No Reading, No Writing, No Service

Dys·lex·i·a

noun /disˈleksēə/ 

A general term for disorders that involve difficulty in learning to read or interpret words, letters, and other symbols, but that do not affect general intelligence

That's sounds like a crappy thing to have. I certainly hope I don't have tha - OH WAIT!

I get the feeling my Dyslexia is going to become a much bigger issue as I carry on with these adventures into literacy, if only for myself. So here are some thoughts on the subject, biased and personal thoughts, but I prefer it to the alternative. I could do a structured, well researched article about having the big D; But I find that such pieces come off as either a string quartet of sorrow for the less well read or a cold, factual deceleration with all the passion of a report on peeling wallpaper.

Writing this article has been painful; Like having a scorpion for a dentist, except it's using a drill on your soul instead of your teeth (your soul obviously has a lot of cavities), and it won't shut up about it's long weekend in the Lake District and no I do not care how much it drizzled!

What I'm trying to say is it's been awkward putting my feelings about Dyslexia together coherently.

That or I hate Scorpion Dentists. I'm not sure which...

Being dyslexic is like being trapped in a glass box. How you got in the glass box is just bad luck. Someone ticked the wrong part of the genetic multiple choice quiz as you were being made and you got plopped into a transparent frustration cube. At first you don't realise your stuck in a box but you get clues as you begin to grow. For some reason you find it hard to interact with people, be it verbally, memo pad, instant messenger or in some other such way (such as semaphore). Some people think your stupid but refuse to accept that your stuck in a glass box while they're running around and generally being a snot nosed kid/employer. "Why don't you just get out the box, if your in the box it's obviously because your not working hard enough at not being in a box." They say, in a voice you find irritating.

The voice I hear is David Blaine's. It's twice as annoying when he's also in a box.

You can look out and others can look in but getting anything across is difficult. You can try your hardest with interpretive dance, try and learn Morse code (but when it's difficult to read how are you going to do that?) or, when your desperate, you can smear a message with your own faeces for others to see. Though the audience (and it would be an audience) watching you are going to be sneering at your bad spelling, poor cursive and lack of grammar before actually take in the message (which is probably a request for toilet paper).

But, what are my credentials? This is the point in the conversation where two Dyslexics would have an illiteracy-off. Trying to prove to the other than they had it harder and need to do more work to work out where the Jammy Dodgers are kept in the supermarket. While just saying that I am more dyslexic than most will not cut it for some people here is a brief run down of embarrassing statistics:

I couldn't read until the age of 13 (reaching a decent reading speed at 18) 

I still struggle to spell many words (though thankfully I am improving on this year on year)

I couldn't write in any meaningful form until the age of 14 (people still can't read my handwriting) 

I'm am still learning the rules of grammar and punctuation (you may have noticed). 

In short even a text message takes me five minutes to write while I check the spelling.

Other statistics: Aged 7: Pointing at pictures of Brian Blessed.
Aged :12: Toilet Training.
Next milestone: Pointing at things that aren't Brian Blessed.

Yeah yeah, woe is me. This isn't is a cry for sympathy, the last thing many Dyslexics need is unconditional sympathy. Support and understanding is a must; But letting us off because 'We h@s tHe dyslex1cs' can become justification for avoid any work that we find hard. At least that's what a ten year old me did.

During my first year of high school I would piss about, do no work and generally procrastinate like someone putting off scrubbing a toilet (Coincidently this is something I've been avoiding while writing this). The teacher, not realising that they were about to open a Pandora's box of whining and self pity, would reasonably ask for that days work. So I would remind the teacher, in the manner of a lawyer trying to talk their way out of being mugged, that I suffered with life threatening Dyslexia and that's why I spent the entire class throwing my pen at the wall. Most accepted this and quietly wrote me off as a lost cause; giving me the pitying look an owner would give a cat who simply cannot work out how to use a litter box.

That was until I tried this routine (and by this point it had become a routine) with the new maths teacher, Mrs. Elsworthy, who was also dyslexic. She gave me detention every day she heard that I used an excuse for not dong any work, a weeks worth of them if she heard I had done this more than twice. I spent a month staring at the same four walls instead of going outside for lunch (which was OK, looking back as it was winter). I hated her at the time, but I am grateful now; This might be due to my memories of year seven consist mainly of Pokemon and not the detentions themselves though.

I still have recurring nightmares of Jigglypuff trying to teach me maths.

This story (and the many more I could tell you) don't quite add up to the fact that I'm a colossal nerd whose hobbies are pretty much English and Maths homework, or that I went on to study at University like many other Dyslexics (I am by no means unique, simply more vocal). The first draft of this piece mentioned proudly that it was hard work and graft that got me there, which is true, if self aggrandising (the part about me being the centre of the universe and deserving of your money and praise also got written out).

But, it misses out the fact that for the first half of High School I was miserable in class. Nearly as miserable as someone who composes Muzak for a living. Doing the work was just a way to distract myself from my surroundings.

I hated being in the bottom classes for everything. I had no one to talk to because I was a young Geek surrounded by people who I had nothing in common with (if I was lucky I had one friend with me). Yeah, it sounds petty to now; Being the social butterfly I have grown up to be I thrive in similar situations today. I could even whip the other into a militia if given a modest budget...and a whip. Back then though I became a swot/boffin/nerd because it meant I could make the time go faster.

Facial hair and a flouncy hat is all you need to be in Samuel's Irregulars.

