How Do You Spell Dyslexia?
[image error]I have always been special. No, I was not a piano prodigy at age four. I can't yodel or speak seven languages. And, no one has ever compared me to Heidi Klum. What I mean is that I have always been "Special". The kind that comes with air quotes and whispers when I leave the room. I had no idea that not being able to read at age ten was "Unusual", as my teacher put it. So what if I was so terrified of doing a math problem that I had dreams at night of being strangled by fractions. To this day, I would still rather fill out your tax returns than do your kids' long division homework. Turns out I was dyslexic, and still am actually. Dyslexia is a common learning disability, though apparently no one told my college professor that because he looked me up and down on the first day of school and announced that "I didn't look retarded", when I told him of my situation.
In fifth grade I had to leave class when everyone pulled out their math or English textbooks. All eyes were on me as I grabbed my little red folder that shouted, "This is my hall pass to the Special class" and left the room. My parents tried to be supportive, telling me that Abraham Lincoln, Albert Einstein, Winston Churchill and Tom Cruise were dyslexic. I don't know why they thought that having anything in common with Tom Cruise would make me feel better. As if school wasn't bad enough, I had to spend two hours after school everyday sitting in a tutors' office, just to squeak by in my classes.
The only good thing that I learned in school was that I could tell a darn good story. It usually went something like this. "Hey, don't look at the F I got on my pop quiz, let me tell you about the time I rode a Camel who mistook my red toenail polish for berries. It's amazing what they can do with prosthetic toes these days." My parents say I lied all the time as a child. I like to say I was a born a storyteller who perfected her craft, due to the unfortunate circumstance of having to go to school for 22 years of my life.
My father's career advice was always, "find something you like to do and figure out how to get paid for it." Well, I liked to write stories but that was clearly not an option. Being Dyslexic meant I spelled like I watched, too much hooked on phonics. I couldn't quite grasp the necessity of paragraph breaks and I used punctuation like it was confetti; throw it up in the air and see where it lands. Still, I wrote.Alone, in my room, like a dirty little secret. I didn't want anyone to know. It was a ridiculous dream. It wasn't till my husband found my writing journals shoved in the back of the closet like dirty magazines, that I finally confessed. "I love to write," I said. His brows furrowed and I waited in anguish for what I was sure would be a full on laughing frenzy. "Then, why don't you become a writer?" he asked. I reminded him that it took an hour to decipher the cute little love notes I left around the house for him, and that spell-check was not just a handy tool but a necessity like food and water. "So, that's why you hire an editor. Coming up with the idea is the hard part. Let someone else take care of the mechanics."
It was a light bulb moment for me. A light bulb moment that took 26 years, a fantastic husband and three journals shoved in the back of a closet to figure out, but that moment changed everything.
Now, I am not saying that I would go back and do it all again knowing that I would someday be able to live my dream of telling stories through writing. I would rather be forced to listen to Paris Hiltons album on repeat for a month straight than go back to school. I will say though, that if I hadn't been born Dyslexic and therefore need to develop a rich imagination and ability to tell a story, I might have ended up a rocket scientist. And how boring would that have been?
