Diagnosis: Dyslexia

There are some pretty famous people throughout history that had or have dyslexia. Woopy Goldberg has it I think, and apparently Einstein had it also because he couldn’t read when he was a kid, so his teachers thought he was stupid. But to tell you the truth I don’t know if Einstein had it or not because I don’t know if it was something that was diagnosed back then. Sometimes people who have a difficult time learning something, such as reading or writing get diagnosed as dyslexic but it’s just because they’re learning at a slower rate, it’s not because they actually have it.

So, how do you know I have it? Or had? Whatever. Well, I don’t need you to be convinced to know how difficult it was for me to learn to read. It was difficult. But you should know how they diagnosed me with dyslexia, and then you can decide for yourself if you think I have it.

So, to tell this story we have to go back to second grade. The same private school, same lemon yellow walls that started at white near the floor and felt like sunshine near the ceiling. We’re there now–just transported back in time. And obviously my teacher(s) were wondering why I was having so much harder of a time learning how to read and write and spell, because once that girl, Nataya, made fun of me for not knowing how to read my teacher(s) realized I had a problem. Since it was a private school they didn’t really have the expertise to deal with someone like me, so a lady from the public school came to my private school one day and took me out of Spanish, which was fine by me because–I mean–how are you suppose to learn Spanish when you can’t even learn English, which was more important at the time for me, because if you can’t read in our society you’re really not going to be able to do much.

The lady that came from the public school had short dark hair and wore a blue blouse and she had me do a bunch of weird things. First she had me read/try to read some easy books. Stuff like “See Spot Run” but obviously I couldn’t, and that wasn’t weird. Then she took out some papers from her binder, stuff with patterns and pictures. She had me cut along a line that was jagged with scissors. We put a ruler against the wall and I put my hand there, with my thumb out. She let the ruler fall and I snapped my thumb back to catch it. We did this probably a half dozen times. I guess it was for reflexes and stuff. Then she had me look at Rorschach pictures and tell her what I saw. I didn’t see much, just like mountain climbers and dinosaur fossils and cliche things like that.

The reason I don’t know if Einstein had dyslexia or not is because I doubt he went through something like this. Maybe he just had a difficult time read at first and so people think he might have been dyslexic. I think people think it’s cool to have dyslexia now days, but if you actually have it, it’s just a lot of work.

5/19/15 What is May?

May is the most difficult month. The month that makes fools of the weather, the plants, the animals, and most of all, me. May is like the prettiest girl at the party. The prettiest girl at the concert, and also the ugliest model at times–or perhaps it is her personality is that is ugly. May sees the start of the hot days. The days that are called the honeymoon days. The days in which it seems like nothing could ever go wrong, before they do. Then, to keep things interesting May might throw in a thunderstorm or tantrum. She might throw in a downpour of tears and gusty winds that can’t decide which way to blow. What she wants at all. And in this fine splice of unpredictability there is calm and quiet, and then just before the sun rises, the singing of the birds. You relax your head, leaning it on her shoulder and for a moment she relaxes as well. Lending some swirling clouds to the sunset, leaving you wondering where the day has gone–if it were all a dream, and if so why you can’t have it every night. But no, it isn’t a dream. It’s just one day of many. One month of twelve. Sleep is all that can bring tomorrow. The summer.

4/30/15 Like A Piece of Drywall

When she arrived home there was nobody there. She parked her Four Runner in the garage and lowered the door. The door that lead into the kitchen through the garage door was unlocked. As she pulled it shut behind her, she turned the little nub.

She was just amazed Claudia could have been related to such a creep! Drugs, thieving–maybe Danny had actually killed people. The thought upset her. She walked to the front door and made sure it was locked. Then the sliding glass door that lead out onto the deck yard. Also locked. In the right hand corner of the backyard was the shed. It was full of gardening tools and home repair stuff. A ladder was lying on its side just lying there. Anyone could steal it. Anyone could just grab it and walked away in the middle of the night and sell it for drug money!

Margaret put down her purse on the kitchen table, then thought better of it and picked it up. What if someone broke and took it? She brought it into Gordon’s office with her and set it on his desk. She booted up the computer and sat back in the leather desk chair. Outside a car door slammed. A dog barked. Maybe they should get a dog. Ava would love it and it could keep people like Danny away. Margaret jumped as the computer made out a loud beep! The internal fan started to whir. She heard a lawnmower start up. The house creaked. It was an uncomfortable sound and she held her breath for a moment. It creaked again. Margaret leapt to her feet, clutching her handbag. She walked to the office door and peered out into the living room.

“Hello?” she asked, wishing her voice sounded louder and more confident.

She thought back to the first time her parents had left her home alone.

“And if you cook anything don’t leave the kitchen with the stove on,” said her mother.

Outside it was dark and every window was a black mirror that showed a darker house than the one Margaret was in.

“And if anything goes wrong you can call the restaurant,” Daddy said.

“I know,” whined Margaret. They had told her all of this before. She was 13 years old and Debby Shrumpt and Ryan Fingel had already been left home alone a dozen times–and they were both months younger than her. She could handle an evening by herself. She’d reassured her parents over and over–and did they ever believe her?

“Okay,” said Daddy. “The McKay’s across the street know you’re spending the evening alone, so if anything goes wrong they said you could call on them, just right across the street.”

Again, hadn’t Daddy said all this time and again–really? Time and again. She swore, her parents treated her like a piece of drywall. As if their words just bounced right off her and she was completely incapable sitting around and watching the tv for a whole evening by herself.