Teachers nowadays are on the lookout to detect what it is about each particular child that helps them learn. This awareness has spawned Magnet Schools specifically designed for the interests and personalities of the student. Some kids, it has been found, learn better through audio rather than visual stimulus. Still others best retain information that involves numbers. Lots of numbers. The more, the merrier. There have been many insightful discoveries in the twentieth century such as Dyslexia, Attention Deficit Disorder, etc. These diagnoses have helped parents, teachers and Rabbis alike identify difficulties that may be hampering a child’s ability to learn.
Unfortunately, when I was born, there was no category for what ailed me. My school career began in the mid 1950’s. Some crazy, off-the-wall professor over in Austria had recently announced to the medical community that he was pretty sure there was a Syndrome on the fringes of Autism that lacked a name. Since that doctor was Hans Asperger, guess what they eventually called it? You got it: Asperger Syndrome. Having something like this named after you is sort of like the honor that Thomas Crapper received for inventing the flushing toilet. However, unlike the infamous name “Crapper,” which took off like water shooting through a sewage pipe, Dr. Asperger’s name or his Syndrome would not become household words for another fifty years.
When my formal education began, I was thrust into a learning system which had absolutely no knowledge of, or tolerance for a child with Asperger Syndrome. To be sure, no one knew there was such a thing. If a child was different in those days, they were expected to fall in line with everyone else, put their shoulders back, suck in their tummies and act like a normal, civilized human being. If not, they would be paying a stiff penalty for their rebellion. Champions for children with learning disabilities were far and few between in those days. Imagine what might have happened if that deaf, dumb and blind kid, Helen Keller had not bumped into Ann Sullivan. How would Helen have spent her life? Running around like a crazy animal. Unteachable, unreachable. But for the genius who discovered that, language, beauty, and eloquence, were right there in the palm of her hand, Helen would have eventually been sent to a asylum to live out her miserable days in a dark incomprehensible world of loneliness, abuse, and despair.
My education started off with a bang. Kindergarten for me, was wonderful. I could draw, and play with clay all day long. And with the exception of the fact that I would routinely get in trouble for drawing, and playing with clay when we were supposed to be doing something else at the time, school was nothing short of great. Because of that positive experience, I eagerly anticipated graduating to the First Grade, where I believed I would once again be able to draw, and play with clay all day long. Unfortunately, my new teacher had a different agenda. But this woman was not merely a conscientious educator, she was evil.
Next time you watch the movie “The Wizard of Oz”, imagine that the green lady in the tall black hat was your first grade teacher. That was Mrs. H. She always wore black, and I even remember her as being sort of green. I was sent to the closet on a regular basis for things I did that offended her sensibilities; mostly drawing pictures when I was supposed to be listening. Routinely lectured to think over my actions and attitudes, with the expectation that I would emerge from solitary confinement, a smarter and more attentive student, the closet turned out to be a repository of paper, crayons and pencils, so most of what was intended for my harm, was turned into good. I still remember that teacher’s name, but I will refrain from publishing it here, just in case any of her flying monkeys are searching for me on Google.
This daily hell went on for a whole year. Consequently, I did not fair well with my introduction to Reading, Riting, and Rithmetic. Words and numbers seemed to swim across the page like black mollies fleeing a piranha; too fast to be caught. But I loved the pictures. I could dwell on those for hours. They made sense to me when all the black stuff at the bottom of the page didn’t. The words may have read, “See Tip. See Tip run.” But I didn’t need the words to tell me that. I could plainly see Tip without the words, and I could clearly tell that he was running. Duh!
By hearing the words and looking at the pictures, I eventually bluffed my way through the whole year. But as I graduated into the Second Grade (how did that happen?) there were less pictures in the books, and more words to deal with, and this began to pose a real problem for me. After some embarrassing reading exercises I was placed in a remedial, or “slow” reading group of about four kids. The rest of the class was obviously smart. I felt just as smart as anyone there, but my new teacher had her doubts. Now I know it’s not politically correct to characterize that little remedial group, so if there are any PC people reading this right now, skip down to the next paragraph right now, because those kids were retards. The only thing good about being one of the chosen few was that we got to read books with more pictures in them. A big bonus for me. But it didn’t lessen the sting of being labeled “slow” which translates to “stupid” in the Wicked-pedia dictionary.
Somehow I finally got into the Third Grade, where I was met with a welcome reprieve. As luck would have it, my next-door neighbor, my mom-away-from-home, a lady I’d known and loved all my life, was now my new teacher. For the first time, I had to address her as Mrs. Emery instead of Lamayra, but other than that minor inconvenience, it was all good. Her patient understanding and loving-kindness helped me a lot that year. Did she treat me special? Yes, she did. Did she demean me for my differences? Never. In fact, she’s probably the only teacher that ever really “got” me. In her class, I was allowed to draw to my heart’s content. I did. And with every picture I drew, I learned more and more. My favorite courses were still recess and lunch, but I was starting to catch up in other areas as well. For the first time in my school career, I was learning academically, and growing in self esteem. That is, until I was suddenly plucked out of that comfortable nest and thrown into the hard, cold world of Fourth Grade.
Next week: Part three in the series, “My Life In Pictures.”
