Yesterday I spoke at a small local advocacy event. All I knew was that I would be speaking as a local resource on behalf of Decoding Dyslexia and that I was given a full hour for my presentation. I was told that most attendees would already know what dyslexia is. Other than that, I had no guidance on how I was to present or what I should say.
I was given three weeks' notice before the day came. I had plenty of time to prepare. But on the day before my presentation, I still had nothing. So as I sat at my desk at work (where I should have been paying invoices) I instead started tweaking an old presentation I used at a previous event. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
The real meat of my work wasn't done until after I came home, though. I remembered a night in October when I had been sitting on my bathroom floor, crying and desperately searching the internet at 2:00 in the morning. I was upset because it felt like I had a story the school wasn't interested in. The people representing the school - who are supposed to be as invested in my son's education as I am - seemed disinterested. Ours was just another case they had to push through the system.
I was mentally and physically exhausted, and as a result I fired off emails to anyone and everyone I thought would listen. The end result was that within about a month's time, I found Decoding Dyslexia and with it, a small portion of the peace I was looking for if for no other reason than because I no longer felt alone.
As I sat wondering what to put in my presentation - and knowing I would have to cater to a large portion of the audience who couldn't speak English - it occurred to me that I should share my son's story. Regardless of any cultural or language barriers, we all have a story. As long as I had a translator, the language gap wouldn't be an issue if we could all share in the same story because, let's face it: all parents of children who have learning difficulties want to share their story and know that someone is out there who can say, "I know what you're going through." It's just a matter of finding that person.
With the story at the heart of what I wanted to say, my presentation went off without a hitch. I spoke of dyslexia, but I gave plenty of resources everyone could use, not just the dyslexics. In closing I promised all of them that if they ever needed anything, language will NOT be an issue. I promised them that if they emailed me, they would get a response, that I have spoken four languages in my lifetime (some better than others) and I am not intimidated by a barrier so insignificant in the grand scheme of things.
The first person to approach me after the presentation was a representative of an organization looking for grass roots movements to donate money to. She asked me if I would be interested in starting the application process for Decoding Dyslexia in my tiny town. She was impressed about my determination at making the movement bilingual and she felt her organization could help me do that.
I. Was. Floored. I was absolutely blown away. I was so shocked, in fact, that I gave her my card and totally forgot to get hers! So I may have blown it before I've even had a chance to get started! But that's not my point...
The representative had moved on to speak with others in the room, and a mother approached me. She was very well dressed and had the nicest, loveliest demeanor! "I am sorry," she said, "but I am not good at this talk."
"That's okay," I said. I smiled broadly and as warmly as possible and oh my word! Someone just asked me if I wanted to apply for a grant!
"My child. She have this, too."
"Please, write me!" I said. I was trying to speak as simply as possible so that she would know I wanted to hear her, too. "Scrivimi," I insisted. (That's Italian for write me.) Did I mention that I could possibly get a grant to take this bilingual? How awesome is that? I could get an audio recording of the Handbook done in each language! I could do a professional bilingual video. *gasp!* I could even have at-risk kids in juvie diagnosed for FREE!
The woman took my card. "Your story, it helps me."
"I'm so glad! Please, write me any time. Scrivimi." I smiled.
Looking back on that moment, I feel like such a jerk. (Jerk isn't exactly the right word for it, as I have a vocabulary full of explicit synonyms which I find more appropriate, but in this forum jerk will have to do.) I just finished vowing that language would not be an issue for these people if they ever needed me, this woman sucked it up to come speak to me - and that must've been pretty difficult for her, not speaking English n' all, and I came back with write me. I might as well have told her to have her people call mine.
I was still so shocked about the possibility of taking our little group bilingual - with money - that I overlooked the fact that the opportunity to go bilingual had just presented itself... and I replied in Italian... without the slightest indication that I wanted to hear her story, too.
