When I was growing up, there were periodic times in our family history when my parents would announce that we were going to have a “family meeting.” This was a que for us kids, my older brother, older sister and I, that something was happening. Some news was going to be delivered and we should prepare ourselves somehow for whatever it was the adults were going to tell us. One such time was when we lived in an old historic house built at the end of the nineteenth century, in upstate New York. My father worked at a psychiatric hospital and part of his compensation was a home for the family on hospital grounds. We lived in what was known as “The Bleak House”. Its name seems ominous, but in fact, it was beautiful. As a child I both loved and feared the old place, with its large formal rooms, old wooden banister perfect for sliding down, and magical sunroom that transported me to someplace tropical during long winter days.
At dinner it was announced: “Tonight, we will have a family meeting in the living room.” I was five and hadn’t learned to have expectations in life yet. I was innocent. Living fully in the moment. I walked up the long stairway, turned left into my bedroom, grabbed my baby blanket from my bed, marched back downstairs and sat waiting for my family. Our sheepdog Hannah came to sit on the floor beside me, patiently waiting with me. I petted her head reassuring her there was nothing to worry about.
My mom came in first, then my dad, Tom, and Jen. It appeared whatever it was that was to be announced, had already been announced somehow. Had I missed the meeting? They said it was going to be in the living room. Was it in the kitchen instead? Maybe they already had it when I was getting my baby blanket? I could tell by their faces the announcement had already been announced. How did I miss it?
My mom sat in her usual armchair and told me to come sit with her. That’s when I learned I would be going away with her for a few days, to a special place where I would get to play all sorts of games with kind people. “Why?” I asked. “Why do I have to go away?” Mom consoled me and said it would be fun, she and I would have special time together. “The place we are going to”, she said, “is to see why you are having difficulty learning to read and write.” I didn’t understand this news logically but had a deep feeling of shame well up inside me, as if I had done something wrong or disappointed my family somehow. The next feeling I felt was anger! Why had my parents told my siblings this news before sharing it with me? Afterall, wasn’t it about me? I couldn’t convey these feelings at the time, they were the adults, my siblings were older, I was the “baby”. Defeated, I said, “Okay.” Grabbing my baby blanket close to my chest I told Hannah that I was going to sleep now.
My parents were right. I did get to go on a fun adventure, meet with kind people, and play games that I didn’t understand. After three days of psychological tests, aptitude tests, meeting with a battery of psychologists, doctors, and other kind people, I was very tired. All I wanted to do was go home. My mom treated me to a McDonald’s Happy Meal on the trip back, and all the testing, kind people and confusion I felt melted away. Had it all been a dream? The motion of the car was soothing. Spent from the ordeal, I drifted off into a deep, dark, comforting sleep, as my mom drove us home.
It was decided that I would be held back a year in my schooling. Now that the adults new why I couldn’t read or write, they came up with a plan. I was dyslexic. I needed special help and special classes because I saw things backwards, or the same. I couldn’t differentiate between a “p”, a “b”, or a “q”. They were all equal to me, they looked the same. They were the same. This began my journey to meet more kind people, and alas, to learn to write!
Katie