I loved grade four so much I did it twice. Well, I didn’t
really love it, but I did go through it two times. My struggle with school began
in grade one. Mrs. Mommy (No lie. That was my grade one teacher’s name.)
divided her class into three reading groups based on ability. I was in the “slow”
group and all of us in that group knew we were in the “slow” group.
A couple of years later I was tested and diagnosed with
dyslexia. This meant I was pulled out of language arts to go to “special
classes.” The only thing I remember about these classes was “announcing” my
lack of ability to my peers every time I got up and went down the hall to the
room for “dummies.” I don’t recall a lot of what I did in that room except the endless
word searches. I continually failed to find a certain number of words in a set amount
of time. It was horrible. Those words just weren’t there. And the time pressure
only added to my paralysis. The letters blurred together and my mind froze.
The pressure of time has always been a problem for me. If
you want to make me go insane force me to play the game Perfection where you have to put those little shapes in their
correct place before the board pops and destroys everything. As soon as I hear that ticking noise I start
to shake and can no longer distinguish the shapes. For this reason, even though
I studied, in some of my High School diploma exams I simply circled random
answers and handed them in because I couldn’t concentrate under the time
pressure. One of the great things about my post-secondary schooling, especially
at the Masters and Doctorate level, was that the testing became essay-based
rather than exam-based. This way I could plan my research, writing and editing weeks
in advance, at my own pace. I never pulled an all-nighter to finish a paper. I
never handed in a late paper. And my marks significantly improved. I’m the same
with sermons. They are always planned well in advance.
Back in elementary school mom was getting frustrated with
my slow pace and limited attention span. One incident that remains etched in my
memory is the time the two of us were working on my homework. Mom’s patience
ran out. In an outburst of anger she erupted, “What is wrong with you? Are you
a pea brain?” These words hurt, but not so much as the strange occurrence that
followed.
At school the next day a boy in my class named Kyle approached
me at recess and taunted, “I heard your mom called you a pea brain?”
How did Kyle know my mom said that? The horror on my face
betrayed the truth and the rest of the boys started laughing. I went home
devastated and confronted my mom. She denied mentioning this to anyone and was
equally horrified. But how did Kyle know? Mom was either lying, my younger
brother had overhead and told (but he was only in grade one at the time), Kyle
made an extremely lucky guess or someone crept onto our acreage, hid under a window
and eavesdropped. All these options seem highly unlikely.
I’ll never know how Kyle was able to tease me with these words
the day after my mom said them to me and, frankly, I no longer care. The
combination of these two events, however, determined the way I started thinking
about myself. I was stupid.
Grade four was a struggle. My grades were failing and I
was falling further behind my peers. The school was going to push me through to
grade five, but my mother insisted I be held back. I’m sure this was a
difficult decision for her, but for me it was humiliating. I attended a small
country school with about twenty kids in each grade. Everyone knew everybody.
So when I arrived back at school after the summer break, and all my friends
went off to their grade five room, I proceeded to sit back down in the room for
grade four students with last year’s grade threes. It was confirmation for Kyle
and his buddies. I really was a pea brain.
In the end, my mom’s decision to hold me back turned out
to be beneficial. Not only did it give me another year to mature and catch up,
but the friends I made with this new group were more positive than the ones I
had in the grade now ahead of me.
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| Climbing a tree on the acreage I grew up on (love the haircut) |
After Junior High my principle tried to direct me towards
the “general” High School diploma. I wanted to get into Bible College though
and knew I needed an “advanced” diploma. I insisted that he let me go in that
direction and, after my English teacher agreed to give me extra help, he
reluctantly agreed. Mrs. McKinney had heard that I wanted to become a pastor
and, though I don’t believe she was a Christian, obviously felt this was a goal
she should help me reach. I did graduate with an advanced High School diploma with a 67% average. I needed a 65% to
get into Bible College and so, thanks to my “A” in gym, I achieved the grade I
needed.
I continue to be a
terrible speller and cannot sound words out. I basically memorize the
enunciation of words. When I come across a new word and don’t know how it
sounds I’ll ask someone else (including my kids). Math was a subject I was extremely
glad to finish. It was a moment of exuberant joy when I wrote my final math exam
and walked out of the gym knowing I would never have to suffer through that
again.
I’m a late bloomer. It wasn’t until my second year of
Bible College that I discovered how to learn and how enjoyable it can be. Since
then I feel like I’ve been playing catch up. Today I devour books, especially in
the areas of history, theology, sociology and psychology. I enjoy seeing how
these and other disciplines intersect. The feeling of working with my mind to
understand and explain a difficult topic is wonderful. But there was a day I
hated school. There was a day I thought I was a pea brain. And there was a day
I wondered if I was going to make it out of High School. Sometimes I’ve even wondered
how much of my pursuit of a doctorate was an attempt to prove that I am not a
“pea brain.”
Many who know me today have a hard time believing that I once
struggled in school, but it’s true. Not to equate myself with them, but I have
since learned that many great thinkers, artists and leaders started school
hating it and struggling in it. So, at least I’m in good company.
What is something you failed at that ended up positively shaping you?
I had a hard time with your story……actually I was brought to tears. How cruel to belittle a child at such a vulnerable age and I know that I made the same mistake when my children were growing up. I will never forgive myself for calling my youngest daughter a derogatory name when she was about 5 years old. Thankfully she overcame it but to this day I wonder whether she remembers and holds it against me.
ReplyDeleteI too struggled in school…..and I did not come from a practicing church going family. Yes, they believed in God and we were brought up to be morally right but I had no direction as to disciplined school work. I was a good student in the first 6 grades but fell apart in High School……too much social happenings for me to concentrate on school work……how I graduated I will never know. However, I was a very confident person and made my way in life by self-learning. Also my parents thought the sun rose and set on their two daughters and we were praised and uplifted by their approval of us.