But don't worry. I will right this wrong. My plan includes the following:
1. I will memorize escríbeme because that means write me in Spanish. Not in Italian, in Spanish. Just as I learned Italian by remembering my high school Spanish, so it is time to learn Spanish by leaning on my Italian. So... it's not scrivimi. It's escríbeme. And I'll follow it up with dime tu historia, because Google Translate says that's how you say, "Tell me your story." Ha! (But if Google Translate is wrong, please tell me. I'm starting to feel pre-ty smug over here about my mad Google Spanish skills.)
2. I will hug mothers who try to break the language barrier. They want to be heard, too. They have anxiety. Most importantly, they need to feel that they have people who can relate to them - especially since they live in a country that's foreign to them. They need support. A hug helps them feel heard and understood and supported, and no words are required.
3. I'm going to get in touch with the mother who approached me. This event was small. It was sponsored by one advocate working locally who wanted to hold an event for the parents who hire her. So I'll ask the advocate if she can email the mother on my behalf. I want this mother's story. I want all the stories I can get my hands on.
The possibility of getting a grant is nice, but it's the stories of the parents that keep me going. It's coming together and sharing our experiences and - when necessary - throwing an arm around another mom's shoulders and saying, "Your kid is fine. Everything will work out," just before I hand her an extensive list of resources, a copy of the Dyslexia Handbook, and start teaching her how to advocate.
On that note, I want your story, too. If you're reading this and you live in Texas and have dyslexia or love someone with dyslexia and you have to "fight the man" to get the accommodations you need, send me your story. I want to compile all of our stories and present them to school boards, state representatives, and advocates. (Your name and other info will, of course, be kept anonymous.)
I'm serious when I say that as parents, we need to come together with a single, unified voice. You might not be able to make it to the State Board of Education meetings, but your story can go. You may not want to sit down with your local congressman, but I want to... and I'd love to take your story with me.
So if you have a story that you need to get off your chest, and if you want to share everything you've been through in your adventures in Dyslexialand - good or bad - send it to me. I want to make sure your story is heard, too.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Friday, March 28, 2014
Try Harder. Do Better.
Never did it occur to me that on the day after I posted my very first blog entry that I would have another event to write about. Oh, how naïve I was! I look back on yesterday like it was... uh... yesterday, and I remember my own innocence at that time, how I truly believed that because my daughter is one of those lucky cookie cutter kids, there would never be a story in this blog with her at the heart of it. I was so naïve back then... way back yesterday.
But before I get to my daughter, let me tell you a little story about my son so you'll see where I'm coming from.
When Braden was in first grade, I watched him become a puddle of tears as I crushed his self esteem by believing he wasn't trying hard enough when he told me he thought cat rhymed with shoe. I made him redo myriad homework assignments because his handwriting was illegible, and many of those assignments were spelling words written out hundreds of times (or so it felt to him).
The amount of guilt I feel today as a parent who understands how much she forced perfection on her child is overwhelming.
Yup, I said it: I forced perfection on him. Don't tell me I didn't. Don't try to comfort me by telling me it's okay because I didn't know he was dyslexic back then or that the school should have intervened. However true that may be, it doesn't negate the fact that I hammered him. "Try harder," I demanded. "Do better!" The unintended message was that no matter how hard he tried, his efforts were never good enough. Now my son is twelve, and I'm working hard to undo the damage that was done, not just by me but by everyone who has ever been involved in his education.
And so we come to my daughter, who is in the first grade. So far, she doesn't seem to be dyslexic. Academically speaking, the kid is pretty amazing. Her grades are outstanding, and her reading level beyond her years. She loves books and reading and has no issues with understanding new material. She is definitely my auto-pilot baby.
While going through her backpack last night, I got her progress report: all As and Bs. Awesome job, little diva!
But...
Attached to her progress report were the force-books-down-the-kid's-throat reading report. Kaelin had read more books in the last six weeks than I read in college. Her overall score was an 82.5.
I have to say, for a kid whose mom doesn't make her kid participate in the force-books-down-the-kid's-throat program at home, an 82.5 is fan freakin' tastic! I mean, she essentially did it on her own! At the bottom of the report, the teacher wrote, "Great job! Should aim for at least 85."
