Thank you, Mrs. Danielson (short memoir) by Leanne Dyck

Written with heartfelt thanks for a teacher who taught with heart and inspired me to write.

a school photo--circa 1970s

 Thank you, Mrs. Danielson

Mrs. Danielson, my junior high English teacher was young, pretty, and newly married to a local farmer. Her love of literature was evident. She introduced us to Margaret Laurence and John Steinbeck and Alice Munro and…

These books made me want to write. And so...

“I’ve enjoyed reading all your stories,” Mrs. Danielson stood proudly, without fear in front of her desk. Oh, how I wanted to be as confident. “But I especially enjoyed this one.” She waved a paper. “And I know you will too. Listen.”

Several paragraphs in I realized that she was reading my story. I felt exposed, vulnerable. I felt a little embarrassed because I had a hard time realizing that something I did could have earned such praise. But I also felt pride—pride that I wrapped in steel to protect it, to protect me.

My classmates began to whisper. “You wrote that?”

“No” after “No” until…

Mrs. Danielson finished reading the story, walked down the rows of desks and stood in front of me. “A+, Leanne.” She placed the paper on my desk.

Red ink dotted my paper—circling misspelled, misused words—but at the top of that paper were the words Very creative! Well done!

Go Red for Dyslexia

Look how far we've come: Positive change since the very first Dyslexia Awareness Month

by Scanning Pen

More of my writing about being dyslexic... Each of these stories received 1000 page views. Thank you for supporting me.

A Star

What was it like for me to be a dyslexic student in an elementary classroom? Well, kind of like this...

Whispering Stories

is a short memoir about my experiences as an elementary school pupil with dyslexia.

My Life with Letters

What is it like to be an author with dyslexia?

Dyslexia and Me--an Evolution

When I was a child I thought something was wrong with my brain. I'm dyslexic. Now I think... Well, now I think differently. Here's why...

Teachers Matter

Little was known about dyslexia in rural Manitoba in the late 60s and early 70s. So, perhaps, it's not surprising that my principal should pronounce me ineducable. What is surprising is that teachers step up to prove him wrong. Student-first teachers have always been and will continue to be my heroes. I wrote this short story to honour them. 

Dyslexic Assessment

My grade one teacher, Mrs. Blue, wrote a comment on my report card, 'Leanne tries very hard but...' and advised my parents to have me tested at the children's hospital in Winnipeg. 

Over fifty years later, this is my account of being assessed with dyslexia.

On this blog...

Sunday, October 19 to Sunday, February 8, 2026

(at approximately 4:45 PM PT)

Art Class (short story) by Leanne Dyck

'multi-artist mural on Mayne Island' photo by ldyck

In the past students like me were made to sit in a corner with a dunce cap on their heads. I've seen pictures. Or maybe sent into the hall to teach themselves what the teachers couldn't. I've heard stories. But it's the 70s, today they just...

"Kim, are you listening?" The teacher glares at me. "Earth to Kim." She thinks she's so funny. Maybe she is. The class is laughing.

Am I listening? How do I answer that? Do I tell her the truth?

I was thinking.

That would tick her off. Like I was being disrespectful. Like the only thoughts I'm allowed to have are the ones she gives me.

I say, "Hmm. Ah. Uh."

More laughter.

I'm so funny. I should sit in the back with the class clowns that get A's without trying. Instead of sitting up here struggling to get a C.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Mackie. I'll try harder."

I am sorry. Sorry to her; sorry for me.

Does she even hear me?

The bell rings, I leave that classroom and head to my locker. I keep my head down, my arms by my sides. Sharks swim in these waters. If they smell a weak dolphin they'll bite. I dump my books into my locker and get my stuff for art class.

Mr. Tremblay may look airy-fairy to some but not to me. He dances around with a smile on his face, humming. The walls of his classroom are covered with his students' work--my work.

He says things like, "You took an interesting perspective in this drawing. Good technique." He asks questions like, "Can you tell me where the light is coming from in this picture?" Easy questions. I'm usually the first to answer. I could stay in his classroom all day. But the bell rings again.

School was okay until I turned twelve until I entered the sixth grade. Now it's like all the other kids are racing ahead but I'm...but I'm stuck. 

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