A Coat of Curiosity

Over the past six months my students and I have been writing on the topic of: life with dyslexia. We have been motivated to publish our work into a zine that can be shared with teachers, parents, and you (more information on that later this summer)! While the zine is forthcoming, I would like to share the piece that I worked on for this project. I was inspired to write this after a conversation with Rebecca Marsh about leaving my pride and perfection at the door. Not only was Rebecca the source of inspiration and encouragement for this writing, but she also graciously offered her help in the editing process. Thank you Rebecca, without you this idea would continue to be a one-liner in an email.

When I was a kid, I really struggled with spelling.  My mom was my constant spell checker.  Then when I got to college, I transferred that job to my roommate, Maggie.  Turns out that being nominated for a job you didn't ask for isn't always appreciated.  Before you even ask–yes, I had spell check.  But everybody knows that you have to get close enough to the right spelling for spellcheck to work.  If you're dyslexic like me, however, you know how frustrating that can be.  In fact, you get so frustrated that you end up settling for a different word instead of saying what you really wanted to say.  Your true voice is muted, a lesser version of what it could be.  That's why I relied on my roommate– who finally wrangled her way out of the job when I heard that she was telling everybody I was just a dumb jock. "She's so stupid.  She's only here because she can play softball.  She can't spell even the most basic words."  That last accusation was true, but the other two were not.  I learned a hard lesson that freshman year of college: keep your uncertainties to yourself.  If you want to show how smart you are, you must always have the right answer. And that's the lesson I have spent the last 5 years unlearning.

This lesson followed me into my early years of teaching.  Plagued by the fear of being wrong, I became good at pretending I knew everything.  I would use my extensive vocabulary and excellent conversational skills as a cover-up. My coat of perfection hid the fact that there was a lot I didn't know and didn't understand.

It was a heavy coat and a bit scratchy, but man did I look good in it–like I knew what I was talking about.  I had all the answers.  I carried them around in a book.  Let's talk about that book: it had an answer key and a carefully selected set of questions that aligned with its long list of rules (ignoring the ridiculous number of exceptions). What I couldn't understand was how all those rules contributed to a larger system.  You see, we dyslexics have a gift for seeing the bigger picture.  But this gift has its tradeoffs.  If we can't make sense of the larger picture, the smaller details slip away.  This is why I needed all the answers at my fingertips: those answers helped me feel safe.  If I lost the answers, they'd question my knowing, and they'd question my right to be in the room–my right to call myself a teacher.

So I wore this coat.  This coat of Perfection.

It didn't actually save me from the unknowing; what it saved me from…was even asking.  Why ask questions that would expose the very thing I was trying to hide? I didn't dare admit that the long list of rules that frustrated my students didn't make sense to me either.

Then I was introduced to a community of people who hung their coats at the door.  Some didn't even seem to need a coat.  This group of people didn't care if I was right or wrong, because they recognized that knowledge and clarity were a quest. Sometimes a mistake is exactly what you need to get closer to understanding. Grappling with inaccuracies is how we build a coherent picture.  They often said that things are defined by what they are not.  In this community, there was no need to pretend that I had all the answers.

I distinctly remember a day when I confidently shared my misunderstanding to the whole group. The scholar who was hosting the class tipped his head back in pure joy. He delighted in my error– just as he delighted in his own. He celebrated that my gaffe offered a chance to see something in a new way. He used to say that either you're wrong or you're right and both are equally wonderful!  If you're wrong, you have an opportunity to learn something new; and if you're right, you're on the right track–but it's not nearly as interesting.

I knew I had found my home.  A safe space where I could learn and be free to be myself.  Once I joined this community, I shed my coat of perfection and discovered a coat of curiosity underneath.  It suits me so well!

Love Over Mastery

Recently, I had the opportunity to meet with the classroom teacher of a student of mine, who I’ll call Unicorn. Unicorn is an apt name because she is one of those students who must have been formed from the stuff of teachers’ dreams. Each time you interact with Unicorn, her infectious enthusiasm for learning, despite the subject matter having a history of being less than forgiving, is a rare and precious find.  Unicorn’s teacher was equally eager to help our shared student. We both recognized the tremendously hard work Unicorn puts forth and wanted to see her soar. I spent an hour with this teacher and in that time was able to give her some brief basics of Structured Word Inquiry and how she could help further the work I have been doing with Unicorn in the classroom.

In lieu of a classroom spelling test, Unicorn’s teacher had the great idea to give her an index card box labeled “Unicorn’s Magic Spelling Box” where she could collect her mastered words in the contents of the box. The teacher shared this idea with me and I immediately felt awry with the idea of mastery.  I knew that Unicorn’s teacher is a lovely person who is working in creative ways to help Unicorn succeed. I knew that for the ten years I spent teaching in the classroom that I, too, have used the word mastery countless times. Yet I couldn’t shake the weight of the word and the implications it has had on dyslexics (like myself) as well as humanity as a whole.

