(photo by Terrill Welsh)
My Life with Letters
It was an ordinary day until I read an email from a literary journal. That's when my head exploded. After reassembling all the pieces, I told my husband, "My submission is going to be published."
"It is?"
I waved at the computer screen.
"It is." He sounded more amazed than impressed, but I choose to ignore that.
"They're asking the contributing authors to read their work at the issue launch. We have to go," I told him.
Weeks passed; the day arrived. Everything was great until I remembered...
A fragile eight-year-old girl cowers in her desk, willing flesh, bone and tissue to dissolve into the steel of the seat. Please don't call on me. Please don't call on me. I'm shivering.
"Leanne, read the next passage," the teacher says.
A spotlight shines directly into my eyes. Everyone stares at me with laser eyes that burn.
Brody, the fat kid that sits in the back of the classroom, glares at me. "No, not her. She can't read." His voice is distant and muffled, but I hear him.
He continues to taunt me, but his voice is drowned out by a huge ocean wave that hit rocks--laughter. My classmates think me reading is a laugh riot. I try to ignore them. I push my glasses up onto my nose, breathe out slowly, and try to find sense in the swirl of words that confront me. The letters leap, spin and twist--refusing to be captured. I wrestle with the first word, attempting to claim it. I remember what my special teacher Mrs. McIntosh, told me. That letter is a 's'. It makes the sound of a snake. I smile contentedly. I've begun. Next letter. I look at it. That's a 'p'. But when I look again the 't' has hopped over the 'p'. 'P', 'T', they dance back and forth. Panic grips me. This is taking way too long. A clock ticks loudly. The sweet aroma of the teacher's perfume engulfs my nostrils. Outside a bird calls. My senses are assaulted. I can't shut anything out. I can't focus. I just want this to end. Please, please, I don't want to be here anymore, I pray.
'S-sp-o-ot-t."
The class giggles; I want to dissolve into my desk.
"Sound it out, Leanne." Frustration, annoyance fills the teacher's voice.
I'm not a bad girl, I long to tell her. I want to be good. I want to do well. I want to make you happy. I'm trying. Really, honestly, I am but...but...
"Stop," I blurt out.
"We're going to be here all day," Broody sneers.
Laughter.
My inner voice screams, You're dumb. You can't learn. You can't do anything. Everyone laughs at you. You are STU-PID!
I am mustering up all my resources to continue my battle when the teacher cuts my progress short.
"Kim, please continue."
The book rests in Kim's palm like a hymnal. She reads the words; they flow together like a song. The teacher smiles.
I am a big awkward moose. Kim is a meadowlark. She sings sweetly and others listen. They don't laugh at her. She soars with words. I stumble and fall. She belongs, I don't. She's normal. I am a freak.
"What's the matter?" My husband's words release me from memories' tight grip.
"I can't read. I'll trip over my tongue. I'll say the wrong word. Then they'll know. They'll all know I'm dyslexic."
A spotlight shines directly into my eyes. Everyone stares at me with laser eyes that burn.
Brody, the fat kid that sits in the back of the classroom, glares at me. "No, not her. She can't read." His voice is distant and muffled, but I hear him.
He continues to taunt me, but his voice is drowned out by a huge ocean wave that hit rocks--laughter. My classmates think me reading is a laugh riot. I try to ignore them. I push my glasses up onto my nose, breathe out slowly, and try to find sense in the swirl of words that confront me. The letters leap, spin and twist--refusing to be captured. I wrestle with the first word, attempting to claim it. I remember what my special teacher Mrs. McIntosh, told me. That letter is a 's'. It makes the sound of a snake. I smile contentedly. I've begun. Next letter. I look at it. That's a 'p'. But when I look again the 't' has hopped over the 'p'. 'P', 'T', they dance back and forth. Panic grips me. This is taking way too long. A clock ticks loudly. The sweet aroma of the teacher's perfume engulfs my nostrils. Outside a bird calls. My senses are assaulted. I can't shut anything out. I can't focus. I just want this to end. Please, please, I don't want to be here anymore, I pray.
'S-sp-o-ot-t."
The class giggles; I want to dissolve into my desk.
"Sound it out, Leanne." Frustration, annoyance fills the teacher's voice.
I'm not a bad girl, I long to tell her. I want to be good. I want to do well. I want to make you happy. I'm trying. Really, honestly, I am but...but...
