really given there revealed a room full of trouble makers. I was no trouble maker; I just couldn't read, and, therefore never did my work. Apparently, it was more effective to put me in this room rather than help me read. This was how life worked. I was banished. What exactly was I supposed to think of myself after that? Two weeks of falling behind in class, all because I was already behind. Physically, that may have affected just two short weeks of my life, yet emotionally, it affected me for years to come. I can still remember Mrs. Cudd's voice as I entered the class room each morning raspy and across the room full of children. The ting, clunk, ting of my feet coming up the aluminum ramp and into the classroom, Just the day before I had been organizing my desk and trying to stay caught up, all the while lost in a day dream. The door clunked open to the classroom as I opened it, knowing, yet anticipating what is about to happen. The musky perfume of the thirty sixth graders jumbled into an old trailer used as a class room struck my nose as sixty two eye balls stared at me as if knowing my secrets. As if they knew what I was thinking, feeling, knowing and doing.
I see you, the aged woman said over the other children. You may now leave.
Turning to walk away in shame, and all the while trying to not let the tears fall from my eyes. I took my textbooks, pens, pencils, and jumbled mess of a self as I clunk, plop, clunked down the ramp. My walk of shame lasted for what seemed like an eternity. Walking past the basketball courts, the tether ball, the monkey bars, the empty poles that once held volleyball net, and past the poles that stood alone, naked and cast away from everything else, where the swings once swung. Yes, I walked past them all and clunk, plop, clunked up the ramp to my new home for the next two weeks. My new home where I would spend from eight in the morning until almost three in the afternoon every day. Yes, the home with the bad kids, when all I did wrong was not doing my homework. The room where my butt would tire from sitting in the hard plastic blue chairs for seven hours a day and my eyes would tire of staring at the wall. The room that I would be excused from, only to get lunch and come back to sit in confinement.
The room was continually kept quiet. If anyone talked, they got in trouble.I entered the 'opportunity' room, and quickly noticed the rows of desks, with children wearing a rainbow of colors. The teacher had her desk situated in such a way that she could sit back, put her feet up on her desk and watch everyone. One dropped pencil, one muttering sent her through the roof, and everyone heard as the child got in trouble.
Over there, Jamie,” said the teacher as she poked her head above her newspaper.
What? I said looking around.
Your desk, it's over there. She said pointing to the corner with her eyes.
I looked and saw the brown desk sitting alone with the plastic blue chair behind it. As the day progressed, I realized that there was a couch directly to her left. Oh, how I would love to sit there, I would often think. Every once in a while the other kids would find their way to the couch, a slipped word here, a slipped word there. I felt all alone in this corner of a room called 'opportunity.'
Ms. Luthy, I don't allow any of my other students to talk. Do you think you are special just because your mom works here?
No ma'am.
Then sit still and do your work.
Humph! I said as I hunched back in my chair, arms fold across my chest. I can't focus any more! It just isn't happening. I just can't!
Well, I suggest you learn, and fast if you ever think that you want out of here.
I wanted out so badly. I felt I was in a death trap. Let me out! I thought to myself.
My mother also worked with the hoodlums in the “opportunity” room. A good majority of them were trouble makers, however most of them just needed some love and encouragement, which she was able to give them. At least I had a familiar face to turn to. She was there for me. But there were moments when she wasn't and I was left alone. Me, the other students and the 'real' teacher. What exactly is two weeks to an eleven year old? I will tell you what two weeks is to an eleven year old. It means scars that never go away. It means feeling like you are never good enough, like you will never measure up.
I later realized that if I could make it through sixth grade, I could make it through anything. I had weathered the storms and had come out victorious. When on the recommendation of Mrs. Cudd, because she thought that I would never succeed the school wanted to hold me back, my mom said no, and pushed me forward. She always pushed me to do better each time that I fell.