As you could predict, the word mastery has a ghastly history. It comes from late Old English mægester meaning “a man having control or authority over a place; a teacher or tutor of children” (as referenced by etymonline). As Douglas Harper writes, “In the broadest sense, ‘one who has power to control, use, or dispose (of something or some quality) at will.’” And in it’s darkest hours has been used with a sense of “owner of a living creature” (dog, horse, slave) in the 1700’s, only to rear its ugly head again in the 1930’s, having the sense of a “master race.”

Although I am certain that educators do not use the word master in the sense that it has been given in its darkest days, even the sentiment that one has authority over orthographic representation is a sentiment that I find unsettling. Too often, we put pressure on our dyslexics to perform, or ‘demonstrate mastery’ without allowing space for the dyslexic experience.  Part of being dyslexic is making spelling mistakes, even when we've studied the word before. For most, if not all, dyslexics, spelling is skill that comes and goes depending on the cognitive load you’re carrying.  Just ask any dyslexic how their spelling has been throughout this pandemic, I’d bet you $10 they’d say it has gotten worse.  Spelling is something that shines and then fades, but the understanding, the picture, the history of words and the story of humanity…that will always be there. 

What if instead of focusing on being the know-it-all speller with never a spelling blunder, we shifted to working towards understanding our language?  How does it work, where did it come from and, what are its relatives?  What if instead of reaching towards mastery of spelling, we worked to build a reverence for our language that leaves us wanting to learn more? I saved a quote sent to me from a former student’s mom, as we were preparing for our final session before she went off to college.  Her mom writes, “Whatever path she takes in life, I know she will now be successful. She loves words!”  What a powerful sentiment, “She loves words!”  Not, she has yet to encounter a word she can’t spell.  Not, she has mastered an arbitrary list of 12th grade spelling words.  Not, she is magically no longer dyslexic and can spell all the things!  No.  Loving words, loving the richness of our language. This love doesn’t come from mastery, but instead a respect and understanding of the humanity, and at times inhumanity, of our language. 

After receiving an email from Unicorn’s teacher about her spelling box idea, I wrote:

“In Structured Word Inquiry we say, 'you can't step in the same river twice.'  Sometimes when we revisit a word family, we discover something new about it that we hadn't noticed before.  It's completely normal for (Unicorn) to revisit word families that might be in the box.  Instead of saying mastered I like to say that we have our picture*.  We dyslexics are very visual people, and to have our picture of a word family means that we understand the base and how the base can be used to form words in the family. Having your picture is far more expansive than knowing how to spell one word.  It's richer and more fulfilling; it’s the difference between knowing and understanding.”

*Shout out to the wonderful Emily O’Connor who first introduced the idea of ‘having your picture’ to me. Big love.

Diverting to a New Plan

When the shelter in place order was given by Oregon Governor Kate Brown there were so many unknowns. One strategy I found comforting was reminding myself to focus on ways that I can help, and try not to worry about the rest. I knew families were concerned about how their children were going to access learning while quarantined. This is where I knew I could help. I started by asking the community of families I work with, if they would be open to sharing their tutoring session with another student. Additionally, I would open 2 free game sessions a week to any student who wanted to join. This was a way that students could access as many as 4 sessions a week, without adding any cost.

This presentation is something that came out of that shift, or <diversion>, if you will . David and Carter, two students who live less than a mile away but hadn’t ever really met before, joined together (virtually) on Mondays and Wednesdays to share their knowledge with a community of scholars. We decided to investigate a word that both David and Carter could relate to: <invert>. Both boys have taken classes at a local BMX bike gym and were familiar with an inversion; a BMX bike move where the rider turns the handles towards themselves while in mid-air. We noticed the following:

<in> <vert>

“to, towards” “turn”

in + vert —> invert

<in> <verse> <ion>

“to, towards” “turn”

in + verse + ion—> inversion

From there our investigation started. These two words were clearly related, yet the base element had a different structure. Although the base had a different structure, the denotation was the same. Could it be? A twin base element? And if so, how could we know for sure? With these inquires, we set off to find some answers, and share our findings with you!

Divert your attention solely to this screen and block out all other diversions. May we present to you:

The Fault Lines of My Memory

Recently I watched a video of an artist performing Kintsugi, a Japanese art form that dates back to the 1700s.  In the video, the artist intentionally broke a bowl with a hammer, and then methodically repaired the wreckage with a golden lacquer along the fault lines.  Fault…isn’t that a funny word?  I can say with 100% certainty that it was my fault I dropped my less than a month old iPhone this morning.  I was rushing and trying to do too much at once when I dropped the phone, right on the pavement.   

