A Reminder

 

I’m filled with so many emotions when I look at this picture. Tenderness, sadness, regret. The signs of dyslexia were there, but I didn’t see them. I didn’t even know them. Back then we spent so much time memorizing those “sight words.” He remembered that the word “of” has an o and an f, but he couldn’t remember the order (hadn’t mapped those letters and sounds). I think it’s pretty clever that he tried to spell the word “love” with the same letters he heard in the word “of.” And he often mixed up letter names…so when he wanted to write, “I love you, Mom” he put a y instead of the letter u for the word “you.” Oh my heart. I can see the struggle and the effort this writing took…and I love that it’s a picture of me and him…flying drones together on a train track. -He’s always loved trains.

I didn’t see the signs of dyslexia. I didn’t even know what dyslexia was. If I had known how to help my son when he was in kindergarten, I could have prevented so much heartache. I can imagine what it would have been like. I would have started providing appropriate intervention with him right away. I wouldn’t have wasted any time. I know exactly what I would have done. Those struggles with the alphabet? Those struggles with phonemic awareness? I would have known how to assess him, I would have known his specific weaknesses, and I could have taught him accordingly. I could have set him up for success from the beginning. I wouldn’t have let him struggle in a sea of words. I wouldn’t have left him in that water, gasping for air, holding on to useless life preservers being thrown at him from every direction. I would have taught him to swim. Efficiently, explicitly, systematically. I wouldn’t have laughed when he told me that his favorite part of kindergarten was going home. I would have realized that this statement was a cry for help…a realization that he felt he didn’t belong…that school was a battlefield…that he felt defeated every moment of the day. Perhaps he never would have felt those overwhelming emotions of inadequacy, of despair, of constantly comparing himself to those around him. Perhaps he would have never sobbed those awful words, “I wish I were dead!” over and over, collapsing in my arms in exhaustion. Perhaps I could have saved him some heartache. I’m sorry, N. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know there was a better way.

But now I do. It took a full year after his diagnosis…but finally I understood how to help him. I started working with him at the very end of his 3rd grade year. We barely missed a day that summer and I continued to provide intervention for him through the school years. By fifth grade he had caught up with his peers in his accuracy. And a few months ago, when I gave him a quick assessment to monitor his progress, my 6th grader read 140 words correct per minute with 100% accuracy on a 6th grade passage. Benchmark is 120. I cried. I am so proud of him…but I’m also filled with remorse, because if I had started helping him in kindergarten, it wouldn’t have taken so long to get to grade level. Prevention is so much easier than remediation.

It was 6 years ago when he drew me this picture and I’m not sure why I can’t seem to take it off my wall. It serves as a reminder to me. It reminds me of the heartache, the struggle, the despair, the depression. It reminds me of his pain and also of my guilt as a mother and teacher, unsure of what to do. It reminds me of the teacher I was and the teacher I am now. I think of everything I’ve learned and applied in my own classroom. I feel grateful, but also guilt that my learning came at his expense. I think of all the students I’ve been able to help…because of him. It also reminds me of how far he’s come. The enormous learning gap that has been shrinking. I think of the triumphs, the silver linings, the unbreakable connection we have with each other. I think of the beauty of cuddling on the couch as he reads aloud to me. I think of him coming into my classroom, relief on his face, ready to work with me…a respite from the storm. I think of the times he has said how he loves reading. I think of catching him late at night…still reading under the covers…upset that it’s time for lights out. I think of the time he told me he was glad he had dyslexia. I think of him proudly wearing his “Think like a dyslexic” shirt to school. I think of his desire to help others with dyslexia, asking when he can become a dyslexia youth advocate. And I look at that picture on my wall and I think of the others who are out there, just like him. There are others struggling in that sea of words. Who will help them navigate the storm? I want to. I need to. Now that I know how…I need to prevent others from this treacherous journey. We can do better. We must.

Image from artist, Paddy Donnelly