Understood

            I waved to my mom when I got off the huge yellow bus.  I knew she would be waiting for me at school to walk with me to my new environment.  I ran to her and she gave me a kiss on my little rosy cheeks and told me how proud she was of me for riding the bus for the first time.  Then she took my hand and we walked down several hallways together.

            I found looked at dark blue cubby in the classroom until I found mine and put my jacket and pink nickelodeon backpack in it.  Then I looked at every wooden round table, searching for my name.  When I found it I proudly told my mom and I sat in my dark blue seat with my mom bending down one leg talking to me.

            “Parents, it is time to leave.  But I promise you that all your children will have a wonderful day and full school year in kindergarten,” said Mrs. Prescott, my new teacher.  I kissed my mom on her chubby cheeks and she gave me a kiss and one last hug until she left me alone at my table with children I did not know but I was not shy or scared.  I was calm, happy, excited, and ready to learn.  I was especially anxious about learning how to read and write.  At this time, nobody knew that there was something different about me. 

            Before it was October I made new friends at school, I played tee-ball, I learned how to hold a pencil and more.  But I saw that I was not learning to read and write as well as my classmates but I did not care.  At this time I just wanted to be a normal kid and I did not see anything wrong with me.  I thought that I would eventually learn and catch up to my peers but besides my reading and writing difficulties, something else came up. 

            I started to notice that a lot of adults were having difficulties understanding me.  I would say a word or a sentence and they would look at me confused.  I would repeat myself but they would still look at me puzzled. 

            “Never mind,” I would tell them.  My parents and friends could understand me, but I did not understand why the adults at school could not understand me.  I started to be come quiet around the adults at school and eventually I decided not to speak to them, but only to my friends and family.  My teachers became concerned and so did my mom, until a new teacher showed up one day at my kindergarten classroom.

            The teacher said my teacher and I got up from my table and walked to her.  She introduced me to the teacher standing next to her and told me that I would be spending time with her.  The new teacher told me to follow her and as we walked down the many hallways we picked up a few students on the way.  I remembered that I did not feel any emotions.  I was not scared or happy or shy or sad.  I did not know what was going on but I went with the flow of what the future had in store for me. 

            The teacher took the students and I to a small classroom at the end of the hallway.  She gave me a folder that had my name on it and told me that she would be helping pronounced my letters.  As a six year old I did not have much of a say but she told me what letters we would be working on, that we would meet two times a week, and that my speaking would get better.  She asked if I understood and I said yes even though I really did not understand. 

            It became a regular thing for me to go to this special class called speech and learn how to pronounce my letters.  At home my mother did my speech homework with me and helped me whenever we got the opportunity when we were not at home.  Eventually June came and before I knew it September was once again on its way and I would be in first grade.  I knew I would be returning to the speech classes, but there was another surprise for me at school. 

            I was sitting at my desk when a teacher I never met before came in and my teacher told us to get up when our names were called.  Only three names were called and one of those names was my own.  I followed the teacher in the hallway as she got three more students and then took us to another small class I never been to before. 

            The room had nine desks, a black board at the front, and in a corner a semi-circle table.  Just like my first day of speech class I did not feel happy, excited, shy, scared, or anything. 

            I heard the teacher say my name and I raised my hand.  She pointed to the dark brown desk I would be sitting in and I sat down in it.  Once everyone was seated she handed out our workbooks and told us that we would be spending our Language Arts and Reading period in this class everyday. 

            I do not remember how long I spent in the special class each day, but I knew it was a long time.  I recalled having snacks time in the class and playing phonic games.  I actually have very little memory of my regular classroom in elementary school.  But it occurred to me by fourth grade that I was the only one of my group of friends in the class.  No one every told me why I was in the class but I did learn to read and write along with spelling.  But not as well as my friends.  By fourth grade my friends could read short novels while I was still stuck on picture books.  I started to think that I would never be a good reader, writer, or speller.  I refused to go into the public library, attend any schoolbook sells, or walk into a Barns and Noble bookstore.  I hated reading and spelling because I knew that I was not good at it. 

            But I found a passionate to write.  At ten years old I wrote fairytales of magical places with wizards and dragons.  I wrote about a talking lion cub who got lost, created the Purple Power Ranger and her adventures, and my favorite were stories I wrote about Neverland and going on quests with Peter Pan and the Lost Boys.  My imagination was so create that I could not keep them in my head, I had to write them down.  Unfortunately no one could read them.  Every word I used was spell wrong, every tense I used was wrong, and I did not understand paragraphs so my stories were just one long paragraph.  Since I was the only one who could understand my early stories I kept them to myself although I am sure my mom found a few.  It was a long time until someone saw my passionate for writing.

