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.