So despite Kaelin's achievement, the message was: Do better. Try harder.
Mama bear growled a little, and then tossed the reading report aside. I don't really give a fig. Her grades are awesome. She's happy. I'm happy. I'm not going to address this with her. She did great!
Then I got a note. It was attached to a blank sheet of that brown paper designed to teach kids how to write.
A note?
Kaelin never gets sent home with notes!
(Try harder. Do better. Try harder. Do better. Try harder. Do better. Thanks!)
Any parent of a dyslexic knows that the agony starts with notes like these. I have developed a certain sensitivity to notes. I hate notes. I detest them. And notes like these really get my goat. Want to know why? It's because my daughter just turned seven years old about two months ago.
SHE DOES NOT NEED TO DO HER WORK CORRECTLY THE FIRST TIME!
No child has to do anything correctly the first time! Ever. Know what else? They don't have to "do better" on their force-books-down-the-kid's-throat reading reports! My daughter does what she's capable of on that day. And if she was having a crappy day or if she just didn't get it, that's okay! Her grades are good, and I'm not going to ask any more than that from her.
What I'm about to say next is really important, so pay attention: My children - and yours - are allowed to have an off day. They are allowed to fail. They don't have to get anything right the first time!
I'm not encouraging mediocrity. Grades are important, and holding children up to a certain standard is healthy, but come on... Let's reverse the scenario: does the teacher always do her work correctly the first time?
Why do we constantly have to draw attention to the minor mistakes? Because of this negative attention, children may stop feeling that mistakes are simply mistakes. They may start feeling like mistakes are representative of who they are.
Even if we set the mistakes aside, look at Kae's reading report. The kid did fine! But the teacher said she needs to do better. We parents and teachers need to be cautious about how and what we criticize... and how often we do so.
Going back to the teacher's request, I'll have Kaelin redo the assignment. Redoing it isn't the issue. Yes, I will point out to Kaelin that she had an off day, that it's okay, and that it was very nice the teacher has given us the chance to fix our mistake... so we need to try especially hard to do our best.
But know this: I will never tell my child that she needs to learn to do her work correctly the first time. I made that mistake with my son, and I'm not going to make that same mistake with my daughter. Ever.
But before I get to my daughter, let me tell you a little story about my son so you'll see where I'm coming from.
When Braden was in first grade, I watched him become a puddle of tears as I crushed his self esteem by believing he wasn't trying hard enough when he told me he thought cat rhymed with shoe. I made him redo myriad homework assignments because his handwriting was illegible, and many of those assignments were spelling words written out hundreds of times (or so it felt to him).
The amount of guilt I feel today as a parent who understands how much she forced perfection on her child is overwhelming.
Yup, I said it: I forced perfection on him. Don't tell me I didn't. Don't try to comfort me by telling me it's okay because I didn't know he was dyslexic back then or that the school should have intervened. However true that may be, it doesn't negate the fact that I hammered him. "Try harder," I demanded. "Do better!" The unintended message was that no matter how hard he tried, his efforts were never good enough. Now my son is twelve, and I'm working hard to undo the damage that was done, not just by me but by everyone who has ever been involved in his education.
And so we come to my daughter, who is in the first grade. So far, she doesn't seem to be dyslexic. Academically speaking, the kid is pretty amazing. Her grades are outstanding, and her reading level beyond her years. She loves books and reading and has no issues with understanding new material. She is definitely my auto-pilot baby.
While going through her backpack last night, I got her progress report: all As and Bs. Awesome job, little diva!
But...
Attached to her progress report were the force-books-down-the-kid's-throat reading report. Kaelin had read more books in the last six weeks than I read in college. Her overall score was an 82.5.
I have to say, for a kid whose mom doesn't make her kid participate in the force-books-down-the-kid's-throat program at home, an 82.5 is fan freakin' tastic! I mean, she essentially did it on her own! At the bottom of the report, the teacher wrote, "Great job! Should aim for at least 85."