I cannot begin here to tell you here of the twists and turns my life pathway took to the present time. Some people have encouraged me to write a book…..i can’t write……did poorly in English literature classes…..
It's amazing how negative comments can impact us so greatly for years afterwards. I wish one really great comment could have that same power!
ReplyDeleteWhen I was 11, my "crush" at school told me my hair was so frizzy it looked like mold. For many years afterwards, I was embarrassed and ashamed with my perfectly normal hair... I hated that it was wavy/curly and always dreamed of having stick straight hair. Over the years I damaged it so badly trying to change it, and now wish I had just left it alone, because now I really like my natural colour and texture!
One thing I always failed quite terribly at was gym class. I can safely say I was always at the very bottom of every class... I ran slowly, had terrible aim, bad coordination... and on top of that I just didn't like sports. Some people like sports even when they aren't very good. I am NOT that person. I hated gym class. I cried when I got bad marks or embarrassed myself in volleyball. And on top of that, I was often bullied by the very athletic, tall, pretty girls who did really well in class. But I turned out alright! I learned to focus on what I actually am good at. Once the pressure of high school gym class was gone, I also realized that while I may not be good at athletic endeavours, I do enjoy some of them now anyways. I like being outdoors, running, badminton, etc. Even when I look awkward doing them, I know that what's important is having fun and exercising. I think being really terrible at sports helped me understand that we can't all be good at everything! And that's okay! Now I can joke around about what used to make me feel ashamed, because over the years I learned that some of those gym class bullies probably hated the classes they weren't good at, that people like me excelled in. Focus on what you're good at, right?
Every Thursday at 1:00 pm the thirteen years old girls of my school went to sewing lessons. I was thirteen and I was a girl and every Thursday at 1:00 pm I got sick.
ReplyDeleteIt begun as if a fist would be clenching my stomach and squeezed and squeezed…
Then my time at sewing lessons was spent between my trips to the washroom and my feeble attempts to catch up in the lesson. At the end of the first three months, when all the girls showed their sewing accomplishments in the form of a pretty apron, I had a piece of fabric with clumps of threads all over it and a beautiful “F’ in my report.
I was saved by that “F”! That “F” meant no more sewing classes for me, much to my mother’s dismay. Even now in my worst nightmares I see myself running from killer sewing machines and getting tangled up in endless balls of thread.
If as a young girl I hated sewing, now as a mature woman, I hate sewing even more!
I wish I could say that failing at sewing made me a stronger “Something” but I’m afraid this little story has not silver lining anywhere.
After my ignominious failure at sewing I convinced my parents to allow me to take guitar lessons. Taking guitar lessons meant for me to travel by bus to the city. In the bus I kept my guitar by my side as if it was another passenger and that deterred anybody from sitting beside me which made me very happy, because that was the kind of “social moth” that I was.
Three years of classical guitar gave me the opportunity to be taught by the most notorious music professor in my country and to take a pee-a-boo- look at a world of artistic shades. Then I discovered that I didn’t have a musical bone in my body and that I was wasting my parents’ money and I withdrew from the classes.
I don’t count this as a failure though, it was a rewarding experience and although now I can only play the exam pieces I learnt, still in rare moments, I will take my guitar out of its dusty case and play memories more than music.
We are formed by our successes and our failures; each experience leaves its digital print in our lives. I see my failures and successes as the stones that paved my way to the place where God found me. And not, I will ever be a seamstress or a classical guitar wizard but
I am some one saved by grace.
Someone that is so valuable to God, that he paid the ransom with the life of his precious Son. He bought me back because he loved me. And his love also encompasses all my failures.
Alicia.
It's been over 50 years and I still remember where I sat for Grade 4 music class with Miss Booth. I loved to sing and up until this particular day that's what we did and I loved it. However, this particular day would impact me forever. Miss Booth went to the piano and began to play notes. She played one note and then another. We had to say which of the notes was higher or lower. I couldn't hear the difference and I think at times she played the same note twice just to raise my anxiety. After what seemed like an eternity of this torturous game and me never being able to hear the difference I burst into tears. I was sent out into the hall ( and yes I remember where I had to stand ). Miss Booth came outside and rebuked me for being such a baby. There was no desire on her part to help me. I was just told to stop crying and get back to class. To this day, I can't believe that she didn't offer to help after school. So that was the beginning of my fear of music. Oh, I still sang and loved it ;but, I would never venture into the land of musical instruments .
ReplyDeleteHowever, what I learned was compassion for those who have trouble learning and when I began my training at UBC for teaching, I had a saying that I would display , "The more ways we teach, the more children we reach". I still have it. It was a constant reminder that we are all different and sometimes a lesson needs to be tweeked for certain children. My first practicum was with a Grade One class. The spelling test consisted of the teacher saying a word and the children had to print the first letter of the word ( puppy - p, ) or the last letter ( dog- g). One little boy failed every time. It was my day to give the test and I could see his anxiety. As I gave the test I sidled up beside him and said the word and emphasized the sound. He got it!! That is over 30 years ago and I still remember the look on his face!! He succeeded and all it took was a little extra attention and patience. I wish Miss Booth had taken the time.
I'm sure that there were days when I failed at teaching in a way that helped all children; but, "the more ways we teach, the more children we reach" is a philosophy that I have tried to uphold in all my dealings with children and some adults too!!
As to my music phobia, in 1997 I decided to prove Miss Booth wrong. I took singing lessons that incorporated ear training and I took the Royal Conservatory Grade 1 singing exam and passed with honours! Thanks in part, to a very good music teacher!
Valerie Coyle