Although I won’t perform my own repairs with golden lacquer, I was able to witness a repair in myself; a repair I often find in my students as well. 

Still rushing, I called the store where I purchased my phone and inquired about the process for getting it repaired.  The person on the line informed me, “all you need to do is go onto /əʃɝɑn/.com (don’t worry, if you don’t know IPA, all will be reveled soon) and complete a claim. 

“Okay, /əʃɝɑn/.com” I responded, “Can you spell that for me?” I say with a bit of panic in my voice, instantly knowing that this is a company with an invented spelling that I am going to need to commit to memory in the next 3 seconds while driving and heading towards that lizard brain state that happens so often when I am triggered by an expectation I have historically failed to meet.

“Sure!” she responds, “a.s.u.r.i.o.n.”

Suddenly, I find my picture and the panic melts away.  “Oh!” “A + sure + ion, that’s funny!  They took the base <sure>, the same base used in insurance, insured, ensure, and assure and created a new word using meaningful elements. How witty of them!  Using <ion>, a noun forming suffix, makes sense because it’s the name of a business.  I noticed…they didn’t use the assimilated form of <ad> that I would expect (<as>) but instead just an <a>, which is something I have seen <ad> do before.” A deep breathe ensues. “I can remember this, I have my picture.”

For the rest of my drive home, I relish in my ability to witness this breath  taking transformation that has happened in my brain.  I can almost feel the fault lines illuminating a new path as I access information about structure and meaning and divert from the path of rote memorization.  It was no fault of my own that the only tool I had to access spelling was rote memorization and phonology.  Sending me on an endless loop of: “write what you hear.” “I think I heard this.” “Does that look right?” “No, that must be wrong.” “Maybe if I pronounce it this way.”  “Which way did I teach myself to pronounce this word so that I can spell it?” “Uhhh, I forget”.  “Okay, I’ll just have to call and ask for the spelling again when I get home.” 

I even found myself repeating the spelling on a loop, resorting to old behaviors. I had to stop myself and say, “Morgan, you’ve got this.  You have your picture.  You don’t have to do this anymore.”

Much research has been done on how memory works.  In one study, Narrative Stories as Mediators for Serial Learning by Bower and Clark twenty-four people were asked to study twelve lists with ten words each.  Half of the people were asked to memorize the words using normal study and rehearsal techniques and were given the same amount of time as the other half who were asked to weave the words into a meaningful story.  The group that relied solely on rote memorization were able to immediately recall an average of 13% of the words.  The group that was asked to weave the words into stories of their own invention, were able to remember 93% of the words under the same conditions.  Can you believe, an 80% difference between those using story and those simply willing themselves to memorize?  I can.

Memory works far better when we can attach meaning to what we already know.  When we know the story of where words came from and how they’re built we don’t have to panic that we’ll forget.  Memory athlete and triple world-record holder, Yanjaa Wintersoul, explained her process for remembering 500 digits in 10 minutes in a recent documentary, The Mind Explained. “It helps in putting very random abstract things in order, when you attach it to what you already know.” Wintersoul explains. “We are more wired to remember that, than to remember a random set of digits.  In general we’re like emotional and visual learners, and story tellers.” she says with a smile. “The more you can associate things you want to remember with structures you already have in your mind, the easier it’s going to be to remember” adds Dr. Elizabeth Phelps, a neuroscientist at Harvard University.

And to make matters worse, the documentary adds, memories paired with an emotionally charged experience, like say…the fear of appearing dumb in front of your peers, have exacerbated inaccuracies.

Isn’t it great when an approach that is backed by conventional wisdom and common sense is also reinforced by science?  I am not here to place fault on the educators before me who insist that a phonics only approach is the best way to remediate struggling readers and spellers.  But I do want to illuminate the beauty of a process that can unfold when we piece together the stories of our shared humanity to see that the fault lines of English orthography are precisely where the story resides.

My Story- Long Version

I wasn’t an easy student.  Although I strived to be what everyone wanted me to be, there was a subtle, yet constant, undertow pinning me down. I was evaluated in the first grade and since my intelligence quotient couldn’t explain why learning was difficult, ADD was the best explanation the psychologist could offer.  I went through school experiencing the glimmer of a few successful years embedded within a sea of gut wrenching, pain inducing, shame riddled years.  I learned quickly the difference an educator can make. 

                  As time grew on, my ADD diagnosis didn’t seem to fit.  I begged my mom to not have me reevaluated because I was so scared that I was broken.  Whatever it was, this inkling, was wreaking havoc on my self-esteem.  By high school my teachers said I must have ‘grown out’ of the ADD, but I knew I that whatever was ‘wrong’ with me, hadn’t gone away.  Although my mother reassured me that my intelligence was above average, I chalked that up to a proud mom willing to embellish her recollection of my evaluation for the sake of her daughter’s sensitives.  I was constantly pushing to prove to myself that I wasn’t dumb. 

