Whispering Stories is a short memoir about my experiences as an elementary school pupil with dyslexia.
Reading with a friend
Whispering Stories
Once upon a time, I liked splashing in mud puddles and sleeping in soft grass, running fast and climbing high, rainbow ice cream and peanut butter cookies, and, and… but I loved stories. My mom read me stories every day. My dad read me stories every night. And still, I wanted more. When there was no one there to read, stories whispered to me. Stories whispered when I slept. Stories whispered when I played. Stories whispered when I ate. I told these stories to my puppy, my mom, my dad, and to all my friends.
But when I tried to tell these stories at school the teacher said, “Leanne, it’s not time to talk. It’s time to read.”
My friend Faith read loudly. My friend Ben read quietly. I couldn’t read at all. Letters danced across my page. They twisted, turned and jumped.
“We’re waiting,” the teacher said.
I narrowed my eyes and glared at the letters, but I still couldn’t read. “Once upon a time, a bunny—.”
“Read the words in the book.” The teacher frowned.
The buzzer buzzed. I ran outside to tell my stories, but my friends said, “You can’t read. We don’t want your baby stories.”
The stories kept whispering.
“I can’t read,” I told my teacher, my mom, my dad. “I can’t read,” I told everyone.
“Yes, you can,” a special teacher said, “I’ll teach you.”
We worked hard day after day after day. She showed me how to make the letters stop moving. She showed me how to catch them.
“Tell me a story.” My special teacher had a warm voice and a friendly face.
“I’m trying,” I said.
“No, not the one in the book. I want to hear one of your stories.”
I told her the one about the little boy who climbed the big mountain.
“I really like that story. You should write it down on a piece of paper so you don’t forget it.” She showed me how.
It wasn’t easy but I began to read book after book after book. The more I read. The more I wrote.
Stories whispered and I wrote. I wrote in the morning and in the afternoon. I flicked on the light and wrote late, late at night. I wrote and wrote and wrote until I wrote this story for you.
The End
...of this story, but there are always more.
The Little Boy Who Climbed the Big Mountain
Once upon a time, a little boy lived beside a big mountain. “I’m going to climb that mountain,” he told everyone.
“Are you sure? That mountain is so big and you’re so little,” they said.
“I’m going to climb that mountain all the way to the top,” he said.
Sometimes, he stumbled, sometimes he fell back, sometimes he got really tired, but he just kept climbing. “I’m not going to stop until I get to the top,” he repeated, over and over again.
And he didn’t stop and he kept climbing and he made it all the way to the tip-top of the great, big mountain.
There are many ways to tell a story.
You can act a story like an actor.
You can draw or paint a story like a painter.
You can write a story like a writer.
How can you tell your story?
