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,”