This is taken from a larger piece of writing, based from a true story.
I tried to write this a little differently and I would love any feedback. Thank you. :)
I am confident
I have no confidence
I can do this
I will fail
I work hard
I am lazy
Words blacker than night drilled into my head, consuming me, over powering me, describing me. I am a failure. I am dumb. I will never get this right.
I am special
I have a disability.
I am dyslexia
I am stupid
I am not alone
I am alone
I’m sitting in a hard plastic chair. Four walls two windows and one door. Twenty four students surrounding me, one teacher and twenty-five books. Nothing but the occasional scrape of chairs, and the flicker of pages; but not mine. My book lay open in front of me, page 15 and chapter two. I’m doing well. I am behind.
‘I reached that page on my first day’ they sniggers; the strangers. My friends.
My eyes tingle with the threat of tears, the words smear together, like rain drops on a window. A lump appears in my throat. Everyone will see. I let my hair fall, like a Curtin around me face and I sink into the chair like its quicksand. I am invisible.
‘It is pathetic to cry over a book’ they say. The students. The teachers. I am pathetic.
I glue my eyes to the clock, praying for the minutes to tick faster, but they ignore my wishes mocking me as they move lazily by.
A tear escapes from the corner of my eyes sprinting down my cheek, and I beg my body to turn translucent, became nothing but air partials, evaporate like the last drops of water trapped in the desert.
But it doesn’t work.
‘BILLIE!’ I jump. Pain shoots up my legs as they collide with the hard wooden table, and laugher is ringing in my ears. Miss Read the malicious monster teacher approaches. I lift my head ever so slightly shaking my hair off a sliver on my face; all eyes are on me. Red paint drips from my face as she towers over me, waving a piece of paper like a flag in a parade. ‘Two hours you sat there and you only answered two questions! This is not good enough’ she slams the papers down -head swelling like a balloon- reliving half answered questions in untidy writing.
My untidy writing, my wrong answers.
I stuff my face into my hair, shoving the test out of site. A low rumble disturbs the silence as they laugh. My blood is replaced by fire, my heart pumping nothing but pure adrenalin. I want to run, I want to storm out of this prison and never come back; but I can’t, I won’t, draw more attention to myself.
I bit my lip so hard I taste blood, my eyes marry the clock and I being to wish the minutes away all over again.
Ice. Like words is both dangerous and beautiful; however unlike words, I only see the beauty in it.
I am free, I can skate and guide and jump. The students aren’t strangers but friends. The coaches, help us learn, giving us physical examples not written ones.
Out here I don’t mind the stares, I don’t want to evaporate, I can fit in and I can stand out; I decide. I know what I am doing, one toe loop, three crossover, five back spins, one spiral and two twizzles.
Routines and dancers, forcing my body to balance; shifting my weight, and bending my limbs until every muscle aches. The pain is oddly comforting. It means I’m doing this right, I am pushing myself and I’m succeeding.
I don’t know left from right.
I look down at my hands, one black glove and one white one. No left or right, just black and white, it’s laughable how simple the solution is.
I’m hiding sitting at the back of the class. Merging with the same plastic chairs, staring at the same four walls, two windows and one door, and watching the same plastic white clock to tick idly by.
My hands shake as I try to take the spelling test in front of me. I force myself to take deep breaths but it feels like ice water in my lungs, my blood is nothing but ice, showing no signs of melting.
I am frozen it time; trapped in this moment with no escape.
Toxic words eco at the back of my head, rotting my brain. ‘You only answered two questions in two hours, two questions’ ‘I bet you couldn’t even get those two questions right’ ‘why are you so stupid?’ ‘Why don’t you just pay attention?’
Tiredness fogs my brains as the words start to merge, like carriages on a train locking onto one another- Concentrate
Different, bifferent, b d b bifforant, diffaront
I can feel Miss Read’s eyes boring into my back, as she stairs over my shoulder. Clip board in hand and pen scaring the paper with crosses.
Tears burn my eyes once more, sliding down the back of my throat and I carry onto the next word.
Thank you both so much. This story is actually made up of my own experiences, everything in it is true, so unfortunately there are still some teachers acting like this .
I really liked it - particularly phrases like, 'the words smear together'. For some people with dyslexia the letters move around until someone puts a coloured transparency over them. Different colours work for different people - and for some they don't work at all. The cross out mostly worked for me. I think when you came to the work different - you could perhaps talk with someone with dyslexia about how they would naturally write it..
There are different types of dyslexia with some people getting the right letters but in the wrong order - sort of back to front - while some seem to have no clue on spelling at all.
I like the ice skating example. Many people who are dyslexic are kinaesthetic learners - they learn by doing - so that made sense to me.
I loved the black and white gloves. I tend to be clumsy - and forgetful of stupid things like keys - so I have a system of clipping them to my bag... All these types of approaches can help someone in the situation you describe.
I think what is important is that you make us care about the character you are writing about I like that. My Mum has taught many adults with dyslexia to read for the first time - they had the type of experiences you describe - or worse - so I would stick with it. My son is 19, but when he was 8 he had a friend who was described publicly, very loudly, as too stupid to have got the mark he did in an aptitude test - it took them another 2 years to diagnose dyslexia and give him the help he needed...
Hope that helps
Michelle
I find this particularly difficult to comment on, as I am not the slightest bit dyslexic. Some of it feels true, and some of it doesn't. I would, for example, be surprised if a teacher behaved like that nowadays - but I don't know; maybe a few still do.
The idea of using strikethrough text as a means of conveying ambiguity is interesting. It feels like exactly the naive solution that would work for someone who struggled with words, exactly analogous to the left/right, black/white gloves. So, clever you; you made a subtle parallel there.
Some of your description is powerful "the words smear together"; "I sink into the chair like its quicksand." And some of it is cliche "A lump appears in my throat"; "I glue my eyes to the clock"
I think you should be encouraged by what you've written. Keep experimenting; you have some good ideas!
All the best
Penny