So despite Kaelin's achievement, the message was: Do better. Try harder.
Mama bear growled a little, and then tossed the reading report aside. I don't really give a fig. Her grades are awesome. She's happy. I'm happy. I'm not going to address this with her. She did great!
Then I got a note. It was attached to a blank sheet of that brown paper designed to teach kids how to write.
A note?
Kaelin never gets sent home with notes!
Please have Kaelin redo the questions on pg. 93. We did these together & the words are in the book. She needs to learn to do her work correctly the first time. Thanks! (Try harder. Do better. Try harder. Do better. Try harder. Do better. Thanks!)
Any parent of a dyslexic knows that the agony starts with notes like these. I have developed a certain sensitivity to notes. I hate notes. I detest them. And notes like these really get my goat. Want to know why? It's because my daughter just turned seven years old about two months ago.
SHE DOES NOT NEED TO DO HER WORK CORRECTLY THE FIRST TIME!
No child has to do anything correctly the first time! Ever. Know what else? They don't have to "do better" on their force-books-down-the-kid's-throat reading reports! My daughter does what she's capable of on that day. And if she was having a crappy day or if she just didn't get it, that's okay! Her grades are good, and I'm not going to ask any more than that from her.
What I'm about to say next is really important, so pay attention: My children - and yours - are allowed to have an off day. They are allowed to fail. They don't have to get anything right the first time!
I'm not encouraging mediocrity. Grades are important, and holding children up to a certain standard is healthy, but come on... Let's reverse the scenario: does the teacher always do her work correctly the first time?
Why do we constantly have to draw attention to the minor mistakes? Because of this negative attention, children may stop feeling that mistakes are simply mistakes. They may start feeling like mistakes are representative of who they are.
Even if we set the mistakes aside, look at Kae's reading report. The kid did fine! But the teacher said she needs to do better. We parents and teachers need to be cautious about how and what we criticize... and how often we do so.
Going back to the teacher's request, I'll have Kaelin redo the assignment. Redoing it isn't the issue. Yes, I will point out to Kaelin that she had an off day, that it's okay, and that it was very nice the teacher has given us the chance to fix our mistake... so we need to try especially hard to do our best.
But know this: I will never tell my child that she needs to learn to do her work correctly the first time. I made that mistake with my son, and I'm not going to make that same mistake with my daughter. Ever.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
The Dreaded Valve Oil & Hurt Lungs Incident
"Ma'am," the voicemail message started. I could already tell by the tone, this was not going to be good. "This is Mrs. Stephens, the band teacher. I need to talk to you about your son."
Hmmm... a phone call at a little after two on a Thursday. Well, I've gotta' give the kid some credit. We went almost a week without a phone call from the school! I'm still on the fence over how impressed I should be about this "almost" achievement. I mean, two days ago Braden called me in tears when he came home and explained that in an effort to fit in, he dumped valve oil on the aisle of the bus so he and his friends could run and slide on it... and then get caught.
Oh man! I was mortified. (Is that what I'm supposed to say?) How terrible that a twelve year old boy would do such a thing! I will immediately lecture him when I get home. (And then I'll give him a high five.) How dare he! (Why didn't I ever think of that?!!)
I asked my husband to return Mrs. Stephens' call for me. Yep, I'm a pansy. It's the end of the school year, and I've had about all I can handle with teacher calls. I swear they have me on speed dial. Siri probably has my number memorized on their phones by now.
As it turned out, today's phone call was not about the valve oil incident. No, today the call was about the fact that Braden told the teacher he couldn't perform in band because his lungs hurt.
*sigh!* Really?
Last time I checked, dyslexics get singled out enough to the point that these little excuses pop up. It happens. It comes with the territory. It's part of the unwritten dyslexia checklist.
You see, in Braden's brand of dyslexia, the time and the notes fade in and out of view on the page. When you couple that with the fact that he refuses to use his colored overlay, well, we have moments like these where "his lungs hurt." And while we're at it, let's just mix that with the fact that he won't practice at home.
