Dyslexia + Me = A Stealth Mission

I had to escape.

That was the second thing I learned in the first-grade on the first day of school.

The moment the teacher turned her back, I made my move. I hurried to the door, twisted the knob, and slowly pulled it open. The door made a loud creaking sound, and I expected the teacher to turn around and tell me to go back to my seat and sit down. She didn’t. She was too busy helping a student who was having a seizure. The boy was shaking and sliding out of his wheelchair. It was the second time he’d had a seizure in less than five minutes. It was kind of scary to see, but the teacher had told us there was nothing to worry about and that the boy would be fine. The boy didn’t seem fine. Nothing seemed fine, nothing at all.

That’s why I had to escape.

When I stepped out into the hallway, the intense feeling of panic in me began to go away. When the door clicked shut behind me, I could breathe easy again.

What’s going on? I wondered. Why was I put in a classroom for disabled kids who were in wheelchairs? What was wrong with me? Did I have a rare disease? Would I be in a wheelchair by the end of the month? Those questions were driving me crazy, so I took a deep breath and forced my mind to be completely quiet. The silence felt good while it lasted. But it didn’t last long.

I don’t feel like I have a rare disease. I thought. My legs feel strong, too strong to end up in a wheelchair by the end of the month.

To make sure, I hopped and jumped across the hall. My legs felt good. They felt so good, I ran down the long hallway at top speed passing by the first-grade classrooms and then the kindergarten classrooms. The moment I got to the end of the hall, I touched the smooth wall and spun around.

Having the hallway all to myself, I decided to practice my dance moves. I started taking ballet and jazz when I was four-years-old. My dance teacher thought I had talent. She was impressed with how fast I could pick up dance moves and remember entire choreographed routines after only practicing them once.

Over the summer, I came up with my own dance routines. The song Crocodile Rock was a big hit, and every time I’d hear it playing on the radio, I would stop what I was doing and dance to it.

Right then, in my mind, I could hear the Crocodile Rock song; Elton John playing the piano and singing, “I remember when rock was young, me and Susie had so much fun.”

I launched into my dance routine, swinging my arms and kicking my legs. Then I stepped into a fast jazz walk with up and down shoulder movements, tricky footwork, and snappy spins. After spinning, I started hopping and bopping forward and backward and from side to side with my hands and head shaking.

I loved the tapping sound of my leather-soled shoes against the polished stone floor when my feet struck it, and the way the sound echoed in the hallway with a rhythmic beat. Filled with fantastic dance energy, I was feeling light, bright, and full of joy when I should have been worried about ditching class and getting caught.

After I practiced my Crocodile Rock dance routine, I wanted to see if I could do a tricky chain-turn from one end of the long hall to the other without getting too dizzy.

With brisk, lively motion, I began a series of quick 360 degree turns while traveling in a straight line. Nearing the end of the hallway, I heard a loud click followed by the creaking sound of a door opening. I stopped mid-turn and looked for a place where I could hide, but there was none.

Dizzy from spinning so fast, I shook my head. Then I backed away from the door that was opening. The door nearly hit me as I pressed my body against the wall. I held my breath and closed my eyes, wishing I could turn invisible. Sneaking a peek, I saw the backside of a teacher. When she stopped backing up, she was only a few inches away from me. I closed my eyes again, hoping she wouldn’t move back any further and step on my foot, or glance over her shoulder and see me. She shifted on her feet, but she didn’t step back or glance over her shoulder.

She told her students to stay in a single file line and follow her across the hallway to the art room. The last student that came bouncing out of the classroom I knew. We had been in the same Kindergarten class last year.

I jumped in line behind her, and she turned and looked at me. I smiled and whispered, “Hey, Amy. I get to be in your art class today.”

Instead of questioning me, Amy just smiled and said, “Do you want to sit next to me?”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

The art room was big, with six long picnic-style tables and floor to ceiling shelves full of art supplies, stacks of colorful paper, boxes of crayons, metal trays with watercolor paints, and round canisters with bright colored pens.

Nervous, I pointed at a table that was at the back of the room. “Let’s sit there,” I said. Amy nodded and followed me.

Taking a seat at the long table, I thought, I’ll be safe, not noticed by the teacher back here.

Right then, the teacher was nowhere in sight, but I could hear her. She was near the front of the room inside a closet where pint-sized tubs of white, thick past and small glass jars of clear glue were stored.

