The strange shapes the red crayon carved into the blank white paper looked like icing on the brown sugar cake of the shag rug covering our playroom floor. My sister was sprawled out next to me, in a position of relaxed encouragement. She was quiet but attentive, offering possibilities or ideas here and there. The crayon was Crayola, well used and worn, but at that moment it felt very different, unfamiliar in my hand. My fingers curled around it like vines on a trellis, unlike the stabbing fist I was use to creating with.
On this flat piece of paper, there were no dashed lines to follow or shapes to fill, only white space. I started tentatively, hands shaky but resolve in tact, forming the upright foundation of a K, and then connecting it to an e r r i. Emily, three years older and in elementary school by then, had graduated from crayons to thick yellow pencils. She could have dampened my victory with a ‘so what’ attitude. Instead, she sat upright and clapped with each line and curve until the page held the five letters of my name. We took a victory lap around our ranch style three-bedroom house, from the play to living room, where my parents sat idle. With our presentation, my dad gave a smile and a nod; my mom hastily picked up the olive green rotary phone to call her mom and share a milestone. Click. Click. Click.
Before this afternoon, I had played with crayons plenty of times, but no product had provoked the excitement this playtime did. I was a part of them in a new way, and I liked it.
---------
Early in my schooling, I wasn’t good at much. I struggled with reading, disliked numbers, and recess or PE didn’t seem to count for much. Every morning I would protest the ritual of getting ready for school, faking illness, hiding in closets, throwing absolute fits. I saw no use in Elmhurst Elementary and decided it had no use in me.
In the classroom, I tried to follow along, wanting nothing more than to be able to do what everyone else was doing with such ease, but it just wasn’t clicking. My first grade teacher Ms. Aldridge was young, kind, and eager to listen as much as talk. At that time, we still had teacher aides in classrooms, and our’s was the yin to Ms. Aldridge’s yang. Ms. Groom’s straight, midnight black hair shined all the way down to her waist, ending where her sweater vest stopped and pleated khakis began.
I realized early on in the school year how little Ms. Groom liked or cared for us, me particularly. The mask of sincerity and patience she wore around other grown-ups could shift abruptly when she thought no one was watching. I remember her whispering small insults into my ear as she snaked through the room, evaluating and remarking from above on anything and nothing. Do you really think that is 1st grade work? Do we need to send you back to kindergarten? If you aren’t going to even try, why do you bother coming to school? We would need a decoder ring to actually read that. Is it supposed to be your name?
As an adult, these memories elicits a kind of anger I rarely experience, but at the time, I thought it was a part of the game of school you discover on your own rather than it being explained by others. I’ve always liked a good challenge, so I approached Ms. Groom as such. Trying harder. Trying to figure out the game for myself.
Ms. Aldridge remained consistent as the head of our classroom, kneeling down next to our small chairs, quiet but attentive, and occasionally offering suggestions and possibilities. But, of course, even teachers need sick days. In Ms. Aldridge’s absence, Ms. Groom was alone and in charge. This day’s assignment involved a common photocopied worksheet: the outline of a lamb caught midair, frolicking in a still black and white field with space below to write something, create meaning, about the L is for lamb.
I’m not saying that I was a perfectly well behaved child who never required any kind of discipline. I could definitely be a brat. One time I packed as many books as possible into dad’s suitcase and tied myself to it with my jump rope after a babysitter said I wasn’t allowed to watch Dukes of Hazard. This story is still a source of shame and pride for me. “If you want me to go to bed before Dukes, you can try and carry me upstairs yourself.” I won, sitting on the suitcase in front of the TV, but I now blush while remembering it.
Whatever the cause, Ms. Groom sent me and my lamb to the classroom bathroom to complete my work. I sat alone on the cold, red-clay tiles of the floor and tried not to but started crying. Afraid the tears would make my lamb run, I wiped them from the paper with my sleeve, subtly smearing the cloud-like curves that formed his face, and tried not to feel defeated.
The next year was better. I met one-on-one several times with a lady with orange lipstick who smell like green peppers but always smiled when asking questions or assigning a task, and she gave you a piece of candy at the end of each meeting. The testing and talk revealed I was dyslexic. I remember my mom’s eyes watering when those orange lips said, “She can read, but she will never read for pleasure.”
A learning disability is not something I would wish for anyone, but I am grateful for the experiences it offered. It afforded extra support outside of the classroom and a kind of awareness or identification inside it. More than anything, it helped me understand that I could learn, I just learned in a different way. Throughout the rest of my k-12 education, I learned a lot about how I learn best. This knowledge is still evident in the pages of drawings and maps that fill my daybook, the highlights and doodles in the margins of my books, and the public places where I put on my headphones and work, contently, for hours.
My parents always pushed but never shamed me academically. With each report card, as my friends were getting grounded or berated because of their grade, my dad would call me into his office. Even with his posture relaxed, leaning back in his rolling chair, his straight face always caused me momentary panic. “We received your report card…” I stood still, feet planted but eyes wanting to wander around the room as he spoke again, his voice remaining flat: “I have one question for you… Did you do your best?” I paused. Reflected for a moment: “Yes.” “Did you try your hardest?” The space between this Q&A shortened as I nodded, earnestly repeating, “Yes.” The next thing he said with a smile was something he made sure my sister and I heard every single day: “I am very proud of you.”