As a seventh grader, I was blessed to have a wonderful teacher who cared. She did everything in her power to make me feel like I could succeed in and out of the classroom. I had been taught by her in the second grade and although five years had passed by and there had obviously been changes and growths that had taken place in that time she had an inkling as to how to help. Life as I knew it would get better, one step at a time. This was a welcome change.
As I walked to the door, the walk seemed long and again, the door creaked as I opened it. There is still a musk in the room. Possibility caused by thirty seventh graders. This was before the time of 'No Child Left Behind.', and because the campus was so small and it was the only school in the area they had a hard time preventing over crowding. This time I can make it work, I thought to myself. This time, a smile crosses the face of Mrs. McAlece, a welcome grin that could brighten Antoine's day. This time there were only two eyeballs that stared at me. The room is bright and I thought to myself This is going to be a good year. I found my seat front and center. Not because I wanted to be the center of attention, but because I realized that at 4' I was easily the littlest in the class and knew that there was no way that I would be able to see the wall past the huge head that I somehow have managed to get stuck behind every year since Kindergarten. The head that screamed, See Me? I am your worst nightmare. You can not read because of me.
Mommy, can you help me study?
We sit down on the ugly variegated brown couch that sat uncomfortably on the slate floor in the living room, backed up against the adobe fireplace that hadn't worked in years. She sat at one end of the couch, me on the other.
Together.
T-o-g, I can't do it.
T-o-g-e-t-h-e-r, now you spell it.
T-o-g, I don't remember. I said in despair, throwing my hands in defeat, and we were just on the first word. It would prove to be a very long night. I'm never gunna get this.
Yes you will. Sign it with me.
Together our hands moved simultaneous and formed the letters needed to make up this one word. This was just the first word and it was taking an endless amount of time to get through.
T-o-g-e, she said as her hands moved with her mouth. I'm stuck. Tears began to well.
Try again.
T-o-g-e- th, what makes the th sound?
Again, together. T-o-g-e-t-h-e-r. Our hands moved in unison yet again. She had learned to use sign language as a way to communicate ever since before she could talk. It started as a way to help with the terrible two's, but her parents discovered it's helpfulness is aiding her memory by being able to see, say, and do, which is so important to the dyslexic world.
T-o-g-t
No, again.
T-o-g-e-e
Again, together. Again, their hands moved in unison, to form this word.
Remember, it's to-get-her. It makes no sense, but it works.
T-o-g-e-t-h-e-r.
Good, again.
T-o-g-e-t-h-e-r.
With my mothers’ help I was always kept one step ahead of where I needed to be in order to be in Resource. In my mind I was always too smart to be in special education, or resource, and yet too dumb to be in main-stream. Where do I fit in? I would frequently ask myself. My pediatrician who was also a good family friend always thought that I was 'just lazy.'
Mrs. Luthy, can I see you? The lady doing the umpteenth testing said to my mother. They closed the door, and all I heard were hushed tones. The door opened, and they invited me in.
Jamie. You are dyslexic.
I hope that statement was not meant to come as a shock. By this point I had already been diagnosed and had lived with it for several years.
You will struggle with reading the color red or anything printed in red for years, probably forever. There are some colored sheets that you can use to place over your work to help, but ultimately you will always have to ask your teachers and others to specifically not use the color red. I would later come to realize that this is not a very common problem, but when it is a problem, it is a huge problem.
We were in the house of a friend of my fathers. This was a new test to just come available. Writing on the white board with a rainbow of colors excited my mind. I felt like playing around, and yet my young mind grasped that this was not just for fun, no, this was to see if there was something, anything that would help. As we stood in the small white walled room she showed us what each of the different colors did to my ability to read. She would write a sentence in green and have me read it aloud. Then move on to yellow, blue, red, purple and so forth until she had exhausted all of the different colors. Each color had a different effect. Red produced the worst result, blue the best. I used a blue colored sheet off and on for many years, mostly reserved for use at home, to go over my textbooks and my music when I played the clarinet. If the other children could make fun of those wearing glasses what would stop them from making fun of me?