Let me make a side note here. While I could make him practice at home, I want him to find his own joys. So after two hours of math work, spelling, and reading - all of which I already force him to do - why include practicing his trumpet, which should bring him joy? If he enjoys band enough, he'll make the time. If he doesn't enjoy it enough, he'll blow it off. Maybe band is not his thing. (It's not.) Maybe it is. (I have my doubts.) But it's really up to him to decide if band is something he wants to pursue. (But I know it's not.)
Anyhow, back to the topic at hand. His lungs hurt too much to play, eh? I think that as a teacher one of two things can happen: exasperation at my son's constant and myriad excuses, or a creative attempt at encouraging him to engage. In the time it took the band teacher to disrupt class, call me, and discuss her concerns, she could have pulled him into a private area to see if he had mastered whatever it was she was looking for. But what it boils down to is the fact that he didn't want to perform, and she can't make exceptions to go out of her way for every student who doesn't want to perform. I get that.
After my husband patiently let her speak her piece while adding that she demands Braden write an apology note to the bus driver for the valve oil, my husband had only one thing to say:
Can we just make it to the end of the school year? Can you do that for me? I assure you: he will not be in band next year. So you really don't need to worry about him. Can we just finish the year? Please?
Well said, babe!
Hmmm... a phone call at a little after two on a Thursday. Well, I've gotta' give the kid some credit. We went almost a week without a phone call from the school! I'm still on the fence over how impressed I should be about this "almost" achievement. I mean, two days ago Braden called me in tears when he came home and explained that in an effort to fit in, he dumped valve oil on the aisle of the bus so he and his friends could run and slide on it... and then get caught.
Oh man! I was mortified. (Is that what I'm supposed to say?) How terrible that a twelve year old boy would do such a thing! I will immediately lecture him when I get home. (And then I'll give him a high five.) How dare he! (Why didn't I ever think of that?!!)
I asked my husband to return Mrs. Stephens' call for me. Yep, I'm a pansy. It's the end of the school year, and I've had about all I can handle with teacher calls. I swear they have me on speed dial. Siri probably has my number memorized on their phones by now.
As it turned out, today's phone call was not about the valve oil incident. No, today the call was about the fact that Braden told the teacher he couldn't perform in band because his lungs hurt.
*sigh!* Really?
Last time I checked, dyslexics get singled out enough to the point that these little excuses pop up. It happens. It comes with the territory. It's part of the unwritten dyslexia checklist.
You see, in Braden's brand of dyslexia, the time and the notes fade in and out of view on the page. When you couple that with the fact that he refuses to use his colored overlay, well, we have moments like these where "his lungs hurt." And while we're at it, let's just mix that with the fact that he won't practice at home.
Let me make a side note here. While I could make him practice at home, I want him to find his own joys. So after two hours of math work, spelling, and reading - all of which I already force him to do - why include practicing his trumpet, which should bring him joy? If he enjoys band enough, he'll make the time. If he doesn't enjoy it enough, he'll blow it off. Maybe band is not his thing. (It's not.) Maybe it is. (I have my doubts.) But it's really up to him to decide if band is something he wants to pursue. (But I know it's not.)
Anyhow, back to the topic at hand. His lungs hurt too much to play, eh? I think that as a teacher one of two things can happen: exasperation at my son's constant and myriad excuses, or a creative attempt at encouraging him to engage. In the time it took the band teacher to disrupt class, call me, and discuss her concerns, she could have pulled him into a private area to see if he had mastered whatever it was she was looking for. But what it boils down to is the fact that he didn't want to perform, and she can't make exceptions to go out of her way for every student who doesn't want to perform. I get that.
After my husband patiently let her speak her piece while adding that she demands Braden write an apology note to the bus driver for the valve oil, my husband had only one thing to say:
Can we just make it to the end of the school year? Can you do that for me? I assure you: he will not be in band next year. So you really don't need to worry about him. Can we just finish the year? Please?
Well said, babe!
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