"Stop," I blurt out.
"We're going to be here all day," Broody sneers.
Laughter.
My inner voice screams, You're dumb. You can't learn. You can't do anything. Everyone laughs at you. You are STU-PID!
I am mustering up all my resources to continue my battle when the teacher cuts my progress short.
"Kim, please continue."
The book rests in Kim's palm like a hymnal. She reads the words; they flow together like a song. The teacher smiles.
I am a big awkward moose. Kim is a meadowlark. She sings sweetly and others listen. They don't laugh at her. She soars with words. I stumble and fall. She belongs, I don't. She's normal. I am a freak.
"What's the matter?" My husband's words release me from memories' tight grip.
"I can't read. I'll trip over my tongue. I'll say the wrong word. Then they'll know. They'll all know I'm dyslexic."
"What's your reading about?" my husband asked.
"Being dyslexic."
"And you're worried that they'll learn you're dyslexic?"
"Yes." I paused briefly. "That doesn't make sense, does it?"
"Hmm, no." He held me in his strong arms. "The audience will have read your story and they'll all be pulling for you."
I held onto his words. They carried me into the audience of contributing authors and eager readers. Short story after short story, all was well until the master of ceremonies said, "And, now, I'm pleased to welcome Leanne Dyck to the stage."
Her introduction was met by supportive applause. My husband squeezed my hand. I pushed my way out of the audience, onto the stage and my face cracked into a nervous smile.
There were too many people there. There were too many authors. And I knew what they were thinking: If she can't read, how can she be a writer? And knew they were right.
I found my husband in the audience.
For him... For me...
I fumbled with the zipper, opened my purse, pulled out my cue cards, and began...
Dyslexia is an inherited condition that affects the way the brain processes written and spoken language. People with dyslexia are of average or above-average intelligence.
Having dyslexia is kind of like this...
We have always had a special relationship. When we met you wooed me with your clever tricks. You were never the same way twice. Sometimes your 'b' looked like a 'd'. Sometimes your 'p' looked like a 'q'. I was surprised to hear that you didn't entertain everyone in this manner.
Later our relationship grew and I learnt that you could be collected into a group. I was informed that this group was read as a word.
Ah, how your words danced before my eyes. Sometimes 'w-a-s' danced. How it waltzed; how it jigged; how it jived. Watch it now as it twists into 's-a-w'. Amazing! Thrilling! Yet you only danced for me.
Your behaviour does make our relationship challenging.
Words dance before my eyes--unclaimed. Sometimes I am forced to guess at your intent. You are always a puzzle, a surprise. You intrigue me; you entertain; you embarrass me.
Do you remember the time I was reading to a group of children? I thought we were having a merry old time until one of the children stopped me. You had fooled me yet again but you hadn't fooled the child.
Never mind, it was long ago, and I have forgiven you.
It doesn't matter to me that your relationship with others is easier and more harmonious.
My passion for you grows stronger every day.
It doesn't matter to me that your relationship with others is easier and more harmonious.
My passion for you grows stronger every day.
They listened as I read and clapped when I finished. I stepped off the stage into a shower of praise. "You should be an actress," they told me. "You did a very good job."
Two women approached me. "I'm Samantha Robin," One of the women said. "And this is..." I recognized the name. I knew she was a prolific author. Resisting the impulse to hug her, I said, "I love reading your books."
"Thank you." She smiled. "I wanted to meet you and encourage you to keep writing, especially about your experiences with dyslexia. Someone I'm very close to has dyslexia. I showed him your story and he was... Well..." Her voice choked."He took courage. I know others will, as well."
Her words found my heart. Right then, right there, I made a silent vow, a reaffirmation to keep writing.
"Ready to go?" My husband asked.
I waited until we were alone in our truck to ask, "Did you hear all the positive comments?"
"Some, and I heard them clapping."
"I really like reading my writing and I want to do it again, really soon."
"You're amazing," he told me. And we kissed.
"I really like reading my writing and I want to do it again, really soon."
"You're amazing," he told me. And we kissed.
"I keep walking the path. Thanks to a little help from my friends."
Photo of Abby by Leanne Dyck
'My Life with Letters' was published in the anthology From the Heart: Real Life Stories of Hope & Inspiration (2015)
