'Un Told Storys of a Chilld Dylesixc'

“Th- The cat r-ran…up th-the tree.” Giggles filled the heavy classroom air as I began to read aloud. Grade two was the year I was diagnosed with dyslexia. My classmates were unforgiving and could not understand why I stuttered when I read aloud. To this day I still do not understand why teachers would choose me to read despite the fact that I did not volunteer. It seemed unfair, this imaginary world of stories that I loved so much was also one of my greatest academic weaknesses. It was my escape from the undeniable neighbourhood bullies that tormented me and every other kid my age who were not one of them. I would get lost for hours, reading, writing, re-reading, and editing. Pages upon pages of coloured paper covered in short stories hung neatly on my refrigerator. It was my therapist, my personal venting system. My way to escape all the pain of real life. It gave me the confidence that not even my Mother could.

After my diagnosis, my teachers tried to convince me to practice reading out loud, a task I already enjoyed doing in the privacy of my home. I, being the stubborn little brat I was, rebelled and stopped reading and writing all together. If I was going to be forced to do something that I loved, what was the point of loving it? The mindset of that time was just practice until perfect — as if practicing reading out loud would stop the letters from forming gibberish in my head. I will always remember the conversation my teacher had with my parents. “I think Amber has more than dyslexia. She is having trouble spelling her name now.” In reality I was purposely spelling every word wrong because in my head spelling my own name ‘Amnbre’ was sticking it to the teachers who treated me like I was stupid.

And then came grade three. I remember that year so vividly. I was convinced my teachers hated me, I mean I would have hated eight-year-old Amber too if I were them. I was quiet, shy and not the type of kid to cause disruptions. At first glance, I seemed like a teacher’s pet, the kid that every adult likes, the one that every parent wanted their kids to be friends with, but I have always had a rebellious side. A side that takes a while to show itself. By grade three, I was still spelling words completely wrong, but then it was because I was so used to spelling them that way that I truly believed that words like remember was spelled ‘rememembre’. After months of misspelling words and slowly convincing my teachers that I may be on the autism spectrum, I discovered poetry.

My dad, an avid reader and poetry lover, would read to me every night. Some books slipped right over my head, by just the sounds of big unknown words lead me into a trance. One night it was be something as juvenile as Dr. Seuss or a poem my dad had wrote to make me laugh, while other nights we would read poems and love letters from soldiers in world war one. I would practice writing stories and poetry of my own, having either my dad or my poet of an aunt edit them for me. Back then, editing consisted of family members correcting my many spelling mistakes, and telling me what a good writer I was, even if it wasn’t necessarily true. Every sentence, so carefully crafted, pulled me in deeper and deeper into the world of literature. It became my out, a way to relax and let my mind go. I unconsciously let go of the stigma I had created for myself with my teachers over my dyslexia. When I would read, I became a reader. When I wrote, I became a writer. It was as simple as that. I had tunnel vision, the world around me became blurry and all that was left was me and the pages. No matter how stressful and tough life became, I knew I had pages of adventures to read and write. Through every fight with my parents, every name I got called in school I knew I always had reading and writing to keep me safe.

When most kids would open birthday or Christmas presents, they would sigh as they realize Aunt Carol bought them another book. For me however, books were on my list every year. One year for Christmas my dad bought me a book called Amber Waiting by Nan Gregory, Amber of course spelled the correct way and not grad two Amnbre’s way. The book made my family laugh as my dad had had the enviable parent brain fart moment before Christmas break and forgot to pick me up at school one day. It was perfect in all senses. The girl in the picture book looked like me with medium length brown hair and brown eyes. She loved to paint and play in the snow. And just like I had, she waited patiently for her dad to pick her up from school. When her dad finally arrived, she felt a sense of relief and jumped into his arms just like I had.

The book as juvenile as it was, gave me some kind of peace. It gave me a sense that I was not alone when my parents forgot to pack me water with my lunch, or when the bullies teased me for stuttering. And when my parents got mad at me, it was a good reminder for me to bring up the time they forgot me at school. It helped me realize that people make mistakes. I was not perfect as I stuttered through passages of books, and read words that were not there, just as my parents were not perfect, and neither were the kids who picked on me at school. And this, I realize this was all okay. Amber Waiting for me was a book about coming of age, self-soothing through the rough patches of life, and waiting for the good times to come and sweep me up into its arms. It gave me the strength I needed to ignore the bullies and be patient for better things to come. Although my dyslexia always stays part of me, this book allowed me to come to terms with it, and not let it control my life. I slowly, but surely, became less afraid of admitting that I had a learning difference and began embracing it. It taught me a valuable lesson; when times are tough, just be patient, because the good times are always right around the corner.