            Years passed as fast as seasons and before I knew it I was in tenth grade and sixteen years old, ten years after I started kindergarten.  Within a ten-year period, everything changed.  I graduated from speech class in seventh grade, I was put into mainstream math classes by sixth grade, and by seventh grade I was no longer in special education classes, instead I was in inclusive classrooms, where I was finally in class with my friends.  But my learning problems were still present. 

            Teachers complained about my essays and I dreaded every time I got one back.  There would always be read marks all over my paper and the “see me” at the top right corner.  When I graduated from middle school I tried to ignore the red marks and whenever a paper said, “see me” I would never see my teacher.  When I got into high school I was in inclusive classrooms for every subject, except Spanish.  At high school I saw that things changed. 

            The special education teachers in all my classes were overwhelmed.  They never had time to review my papers, homework, or worksheets.  They were too busy watching out for the students with the sever disabilities and by October of my freshman year I learned to look out for myself.  I still got red marks, did poor on every exam, but all I cared about was passing but I also wanted to be acknowledged, but I was an invisible kid.  None of my teachers saw me or knew of my existence in the classroom.  It was hard, painful, and lonely but I passed.  Then I met him when I was in tenth grade and our meeting was a coincidence, then again, I do not believe in coincidence. 

            “Jesy, this is not an in support class but you still get your accommodation of extra time.  Today is just a test to see if it is a good fit for you, do you understand,” and I told my caseworker that I did.  I walked into the classroom feeling shy and nervous where the teacher, Mr. M greeted me.  He showed me where I could sit and he knew that it would be a good seat because when my friend Jeff walked in he was surprised to see me sitting next to his desk.  My first assignment in the class was to write a fifty-five-word story and at first I was shock.  I could write about anything I wanted?  No outline?  No topic?  No research about an author or character?  Just write as long as it was fifty-five words long?  In my head I was full of joy because I knew this was something I was good at and quickly got out my pen and Jeff handed me a white piece of paper.  I got so into the assignment that I kept writing over fifty-five words.  I was surprised when the teacher told us we had ten minutes left and some students shared their stories.  When the period ended, I knew that I would do well in the class. 

            I do not remember my first real essay for my new English class but I was shy, nervous, and scared.  When Mr. M started to hand the papers back to us my hands started to sweat, I look down at my gray desk, and I did not dare to look up and stare at him in the eyes.  He put my paper upside down on my desk and I knew that this was it.  All the red marks and cross out, and I knew it was going to be filled with the color red.  When I turned it over I was right with everything and Mr. M saw the look on my face and came over. 

            “Jesy, you have a lot of difficulties with spelling and your tenses but I loved your essay, it was very creative.  You are a very smart kid,” and all I could do was stare at him speechless.  Did he just say that?  With all those mistakes, did he really look pass all the mistakes and call me smart?  Throughout the rest of the school year I looked forward to Mr. M English’s class.  Although I had difficulties he always looked pass it and saw that I was really a smart kid who was overlooked because of my poor spelling, reading, and grammar.  I was happy in Mr. M’s class but I would not forget what I saw in June as I passed by his class one day after school.

            I saw Mr. M putting our books away into brown cardboard boxes.  He took all the Macbeth, Catcher in the Rye, Mango Street, and The Body of Christopher Reed books and put them away.  He was cleaning up for the summer and I walked away as quickly as possible because I knew that my happiness in his class was almost at an end and I was afraid of the future.

            I would never forget when I walked into the classroom one last time and saw that everything was gone.  All the books were put away and gone, the decorations were gone, and the teacher’s desk was empty.  When the period ended I became afraid because I knew that I would be in an inclusive classroom next year and I felt as if I lost my freedom once that clock said two in the afternoon. That year Mr. M reminded me why I loved to write like I did so many years ago, he over look my disabilities and saw that through my creativity I was smart, and helped me conquer my dyslexia.  Even to this day at the age of twenty I thank God that I met him and pray at the chapel of Mary every Sunday for her to watch out for him and keep him safe because if it was not for him I would not be confident in myself, determine to make my dream come true, or know that despite my dyslexia I am intelligent.

 I made sure that I did not have a sad face or a smile.  Just a regular face so that I could be strong and to show him that I would be brave in the next chapter of my life.

“Good-bye,”

“See you around, Jesy,”