Please don't use red.
I said cringing as I spoke with my physician while he was writing up instructions for me. While using his favorite choice color; red. I can't read red; it's part of my dyslexia.
I am dyslexic, he said, but I have no problem with red.
I stood there in disbelief. I thought that of all people he would understand me the best, after all, as he pointed out, he was dyslexic. We were in his dingy, dark office. Or, rather, he was in his office and I was standing leaning on the door frame.
From my recollection, this would be the first of many times that I would have to say these words to anyone outside of my family. This would be the first time that I would feel that I had to be proactive. I would need to get used to having these words come out of my mouth, I would be saying them a lot over the next several years. Often they would come out of my mouth as a laugh. Looking back I think that I would laugh to try and cover up the knowledge that I was different. I was not normal.
I can't read red.
What do you mean you can't READ red, you mean you can't see red?
No, I mean I can't read red. I'm not color blind. I can see that your shirt is red, I just can't read what's written in red.
This would become a frequent conversation that would take place for the rest of my life.
It was an afternoon in early September 1999. Nearly 100 degrees outside, and I stood out on the blue ramp to the classroom, enclosed by the railing. Staring out towards to parking lot, waiting for my mother who had yet to show up. Despite the intense heat of the California sun, the leaves were glistening in beautiful shades of reds, oranges and greens. There were four people sitting in a circle, when there were supposed to be nine.
“You have fifteen minutes from now, Ms. Luthy, said Mr. Vaughn, my sophomore English teacher.
“I don't want to get started without her.” I said.
“I have a volleyball team to go coach.”
She's coming, I promise. I said. She wouldn't leave me stranded with 'you,' I thought.
I was fourteen, and although I probably could have handled this situation myself, had it not been for the intimidation that I felt from a man two feet taller than I. I needed to have Mom by my side, as she always had been.
This was the moment I first glimpsed the worlds harshness. This was not the first educator to diminish my educational importance. We were to take place in a meeting with my parents, all seven of my teachers my councilor and myself to discuss how they could each help me. Some were more than happy to be there, others were there by obligation only, and others excused themselves because of prior obligations or because in the case of my PE teacher, there was no need for him. My mom worked at the junior high school just up the road and was trying to get to the school just as fast as she could. She knew the importance that this meeting would have on my success through the rest of the year. We had had these meetings annually and we had them down pretty well by this point. First they would discuss what we would do for curriculum that year, then they would ask for certification of a disability, then lastly we would discuss my needs. This meeting was called a student study team.
My sophomore year of high school proved to be my most challenging time. It was a time of great struggle and resentment. And although I would not recognize it then, it would be a time of great growth too. You know how there are always those teachers who march to the beat of their own drum? There are those teachers who care? Also there are those who just don't care. Or, at least it seems that way. This was my year to have the one who didn't care. The way I figured was, if he didn't care, why should I? I often thought to myself. This was the year that I didn't care. Mr. Vaughn, a man who should have had my best interest at heart, ultimately would not care less whether I succeeded or not. This is not to say that all of my teachers were bad. I would be misrepresenting my experience in total if I continued to let you think I hated all teachers because of this one man and the teacher prior. One teacher, in particular, saw me for who I was and not as a baby sister to four previous students. He would prove to have a heart. I will always be indebted to him. Although I always knew in the back of my mind that he knew of my disability he never made me stand out, and I always felt like a part of the class.
I am so sorry that I cannot make it to the meeting today, I have another appointment. Please send up any notes from the meeting and instructions for me, I will be sure to do everything in my power to help.
This note was received from my Spanish teacher, such a wonderful man. He is one of those few gems who really care. The fact that we had lived in the town for years mattered not. The fact that he had taught all of my older siblings, did not matter. I had a pulse and was his student. That is what mattered.
