My Dyslexic Experience
Non-fiction Essay
My name is Scarlet, and my experience as a dyslexic student has opened my eyes to the unfair generalization that comes with the diagnosis, and has pushed me to help people see with empathy for the individual journey.
When I was in elementary school, primarily during the third grade, I had very little knowledge of dyslexia. They had read us books on it, about how words would run off the page, leaving a student in a state of confusion. I would listen eagerly, painting a picture of the diagnosis in my head: A student desperately chasing after consonants and vowels, reaching out to grab them before they inevitably disappeared.
The fantasy became excruciating when I started to fall behind. I would glare at a book, wishing the letters would move around, run off my page like the teacher had described. I wanted an answer to my confusion. A reason that I was not to blame for my lack of progress. It got to a point where my teacher was fed up. She brought my parents in and stated it clearly. Though my memory of it is foggy, I remember her saying something along the lines of: “Scarlet has fallen too far behind the other students. If she wants to move on to fourth grade in this school, she needs to go to summer school.” This, of course, was devastating to me because I wanted to go to camp over the summer, splash in the pool, and climb on the rock wall. My parents, though motivated by something more important than a swimming pool, were also angry. I remember a while after that, my mom came up to me and told me they were going to get me tested for dyslexia. I was terrified of this: running to my room and refusing to go. I did not have dyslexia; I couldn’t. All the letters were set in stone, and I had no excuse. I was afraid that they would just tell me what I already knew: that I didn’t have dyslexia, I just wasn’t trying.
The day I begrudgingly went to get tested, I was nervous. I felt like I had been keeping a secret, and that getting tested was my lie detector. But when I walked into the room, the woman smiled at me and invited me to sit down. She then led me through a series of games and puzzles, testing things like my memory. I was confused, waiting for the real testing to start. That never happened, though, and as I held the lemon candies she gave me on the way out to the car, I was dumbfounded. This was nothing even remotely close to the book or what my teacher had said.
I had a couple more visits with her before the diagnosis came. I was dyslexic. The word seemed alien now, and I had lost trust in school. They had led me astray, and I wouldn’t let it happen again. This was partly why, when the woman who tested me recommended the Carroll School, I was totally against it. I begged my mom not to go, pressing her to believe me that the teachers wouldn’t change. I did not want to leave my friends for another school that would assume things about me. In an interview with Carroll, OG tutor, Ms. Hansel, she remarked on how this past educational trauma lingers: “It can really affect their sense of self and how they see themselves as a learner.”
However, after a few interviews and tests at Carroll, my opinion started to change. I agreed to go to the revisit day, still promising my mom there was no way I’d like it. I was nervous on the drive to Carroll, fidgeting with my hands. But when I walked into a small classroom of eager students, my nerves melted away. They invited me to sit with them, and the teacher told me they were reading as a class. The book was Harry Potter, and the students were very excited. Though I did not understand their excitement about reading, I gave it a chance. The teacher read a few lines, giving each character a unique voice that the students loved, then she asked if anybody wanted to read. I readied myself for an awkward silence; why would they voluntarily read? Apparently, they didn’t agree with me because seconds later, hands all over the classroom shot up. The teacher glanced around, then picked a girl who sat at my table. She enthusiastically started to read, then stumbled over a word. She looked up expectantly to the teacher, and the teacher gave her a hint. Something along the lines of “try sounding the word out,” or “is the vowel saying its name?” I can’t remember exactly what she said, but that’s besides the point. She didn’t give the girl the answer; instead, she helped her find it using strategies she understood. The girl recovered from her momentary struggle and finished the sentence with a smile. I looked around the room anxiously, expecting somebody to laugh or point out her mistake, but it seemed I was the only one who noticed.
I thought about that class on the way home. That had never happened at my old school, and I was too shocked to hide it, telling my parents all about my day there and how friendly and excited everyone was.
Shortly after that revisit day, I enrolled in the Carroll School, leaving my public school. I went there for five years after that, learning what dyslexia really was and how I, as an individual, learned with it. I learned to love reading and writing, and would complete assignments with confidence. This was why, when I started applying for high school, I thought the admissions would be impressed by my story.
I remember a specific example of this in an interview for one of the schools I was thinking about applying to. I had brought a notebook in which I had written a bunch of questions. I wasn’t nervous, but rather excited to prove that I had grown with my diagnosis and show them that I was capable. They called me into the interview room, and I sat down on a red couch that faced a desk. A middle-aged man sat across from me, his hands knotted together and resting in the middle of the table. I smiled at him, and we started talking. As in any other interview, he asked his questions first. I remember one being “What school do you currently attend?” I was excited he had asked, and promptly gave my speech about Carroll School and how I had dyslexia. When I finished, I looked at him intently. He looked back at me, but his expression was different. Was that disappointment I saw? I brushed it over, and he started to speak. He then told me how his son was dyslexic like me and went to an extra help high school, completely unrelated to the school I was applying to. He then questioned my choice to apply to his school. I laughed it off then, and asked my questions, but I could tell he had lost interest. To him, all dyslexic kids were the same, and there was no changing that. Ms. Hansel acknowledged this reality: “I think for dyslexic people and people who work with them, there is an idea that dyslexia is related to intelligence, and that ease of reading is equated with intelligence.” I thanked him for the interview and went home.
I look back on this, and the book my teacher had read to me all the way back in third grade, and notice a pattern. These people are proof of the danger of generalization and assumption. Not only do they spread misinformation, but they also belittle the individual experience. Ms. Hansel agreed with this statement, “I think a lot of times dyslexic students don’t have the opportunity to show what they know, and they know a lot.” One in five children in the US is diagnosed with dyslexia. This is an unignorable fact, and we cannot, no, we must not assume we know all of them and their stories. So, let them fill in the blanks and let them tell their story because assuming you know is more harmful than you may think.
