The last time I cried in public was in seventh grade.  That was the year I had been moved into a gifted class.  The final step had been taken.  My dyslexia had been cured.  (Or so I thought at the time.)  I was all set to be an intellectual.

     It was the beginning of the year, and we were all busy finding a place to fit in, and fitting into it.  My English teacher had made us all write our name, phone number, and class schedule so she would know where to find us if she needed to find us for something, she said.  I thought she wanted the schedule to know what kinds of classes we were in, so she could know if we were smart or stupid.  I wrote gifted in very dark letters to make sure she would notice.

     For our first spelling test, the teacher gave us a spelling rule and a list of examples of the rule to learn to spell.  She told us that if we learned the rule we wouldn't have to learn the words.  I was rather shocked with the idea that by remembering things like putting an "i" before an "e" I could spell correctly, because my spelling was (and is) awful.  So I learned the rule.

     When we got our spelling test back mine was given out last.  The teacher walked over to my desk, and put the test on it.  My i's were before my e's, but the rest of the letters were not in such predictable order.  She said I was a very lazy girl and should have done better.  She told me that she would be very surprised if I got out of seventh grade, or was let into high school.  My insides squeezed into a space much smaller than they were used to, and tears pushed into my eyes.  I had no idea what to say, I was nothing but just a stupid L. D. (learning disability) kid.  So I cried and spent most of the rest of the day crying.  When I came home from school, I was still crying.  I told my mother what had happened.  She called the teacher and the next day I got an apology.  (I pretended to forgive very gracefully.)

     My English teacher was said to be quite a competent teacher (she just did not know).  I am not really able to say, because this is my only complete memory of seventh grade English.  This still upsets me though, for both its thoughtlessness, and because it was when I realized that I was always going to have dyslexia.  It was something I would have to work with and am still compensating for.  I'm seeing it become less obvious, but it will never be invisible.

QUESTIONS:

1. Thinking about your own past academic experiences (K-12 or postsecondary), can you recall a time in which you had a miscommunication or disconnect with a teacher? How did you feel? How could things have been handled or resolved differently?

2. On a more positive note, think about a teacher who made a difference in your life.  What qualities, traits, and behaviors made this person special to you?

II. Read the following brochure, "What we've learned: Thoughts on disability from graduating seniors to entering students at Barnard."

If you were to write a similar brochure for new writing fellows, what thoughts would you include?