All my friends were in the better classes doing something much more interesting than going over such concepts as cold things get warm when exposed to heat. I'm not sure what I thought happened in these classes, the news of the day being discussed with blazing wit and impromptu mountain boarding/water skiing lessons maybe. Not that I thought I could ever get into these classes. I had Dyslexia. It felt like a sentence that had been passed by a cruel judge who didn't like the way I coughed when they passed me in the street. I had to bare this burden as a punishment, rather than something I could do anything about.

Whatever happened in these classes where golden sunlight slid through the windows and onto the eager assembly within it was it was not being surrounded by people who tried to play compass legs with you; A popular game in which you tried to stab the person next to you as hard as you could in the leg. The winner was the one who hobbled their way to the headmistress's office while the rest hobbled to the nurse. I wish I was making that up (it fucking hurt).

I went to a school where they had to ban table tennis bats...

I was also very fortunate that my Mum, the local librarian for the village, seemed to know a legion of former headteachers who would happily give me after school classes in exchange for being let off late fees. These classes equated to extra English classes and etiquette classes. Though I was as worldly wise as a boy from a farming village (because that's what I was) even then I realised that I was getting the sort of help that most kids in my position need to pay through the nose for.

No joke here (sorry), just a thank you for those who helped me (I don't believe any of them actually own a computer with which to see this thank you note however...).

To make it up to you here's Wonderdog again.

Wonderdog can save me any day of the week.

A few years later I got out of the Stabbing Olympics and into better classes (just in time too, the competitors had just discovered staple guns). It was a pleasant surprise coming back after Easter to find that I had been moved into a new class, I had finally reached this promised land that I didn't even realise I had been working towards until I got there and low and behold, it's pretty much the same as before. Except the arseholes weren't using mathematical equipment but rather cutting jibes at my expense to cut me. And not a jet ski in sight. The grass is always greener on the other side, life lesson learnt.

I should have known there was no Jet Skiing. Castle street isn't really big enough.

The positive side effect of the move was that, as I was getting over my learning disability I was also learning to express myself better and got to know more people. Turns out you can't just mumble and tell people you have Dyslexia if you want them to like you. This cheered me up and encouraged me to make more of an effort as I saw results. This created a positive feedback loop. So a happy ending all round! I still needed a scribe for my exams and a psycho threatening to kill me to stop procrastinating and do my damn coursework but other than that things seemed to click over night.

Fear inspires great geography reports.

It was not school and tutors alone that helped me learn to stop hating books and learn to love the written word. Being such an avid fan of gaming I had honed my skills to a creepy degree. This led me to look for longer and longer games that I wouldn't complete in a day, until I discovered the JRPG. Big, wordy adventures with an actual story and gameplay that would last me months. I fell in love with the genre. When your poor and live in the country side you either take part in tractor pulls, cow tipping or escapism. Not owning a tractor puts an end to those dreams and cows are terrifying when they get mad; normally around the time some weedy kid is trying to push them over. So that left me with trying to escape.

There was just one problem, I could barely read. But now I had motivation! Yeah, yeah, being able to read boring old books would be good but games were better! They are on a screen! And Shiny! And it had swords and fighting and dragons and magic and...Yeah, so did books but it was all written down and shut up I'm trying to throw a fireball at this monster!

I made an effort to learn so I could play these games better. I can honestly say that gaming helped me get over my Dyslexia in my teens. A lot of the finer plot details went over my head and the bad writing/translations didn't phase me but that didn't matter. It's been eye opening to go back to games I played at this time to actually discover what the plot was (or lack of, in many cases).

A great game! If you can't read and end up making up your own story.

I'm also writing this as a fuck you to every smug Grammar Nazi I have ever met. Not those who helpfully point out mistakes quietly as to not cause outcry. The sort of people who have such a low self esteem they have to go through life making everyone else depressed for a cheap thrill. Some people who have to be seen  being smarter because they know the more obscure rules in this weird language we're sharing right now. Those who firmly believe that we will reach some form of collective utopia by the improvement of Grammar and they might actually be right to a degree. Improving literacy is a great thing, people need to know where they're going wrong and a greater appreciation for our written language is a wonderful thing.  

However, doing so in a humiliating manner and demeaning those who are struggling is not going to help anyone and only puts you on the same karmic footing as The Child Catcher.

Pictured: what all Grammar Nazi's look like on the inside.

When we see this in other parts of society people have the correct reaction, disgust and immediate ostracising. When a Fashion snobs goes around pointing out that people are ugly and wear bad clothes we segregate them to fashion magazines where they can be useless collectively and out of the way. When Metallers go around claiming their music is better on pain of death we are rounded up and put into sweaty basements, playfully try and kill each other and claiming superiority on every little detail imaginable (Last time I was in my local metal bar I ended up in a group of people trying to one up diarrhoea stories.)

You don't get militant house guests watching you cook a meal to have them demand that you cook it the one correct way and telling you what to do with the drapes...well you do but they don't get invited back any time soon.

You don't get parents demanding that their children learn three instruments, four languages and no you can't change your name, Tiberius is a perfectly acceptable name!

...You get them too actually but they're kids grow up to be equally as damaged so no one wins in the long run, except those of us who love to gloat. Then we loose for being such horrible people (and a hypocrite in my case, defending my own while scorning others)...and where does that leave us?

It leaves us being Grammar Nazi's just to make ourselves feel better.

Bugger.



This is getting kinda long. I haven't even gotten into my stint I spent in a special needs school (yes I am indeed that special). I will come back to this topic at some point. Next time, something a bit more fun. Promise!