Feelings About my Son’s Dyslexia

I'm glad we know what to call my son's difficulties with reading but I wish he didn't have to struggle so much.

I’m glad we know what to call my son’s difficulties with reading but I wish he didn’t have to struggle so much.

by Tim Suttle -

My youngest son has a rare form of dyslexia, fewer than 3% of all dyslexics have this form of  the disorder. He’s working his tail off with a reading specialist twice a week for an hour, on top of daily drills and exercises. All told, I think my wife spends about six hours a week working with him one on one, often in short little bursts that fit the temperament of a first grader – not to mention the countless hours of studying and educating herself, and me, about dyslexia.

The first thing they tell you after they tell you that your child has dyslexia is that this term simply means “trouble reading.” There are tons of different types of dyslexia and studies show that somewhere around 1 out of every 5 kids will struggle with with some form of the disorder. That means in a typical classroom there will be at least three or four children with dyslexia, many of them undiagnosed.

In a text-centric world dyslexia is a major handicap. We have to read and write constantly in our society. Education happens on the page as much as anything.

In my son’s case, whatever the neurological bridge is between phonological symbols and actual use of language has never grown together. There’s a huge gap between the symbols and sounds that he knows really well, and language and meaning which he knows really well in its verbal form. But those two competencies have to come together on the page, there’s a disconnect. He works so hard nearly every single day to throw tiny little ropes from one side of this divide to another. All day long he’s using his strategies to try to get a rope across the divide, hoping it will stick on the other side.

The hope is that after hundreds of hours with reading specialists (cha-ching), and hundreds more on his own, he’ll be able to throw enough little ropes over the chasm, that his mind can start a little make-shift footbridge. Then he can use the footbridge to pull more ropes across until it’s pretty solid. When the footbridge is solid, he’ll have to start pulling cables across – big heavy cables, all by hand. When he’s got enough of those to work with, he’ll have to start to construct the framework for a real bridge, then a foundation for a road, then a road, then hopefully a fully functional highway like most normal readers have always had from the first moments they began to read. In my son’s case, the best case scenario is that after all that work, he will still be looking at time and a half to read what a normal reader can.

The hardest part for me has been watching my son and my wife putting in so much work and effort, giving it so much energy and concentration, but the gap is so wide, it’s just a long way for his little mind to jump. I think I’m kind of angry that he has to struggle like this. I was feeling weird about the anger, it’s not like this is life-threatening. He’s healthy and happy. But, I’m mad about it. I don’t want him to have this struggle anymore.

My favorite fiction author is John Irving, who has dyslexia as well. Irving attended the the prestigious prep school Phillips Exeter Academy because his step-father was a teacher there. Irving says that he worked his tail off in school just to get C’s, and most of is teachers thought he was lazy and stupid. He wrote a few paragraphs about his experience that help me understand the anger I’m feeling:

“I simply accepted the conventional wisdom of the day—I was a struggling student; therefore, I was stupid.

I needed five years to pass the three-year foreign language requirement…I passed Latin I with a D, and flunked Latin II; then I switched to Spanish, which I barely survived…

It wasn’t until my younger son, Brendan, was diagnosed as slightly dyslexic that I realized how I had been given the shaft.  His teachers said that Brendan comprehended everything he read, but that he didn’t comprehend a text as quickly as his peers….As a child, Brendan read with his finger following the sentences—as I read, as I still read.  Unless I’ve written it, I read whatever “it” is very slowly—and with my finger.

Read more at My Son, Dyslexia, John Irving, and A Prayer for Owen Meany.

[Via Patheos]

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