                  When was accepted into a top teacher’s college, I assumed it was the softball coach that pulled me in for my pitching.  My freshman roommate confirmed my worst fear by telling everyone that I was a “dumb jock” who couldn’t spell more than a four-letter word.  In some ways she was right, even the spell check on my shiny new MacBook couldn’t ameliorate my erroneous spelling.

                  Like most dyslexics, the skills I lacked in rote memorization and spelling I made up for in grit.  I started to excel in college by over compensating for my areas of weakness with effort and organization. I was able to follow my interests, special education and literature, and avoid the things I knew weren’t my strengths like foreign language.  Every once in a while, I would receive a glimmer of hope that I wasn’t dumb after all, that there was more to my story than what the academic world was reflecting back at me.  When I decided I was going to teach in New York City my advisor suggested, “what about Columbia University for your master’s program?”  She wrote me her recommendation and I wrote my best essay and sent it off with bated breath. 

                  To no one’s surprise but my own, I was accepted.  This narrative of the dumb girl who worked really hard to compensate for her shortcomings didn’t quite fit anymore.  Yet, I was always left with the question of what exactly it was that made me different. And yes, I still had my doubts that the admissions office at Columbia University had made a clerical error in my acceptance.

                  Fast forward to ten years of teaching when I consistently gravitated towards one particular type of learning style.  My passion lied in the students who were extremely intelligent in conversation yet struggled at such a deep level with reading, writing, and spelling.  I couldn’t accept that these kids weren’t intelligent.  I knew they were.  I didn’t realize at the time, but now know, I saw myself in each and every one of these kids.  I became a National Board Certified Teacher in hopes that the rigorous process would shed some light on teaching students with dyslexia.  When that didn’t help, I paid for my own trainings on dyslexia all while working as a special education teacher for a public school.  I learned as much as I could, but still couldn’t identify where the pull was coming from.  It wasn’t until I took a week-long training on how to identify students with dyslexia that I realized I could check all of the boxes on my own warning signs questionnaire. 

                  Eventually I left the classroom to become a full-time tutor because I simply knew too much.  I could no longer stomach the conversations I was being asked to have.  I was indirectly asked not to say “dyslexia” and again and again not given the resources to meet the needs of my students, even though I felt I had the knowledge.  

                  I joined the board for Decoding Dyslexia, Oregon and became a certified Barton tutor.  There was only one problem, the Barton program began to awaken me to that sinking feeling in my stomach.  That, ‘you’re too dumb for this to make sense’ voice started sneaking back into my work.  I became nervous about making spelling mistakes.  I was the tutor after all!  I hid behind my teacher’s book, so thankful that I wasn’t the one in the hot seat.  My spelling actually became worse and I was struggling to remember every rule along with keeping track of when the rules could and couldn’t be applied.  You see, I’m a dyslexic.  Learning by rote memorization of rules is my worse enemy.  This is simply not how dyslexics learn best.  I could feel this program begin to ignite doubt in myself, but even worst in the students I was working to help. 

                  In March 2018 I attended a conference hosted by Emily O’Connor, and presented by Gina Cooke and Pete Bowers.  My head was spinning with information, but I immediately could feel that glimmer of hope that had been tucked away in the depths of my gut.  Gina offered a new understanding; the primary governance of spelling did not reside in phonology.  The ‘write what you hear’ strategy that Barton was offering was is not based on scientific understanding of how English has evolved.  English is governed by meaning first.  At one point in the conference Gina was explaining why teaching spelling based on syllabication doesn’t work in English.  I turned to her with a solemn face and said, “You mean I’m not dumb?” Gina was saying syllabication doesn’t make sense because it is simply non-sensical. Take the simple example of the word <action>. A syllable based approach would teach this as a two syllable word ac/tion. But when you think of the sense and meaning of this word, it is clear to all native English speakers that the word <action> is related to <act>. To take action, is to act. This word could be analyzed as act + ion. In no way does the pronunciation carry the primary governance in the spelling of this word. Gina offered a meaning first approach that didn’t hinge upon writing what you hear. That’s the day the house of sound came tumbling down for me. My misunderstanding was no longer attributed to a ‘lack of ability’ from my students or me.  The Barton method offered trickery when what we craved was truth.

                  Every step along my path has brought me to this point in my career.  There has been a lot of pain, heartbreak, and a feeling of brokenness that has come with this journey. Yet, I never lost that glimmer of hope that there was more to the picture than what my experiences had to offer. This work has brought me light. This journey has made me feel whole.  I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  The work that I am privileged to do is personal.  I have walked in my students’ shoes.  I am walking along side in their journey. 

I know what it feels like to feel broken.  I also know the liberation in finding answers to our questions.  We are in this together.