I can remember driving in New York and hearing my brother-in-law’s voice, barking out directions in his gruff manner – left here, right there. I sneak peeks at his hands, gesturing where he means for me to turn, around the next corner, past the store on the left. The last turn, though, he makes no gesture, and I go straight because I am too rattled to make a choice. He makes me pull over and finally says the word and wonders have I ever labeled myself with it. I have not. I cannot think this word means anything I am because I am just tired, I am confused. I am just not trying hard enough. Let me do it again and I’ll get it right.
But somehow, somewhere, later it begins to make sense. Somehow, the word no longer means this distant technical medical hazy picture of them. Suddenly, it is me. And suddenly, everything makes sense. I am dyslexic.
They would have expected worse for me. My parents are too closely related. I should be grateful I came out whole and not with pieces of me left inside my mother’s body. And I am. Mother is, too. I am her wonder child who has survived it all.
I go to school and excel in every class, even math, which they say we girls cannot do. I do. And I’m good. But at English, I am even better. The spelling bee comes and I am one of the last two and my word comes. I smile and begin to spell “slow”, not understanding the titters of laughter when I am quickly done. I have spelled s-o-w, a pig, an ignorant animal which I am convinced I now am. I have been careless, Mother says, as I cry. I should be more careful, she tells me. It is not the last time she will say this to me.
I try to be more careful. I try to slow down. Still, even when I forget and hurry, I still test well. I have learned what they expect on these tests and I give them what they want. I have become very good at that. I change schools because I am considered bright, though still I sometimes am not careful. Mother and my teachers talk about this a lot during conferences. I could do better if I were careful, my teacher says. Mother nods.
Music becomes my savior. I love the sound of voices and instruments, the melding of timbres and the crash of dissonance. I am in love with all of it, and my throat, so close to my brain, feels more controllable than trusting my fingers to find the right keys. I memorize everything I am given. I teach myself to play piano so I can read music. I join every choir ad spend every moment being a part of sound.
I am older now, one semester away from college. I become part of the school band with all my friends who have been there for years. I am given sheet music and read it well at home and by myself, but when I am in class, I lose bars. I forget where I am. I am not careful. I ring my chime on the wrong note. My band director is frustrated with me and thinks I am being funny. It’s not funny. I am trying to be careful. I really am.
At the end of the year, the band plays a symphony piece I have written, and I win a music scholarship and two others to go to college. I am excited for the chance to study my music constantly. But I am nervous. I have not learned the same things as others and have to take extra courses. For a simple fifteen credits, I am taking nine classes. I feel like I am drowning. No one sees me.
My new piano teacher becomes frustrated and tells me I am not trying when I hit five wrong notes in a row. She tells me I should consider another career and my heart feels like the skin is being peeled back.
I begin to fall behind in classes. During sight singing, I read the wrong lines and mix the notes up. I claim I need glasses with a little laugh. My instructor does not laugh. He gives me a ‘D’, my first. It is not my last.
My teachers are convinced I am not trying. Mother is convinced I have become lazy. Even I am not convinced I have made my best effort. I am frustrated and alone and nothing makes sense anymore and I begin to hate music. I leave after two years. I have lost all my scholarships. But I still believe it’s because I have note been careful.
Seven years after hearing the word, I begin writing my stories down. I know this will be extremely difficult and I may need lots of help (which is hard for me to ask for) but I cannot not do it. The stories are important.
I make mistakes constantly. I spell-check every five minutes. I give my tiny pages to friends to read, hoping they will catch whatever I have missed. I make their changes and check again. And again. I edit constantly.
I amass 140 pages and am accepted into a week-long workshop with some of the best writers in the country. Agents will be there and so will editors. I am nervous and I know this means I need to slow down. I will have to slow down. I will have to be more careful, not Mother’s way, but mine. I will have to remember to breathe and be confident.
My reading is one of the last days. I am nervous. I am trying to breathe, but I go too fast at first and have to remind myself to slow down. I am nervous not just because I am reading aloud in front of people I don’t know, but I am reading my work. I am reading what I have written. I feel as if I have cut myself open and they are all staring at my insides.
I am almost in tears when I finish. I am convinced they will not like it. I have made too many mistakes. They have not understood me because I cannot make myself understandable. I have been wrong and I want to leave the room. I want to go home.
The people break up into groups to pick apart my piece, deciding what criticism they will give me, but I am not even listening because I am convinced I am horrible. But then the leader of the first group gets up and she say it is wonderful. She smiles and says she loves my reading and my accent and gives me the biggest compliment of the whole week, she wants to read more. I am thrilled. Each group leader stands, one by one, telling in their way the same, all saying they want more. I am nervous again, but good and warm and loved.
Word travels from this group out into the halls and amongst the ones who missed it. By dinner, I am being hugged and kissy-cheeked. Wonderful, I hear. No one says I should have been more careful. No one doesn’t smile.
A woman talks to me in line for diner. She tells me she has read my stories. She asks me to send her some more and I am happy to. She gives me her card and I find out then she is an agent. She leans and whispers in my ear, You are going to be a brilliant writer. And I smile. Yes, I am.