On this flat piece of paper, there were no dashed lines to follow or shapes to fill, only white space. I started tentatively, hands shaky but resolve in tact, forming the upright foundation of a K, and then connecting it to an e r r i. Emily, three years older and in elementary school by then, had graduated from crayons to thick yellow pencils. She could have dampened my victory with a ‘so what’ attitude. Instead, she sat upright and clapped with each line and curve until the page held the five letters of my name. We took a victory lap around our ranch style three-bedroom house, from the play to living room, where my parents sat idle. With our presentation, my dad gave a smile and a nod; my mom hastily picked up the olive green rotary phone to call her mom and share a milestone. Click. Click. Click.
Before this afternoon, I had played with crayons plenty of times, but no product had provoked the excitement this playtime did. I was a part of them in a new way, and I liked it.
---------
Early in my schooling, I wasn’t good at much. I struggled with reading, disliked numbers, and recess or PE didn’t seem to count for much. Every morning I would protest the ritual of getting ready for school, faking illness, hiding in closets, throwing absolute fits. I saw no use in Elmhurst Elementary and decided it had no use in me.
In the classroom, I tried to follow along, wanting nothing more than to be able to do what everyone else was doing with such ease, but it just wasn’t clicking. My first grade teacher Ms. Aldridge was young, kind, and eager to listen as much as talk. At that time, we still had teacher aides in classrooms, and our’s was the yin to Ms. Aldridge’s yang. Ms. Groom’s straight, midnight black hair shined all the way down to her waist, ending where her sweater vest stopped and pleated khakis began.
I realized early on in the school year how little Ms. Groom liked or cared for us, me particularly. The mask of sincerity and patience she wore around other grown-ups could shift abruptly when she thought no one was watching. I remember her whispering small insults into my ear as she snaked through the room, evaluating and remarking from above on anything and nothing. Do you really think that is 1st grade work? Do we need to send you back to kindergarten? If you aren’t going to even try, why do you bother coming to school? We would need a decoder ring to actually read that. Is it supposed to be your name?
As an adult, these memories elicits a kind of anger I rarely experience, but at the time, I thought it was a part of the game of school you discover on your own rather than it being explained by others. I’ve always liked a good challenge, so I approached Ms. Groom as such. Trying harder. Trying to figure out the game for myself.
Ms. Aldridge remained consistent as the head of our classroom, kneeling down next to our small chairs, quiet but attentive, and occasionally offering suggestions and possibilities. But, of course, even teachers need sick days. In Ms. Aldridge’s absence, Ms. Groom was alone and in charge. This day’s assignment involved a common photocopied worksheet: the outline of a lamb caught midair, frolicking in a still black and white field with space below to write something, create meaning, about the L is for lamb.
I’m not saying that I was a perfectly well behaved child who never required any kind of discipline. I could definitely be a brat. One time I packed as many books as possible into dad’s suitcase and tied myself to it with my jump rope after a babysitter said I wasn’t allowed to watch Dukes of Hazard. This story is still a source of shame and pride for me. “If you want me to go to bed before Dukes, you can try and carry me upstairs yourself.” I won, sitting on the suitcase in front of the TV, but I now blush while remembering it.
Whatever the cause, Ms. Groom sent me and my lamb to the classroom bathroom to complete my work. I sat alone on the cold, red-clay tiles of the floor and tried not to but started crying. Afraid the tears would make my lamb run, I wiped them from the paper with my sleeve, subtly smearing the cloud-like curves that formed his face, and tried not to feel defeated.
The next year was better. I met one-on-one several times with a lady with orange lipstick who smell like green peppers but always smiled when asking questions or assigning a task, and she gave you a piece of candy at the end of each meeting. The testing and talk revealed I was dyslexic. I remember my mom’s eyes watering when those orange lips said, “She can read, but she will never read for pleasure.”
A learning disability is not something I would wish for anyone, but I am grateful for the experiences it offered. It afforded extra support outside of the classroom and a kind of awareness or identification inside it. More than anything, it helped me understand that I could learn, I just learned in a different way. Throughout the rest of my k-12 education, I learned a lot about how I learn best. This knowledge is still evident in the pages of drawings and maps that fill my daybook, the highlights and doodles in the margins of my books, and the public places where I put on my headphones and work, contently, for hours.
My parents always pushed but never shamed me academically. With each report card, as my friends were getting grounded or berated because of their grade, my dad would call me into his office. Even with his posture relaxed, leaning back in his rolling chair, his straight face always caused me momentary panic. “We received your report card…” I stood still, feet planted but eyes wanting to wander around the room as he spoke again, his voice remaining flat: “I have one question for you… Did you do your best?” I paused. Reflected for a moment: “Yes.” “Did you try your hardest?” The space between this Q&A shortened as I nodded, earnestly repeating, “Yes.” The next thing he said with a smile was something he made sure my sister and I heard every single day: “I am very proud of you.”