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!