As a dyslexic student in the 1960s, school definitely had its challenges. Some were academic. Others were interpersonal.
Like Him
He is a mountain of a boy. His catcher's mitt hands are calloused from farm work. His body is a solid mass of muscles. The government informed his father that he needed to be in school. So in school is where he is, but he refuses to learn. Teacher after teacher failed the challenge. Now he is in class with me. I don't know who I'm more afraid of, him or the young teacher, fresh out of university, who thinks she can make him learn. Wielding a yardstick, she storms up the aisle. The rest of us freeze—too scared to breathe. He disentangles himself from the desk and towers over her. She swings. He meets wood with fists.
Someone is going to get hurt.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
His cornea is scratched. Her hair is pulled; her nose bleeds. He stops when he realizes what he has done. What has he done? He squares his shoulders and marches out of school—free.
He'll be back. The months have taught me that, but little else. My classmates continue to learn regardless.
"Leanne?" the teacher calls on me to supply an answer.
I rack my brain in my desperate attempt to find the correct answer. All I can think is how much she must hate me. In her eyes, I'm like that mountain of a boy—a black smudge on her career. When will she whack me with that yardstick?
I have a new favourite film.
Please watch What Is Dyslexia