My sophomore English class most assuredly had to be repeated. This would be the beginning of my time on the independent study program, and I loved it. I remember the excitement I felt as I met with my teacher that first day. I knew that this summer would change my life. I did well that summer, ultimately deciding that I wanted to spend my junior year there. It would be this year that I truly began to realize that I could do whatever I put my mind to. My doctor was severely dyslexic. If he could make it in this world where no one seemed to care, surely I could I would remind myself. One of my teachers was also diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder. If he could make it all work, why couldn't I?
Can I talk to you?
The familiar voice of my theater teacher came on stage while attempting to learn my lines for a one act play. Mr. Huizing pulled me off stage and he all of a sudden got serious.
You are ADD aren't you? He said.
Yes Sir.
So am I. You can do it. I believe in you. He may not have actually said those last few words, but I felt it.
Finally! I thought. I have someone behind me.
In college I would have to meet my professors individually.
Knock, knock. Yes Ms. Luthy.
It is the first week of class again.
I need for you to not use red, please.
A confused look would always cross their faces, and I would have to clarify.
I can't read red, so need I for you to not use red on the board or on my papers.
Oh, just remind me if I do.
My shoes would squeak on the linoleum as I turned away from each professor’s office.
“Utah State Disability Resource Center.”
“Yes, hi. I am transferring up there and need to know what I need to do to be in the DRC.”
“Do you have a certifiable disability?”
“Yes ma'am.”
“What is it?”
“I am Dyslexic and have ADD” I felt as though I had had this conversation far too many times in my 24 years of life.
After being disappointed by teachers and others around me whose paycheck came by being my advocate, I learned not to expect too much out of the people around me, and have ultimately suffered from shutting out those who truly wished to help. Although I am proud of where I have come from and where I am now, some days I wonder what more I might have if I would have let some of the people who wanted to help into my barricaded heart. I guess I will never know. I still have a hard time trusting people around me and letting people in.
College has proven to be a time of great growth and inner searching. I spent many years at Fresno City College in California. I had many wonderful teachers and administrators there, and I will forever be indebted to them for all of their help and encouragement. I have since learned to a greater extent what my strengths are and am now facing new challenges. You know those moments when you say to yourself ah, ha, I belong here. I can do this. Those moments have come little bits at a time. I still have lingering self-doubts, and feel like I am not good enough. Graduation from a university is in sight and, for the first time in my life, I feel that Graduate School is a possibility. For one of the first times in my short life, I feel that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Both of these are things that I spent many years believing were so far out of reach I shouldn't even get my hopes up. I have realized that I will never be 'normal', however, with the strength that I have from being forced to be proactive I can help others in similar circumstances as I have been and continue to be. Life will never be easy, and everyone is faced with their own unique challenges, but it is what you learn from them and what you do with them that matters.
Introduction
Hi all. My name is Jamie. By way of introduction I am the daughter of two great parents who have faught with me side-by-side throughout my life. My mother is dyslexic and when I was about four years old, they saw the same problems with reading as she had and they had me tested. I have been certified and re-certified over and over again ever since the age of 4. At 12, and in seventh grade it was suggested that I be tested for Attention Defficite Disorder, which I was and found to be. At seventeen, and in my first semester of college, I refused to take Ritalin, because I knew about the health concerns that associated taking them. At about the same time, I experienced my first migraine. It was horrible. I remember sitting in the sun and not being able to see anything. At 25, and now having transfered to a university I decided to be recertified with ADD, which I was. At the same time it was brought to my attention that there is assistive technology to help with the dyslexia. I am not one to hock techlologies, however, I believe heavily in the LiveScribe Pulse Smart Pen. I am able to record the lectures from class, and take notes at the same time. It is just a little bigger than carrying a regular pen and yet all of the technology is great. At the same time that I was rediagnosed as ADD, I was also then diagnossed with Anxiety Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, which means that I check stoves doors and plugs many times over.
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