It has been noted that people with dyslexia occasionally have trouble knowing their left from their right. I am one of those people. I have countless stories, situations, and witnesses to back that up.
Having dyslexia allowed me to see things from a different point of view. Without it, I don’t know if I would have the same courage, determination, and understanding today.
I wanted to focus on the left and the right of things. When I was little, a family member once told me he thought I would be left-handed; however, I did everything with my right hand once I went to school. Some people will talk about how “back in the day,” writing with your left hand was wrong, but now, we’ve realized that using our left hand as our dominant hand is merely… different.
So, I don’t always think about life as right and wrong, but rather right and left—or different.
Here’s my left.
When I was younger, there were whispers that something was wrong with me. I couldn’t spell or read like other children my age, but that didn’t cause too much alarm because I was still so young.
My brother specifically remembers trying to teach me to read the word “we,” and when he asked me what it said (telling me it starts with ‘w’), I would respond, “What, where, wet, well, why…” He just couldn’t understand why I didn’t get it. We. Such a simple word.
Fast forward a year or so, and I’m in third grade. For the first time, I went to a school where my mom was not a teacher, and my brother went to a different school because he was a big kid, and big kids didn’t go to my school. I noticed that at a certain time of day, a few other kids and I would go to a separate classroom, and we learned things such as writing out our addresses. It was so weird. But noticing that, I realized not everyone had to attend this class. Not everyone needed a five-to-one classroom time with a teacher. I felt very…left. And at that age, left was not right.
People wanted me to sound out words I had to spell. I’d look at the word.
-Tttttrrrrsssaaaaa.
—No. Try again.
-Tttt...rrr...sss.
—Stop looking at me for the right way to say it. You need to look at the word.
-….
—Here, sound out “S.”
-Sss.
—Sound out “T.”
-Tuh.
—Sound out “A.”
-Ahh.
—Sound out “R.”
-Err.
—Now, put it all together.
-….
—Look at the word and put it all together.
-….
I remember crying a lot. I didn’t know what they wanted me to say. I read the word. I sounded out the word, but the word I saw was not what they saw as right; it was left. It was different for me.
By the end of third grade, my mom was furious. Why would you sit a child in a classroom with a practice reading test when you knew they differed from other children regarding reading and comprehension? Why wouldn’t you do something when that little child started to cry because she didn’t understand what was happening or what she was supposed to do as she watched other children move from page to page with ease and excitement because they knew what they were doing.
I didn’t feel left. I felt wrong. Something was wrong with me, and I could never be what the others could.
After that, my amazing, OCD, determined, kind mother decided to homeschool me. We worked hard on reading, writing, and comprehension. As a dyslexic, I’d like to say that English is difficult. Is-land. Aka island. Really? Oh, and dis-lexic. With a “y?” Really? I get it now, but back then, it was super annoying.
Anyway, we worked hard, and I knew I was left, but it didn’t feel wrong.
Taking a left turn from that…
Those who know me know I am a HUGE Harry Potter fan. It was my best friend, Samantha, who introduced me to the fantastical world of Harry Potter. My mom said I used to carry the book everywhere. She said I would sit down and pretend to read it. She knew I was pretending because I would hold the book upside down and not even realize it.
I was introduced to a world I wanted to know. A world I desperately needed to learn more about. So, I had my parents read to me. Then, we got books on tape—cassette tape—so I could try to follow along in the book. For years, I bought the book and the audiotapes… or CDs by the time the fourth book came out. (Tapes were so old school.)
I loved that someone could transfer me to a new place. I started to delve into other books. I loved the knowledge and adventures within them, even if I couldn’t read them so well on my own. Small books were ok. Bigger books, I needed the help. Through Judy Bloom, JK Rowling, and Mary Pope Osborne, I realized that I wanted to do that. I wanted to bring written words to life and inspire people to dream of grand adventures. I wanted to be a writer.
My family supported me. They worked with me and helped me learn until one day, in 2003, a thirteen-year-old girl read an 870-page book—all on her own. No help from family. No help from audiobooks. Just her, and the page, and the knowledge she worked so hard to achieve.
Fast forward three years. High School. Sophomore year. I’m in honors classes. I’m making As and Bs, something I had never done before. Everything seemed right. Until March 21, 2006–we turned left and crashed into a tree. I was in and out of consciousness and trapped in a car for 15 minutes. Stuck in the ICU begging for drugs because the pain was just too much.
“Give me drugs! Knock me out! Momma, help me!”
After that car accident, I was no longer just mentally left, but physically too. Even though it’s my right side that’s not as symmetrical to my left anymore.
The accident had me in the hospital for 7 days, and then I moved to rehab for 10 more. It was at the rehab hospital that I had to work out how much the brain damage affected me. I remember the rehab teacher asking me to spell a set of words, knowing I was dyslexic. After the first few, she asked, “Are you sure you’re dyslexic?” Then, one word later, I heard her say, “Oh, yeah. You’re dyslexic.”
I laughed, knowing she wasn’t being mean, and at this point in life, I was aware of my dyslexia. Not so much in third grade, but definitely by sophomore year, I knew what was up.
So, I completed varying tests to determine what would be needed to work towards a healthier brain. By the end of it, we were told that I scored higher than some adults. Dad jokes that the car accident made me smarter. Who knows about that? But my doctor did want to explain that even though it seemed there wasn’t much issue caused by my brain damage, that didn’t mean I didn’t have brain damage, merely that it didn’t seem to affect me as much as they thought it would.
She explained that neurons, once dead, stay dead. So those connections are gone forever. But my brain was already trained in rewriting information; now, it just had to do that again. It seemed my brain noticed the normal “right” way was no longer working. So it went left.
I’m not wrong. I’m not bad. I’m not disfigured.
I’m just left.
So, my dyslexia is not something to pity me for.
Because of it, I found Harry Potter (with the help of my best friend). Because of it, I found a love and appreciation for the written word. Because of it, I mentally recovered faster from an accident that people weren’t sure I’d even survive. But in all of that, there is one part of what my dyslexia has done for me that I treasure most: my determination and realization that if there is something I want, I have to work and work hard for it. And I do.
I wanted to be a writer, so I learned to read and write, and I write every day.
I wanted to live in the UK. I did that. I made that happen.
I wanted to have adventures, so I do.
If I want something bad enough, I will do it despite the obstacles. Whether I go right or left, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go my way.