Six students walked out of the closet that the teacher was in and started passing out the glue, two jars per table. Amy loved glue. She thought it smelled strange in a good way. She liked it so much that in kindergarten, she’d coat one of her fingers with it and sniff it for the rest of the day. I thought the glue smelled strange in a good way too, but not good enough to coat my finger with it and sniff it all day.

The six students that passed out the glue began handing out scissors and a variety of paper. The teacher walked out of the closet and stood at the front of the room, looking over the class. Not wanting to get caught, I looked down at the table and grabbed a pair of scissors. When the room was quiet, the teacher started the art lesson. We were supposed to use the scissors to cut the paper into whatever we wanted and then glue our creations onto a piece of thick construction paper.

It only took me a moment to think of something to make. The song Crocodile Rock was still running through my mind, and it inspired me to make two green crocodiles dancing under a big yellow sun.

Art came easy to me. It didn’t seem to come easy to the eight kids sitting at my table. A boy with short blond hair and blue eyes who was sitting next to me seemed to have trouble using his scissors. All he could cut was misshaped scraps. And instead of using the glue to stick his scraps onto the construction paper, he picked his nose and used his rolled-up boogers.

“Um, do you want to use the glue,” I whispered, knowing his boogers wouldn’t hold his artwork together for very long.

He looked at me with his finger up his nose and said, “No.”

On the other side of me, Amy was trying to make a pink flower, but most of her flower peddles stuck to her finger that was coated with glue.

When I finished my artwork, I glanced up at the clock and saw that it was almost recess. At the same time, I saw the teacher walking around the room, stopping at each table. When she got to my table, I lowered my head and kept my eyes on my artwork. Please don’t notice me. I thought. Please. Please don’t notice me.

When the teacher moved behind me, she stopped, and I held my breath. When she leaned over my shoulder, reacher down, and touched my artwork, I closed my eyes tight.

“This is very good,” she said. “But you need to put your name on it.”

“Uh… OK,” I said, keeping my head down while hoping she would hurt up and move along, walk to the front of the class, and excuse us for recess. Instead, she tapped me on the shoulder.

Ah, oh, I thought.

My heart started pounding in my chest as I slowly turned to look up at her. As soon as she saw my face, she said, “You’re not one of my students.” I didn’t respond. With a concerned look on her face, the teacher asked, “What room are you suppose to be in?”

“Um… Well…” I said.

“What room?” She demanded.

“14,” I said.

The boy sitting next to me yelled, “Room 14! Room 14 is for retards.”

“Is not,” I snapped.

Right then, the recess bell rang.

Panicked, I shoved the boy who was next to me while trying to turn and get up from the table. When my feet hit the floor, I backed away from the teacher. Then I ran for the art room’s open door.

As I ran, the teacher shouted, “Come back here, young lady.”

I didn’t stop.

At top speed, I raced through the building, wondering if I was retarded. I did have a hard time reading and writing compared to the other kids in school, even the kids in room 14, who were disabled and in wheelchairs. When I got to the big metal door that leads to the playground, I shoved it open. Outside, I sprinted to the far side of the playground where the hopscotch courts and the swings were.

As the kids poured out of the building and onto the playground, I picked up a flat rock to use as a marker to play hopscotch. Filled with awful emotional pain, I was feeling heavy, dark, and full of shame. Playing hopscotch, I hoped would take those terrible feelings away. I tossed the rock, and it bounced and landed in the center of the hopscotch court’s second to last square. By the time I hopped to the end of the court, three girls I had recognized from the art class, surrounded me.

“Do you want to play?” I asked.

A tall girl with white hair pulled up in a high ponytail said, “We don’t play with retards.”

Taken aback, I yelled, “I’m not a retard!”

The little gang of girls stepped closer, pointed their fingers at me, and chanting, “Retard. Retard. Retard.”

I took a bigger step back and told them to leave me alone.

In a mocking tone, a short girl with red hair and lots of freckles on her face mimicked me. “Leave me alone. Leave me alone.”

“Go away,” I yelled.

“Make us, retard,” a girl with dark brown curly hair and light brown eyes said.

“Stop!” I yelled, backing further away from them as anger began bubbling up in me.

The tall girl stepped closer and said, “Only cripples and retards are in room 14.”

In a rage, I rushed her and hit her in the stomach. I heard my fist thud against her body and a sharp gasp escape from her mouth. Then I shover her good and hard. She lost her balance, stumbled back, and fell on the ground holding her stomach and crying.

I looked at the other girls, they backed up, turned around, and then ran away.

A moment later, I heard a whistle blow and saw a teacher who was monitoring the playground running toward me.

Right then, I knew one thing. I was in big trouble.