#my art teacher in college one asked if I was dyslexic and I was like '???? lol not that I know??' but maybe she was onto something ASIJDBASH | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

italiansteebie · 5 years ago

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Heeey prompt thing (if you have time!) What about something where everyone is getting their college applications back and Steve is just getting sadder and sadder because he’s rejected from pretty much everywhere, but he’s trying hard to be happy for everyone else so hides it. But then Billy finds him crying over the latest rejection (I dunno maybe his Dad even tried a bribe/donation and they still said no) and Steve’s thinking he’s dumb and he’s gonna lose everyone and then. (Pt1)

(Pt2) Billy actually reads over Steve’s essay and figured out he might be dyslexic- but no one else ever has. And maybe he gets Steve some help, or gets him to talk about wanting to do something more vocational at college (working with kids in some way?) but just trying to please his Dad or something like that??

Steve has 6 unopened college response letters sitting on his desk. UCLA, University of Michigan, Penn State, Baylor University (He thought Texas might be fun), Huntington University, and Indiana State. He should get into at least one, Indiana State, because his dad sent the admissions office “extra incentive.” He starts with UCLA, rips it open as best he can with shaking hands.

“Dear Mr. Harrington,

We’re sorry to inform...”

He stops reading, already knows he didn’t make it. He reassures him self that it’ll be okay. One is sure to say yes.

University Of Michigan

“Dear Mr. Harrington,

“We’re sorry to inform...”

Penn State

“Dear Mr. Harrington,

We’re sorry..”

Baylor University

“Dear Mr. Harrington,

We’re sorry...”

He takes a deep breath, and wills the tears not to form. He trembles as if he’s freezing and grabs the Huntington University letter, he prays that he got in to at least one college on his own.

Huntington University

“Dear Mr. Harrington,

Unfortunately you were not accepted for the fall semester.”

Indiana State

This one should be better, he thinks.

“Dear Mr. Harrington,”

He takes a breath.

“We’re sorry...”

“No.” Steve can’t breath. He didn’t think it was possible. They didn’t want him, even with his father’s generous donation. He backs up to the wall and slides down until he’s sitting and buries his head in his knees. Silent tears track down his face, he takes in a shuddering breath. He sits there for a while and contemplates what he’s going to tell his dad. He knows he’s going to get shit for it, and proved his father right, he really is too stupid, and he’s just a disappointment to the Harrington name. He’s pulled out of his sorrow when he hears someone pouting on his front door. He runs to the bathroom and splashes some cold water on his face, takes a couple breaths, and makes sure it doesn’t look like he’s been crying for the past hour. He walks down the stairs and stands in front of the door, preparing to have a “pleasant” conversation with whoever is standing out there. He opens the door and Nancy and Jonathan are standing there with matching grins.

“Steve! Jonathan and I got accepted into Indiana State! And Jon got accepted into an art School in Chicago too!�� Nancy cheers as she throws her arounds around him in joy. “Did you get your letters yet, Steve?” Jonathan asks, and Steve just shakes his head, “Not yet,” he mutters out in a fake hopeful voice. “Well when you do, we need to celebrate!” And Steve agrees, mustering the best smile he can. He can’t bring down their moods just because he’s not smart enough. He forces himself to be happy as he congratulates both of his friends.

Days pass, and every time Nancy calls asking if he got his letters, he denies, denies, denies. A week after his rejections, a smiley Billy shows up at his door with a piece of paper in his hand. “I got in to UCLA! Isn’t that great Stevie? Now you and me can move to California, and go to school together and leave this town behind!” Billy exclaims. Steve just grins, happy to see his love happy, “I haven’t gotten my letters yet,” Steve lies and tries to not think about how he’ll never escape Hawkins.

Soon after Billy comes over, he’s got the kids in The Party up his ass, wondering where he’s going and how far he’s going to be “Leaving us behind, Steve!” as Dustin so nicely put it. He denies and says he doesn’t know, hasn’t decided yet. He gets away with lying for about a month and then everyone has received their letters and there’s no way Steve hasn’t received his yet.

He tells Nancy and Jonathan first, the disappointment on their faces hurts more than the actual rejection letters themselves. “Steve, how? You- We studied together every Monday and Wednesday after winter break together.” Nancy asks, a frown pulling at her lips. “Yeah, Steve. I thought we worked on your essay. We wrote a good one. Together.” Jonathan probes, wondering how this happened. Steve sighs, “I sent in an essay I wrote myself. I wanted to get in with my own work. I thought it was a good idea. Guess not.” He confesses. They leave, looking like Steve had deeply betrayed them, and he couldn’t help but feel like he did.

When he tells the kids, they’re not sad. Or disappointed in him. In fact, they’re happy. “Yes! Now we van keep using your house for our sessions! And I’ll still have my best friend!” Dustin exclaims, Steve’s heart swells at the best friend title. At least some people don’t think he’s a total failure.

He saves Billy for last, reading seeing the disappointment when he tells him he won’t be going to UCLA with him. When Billy comes in, he notices right away that the mood is not its usual. “What’s wrong, Stevie?” Steve doesn’t like the concern in his voice, it makes him feel guilty. “Bill... I didn't get accepted into UCLA,” “Oh, Steve, that’s okay. We can study together at State!” quick to solve the problem, not letting Steve’s news get him down. “But Billy, I didn't get accepted into State either. I wasn’t accepted anywhere.” Steve sniffles. He keeps his head down, not wanting to face the man infant of him. “Can I see your essay?” Billy asks, walking away, not waiting for an answer. “I guess, it’s really bad though.” Steve shrugs, and runs to his room to grab the original copy of his essay. “Gotta see what was so bad that all those snotty schools didn’t want my boy,” Billy says as he reads. When he finishes, he looks up and studies Steve’s face for a minute. “Is it really so bad you can’t say anything to me?”

“Have you ever been tested for learning disabilities?” And Steve looks positively offended, “Wh- No? I’m not- No. Harrington’s don’t have problems,” he says, his fathers words coming out at the end. “Since I was little, my teachers wanted to get me tested... But they stopped pushing for it with the help of my father’s money. I didn't need to get tested because.. Well, because Harrington’s don’t have learning disabilities,” Steve reveals, and he spits out the last two words like they burnt his tongue. “Steve, I know why you didn’t get accepted, why you have so much trouble in school.” Steve looks up at him, “I think you have dyslexia, Stevie. I don’t know how miss smarty pants Nancy and her investigator boyfriend didn’t figure it out.” Billy tells him gently.

“This means this isn’t the end, Stevie! You can go to schools, different colleges, that’ll have the right resources for you! You can come to California after all!”

Steve comes to terms with the new revelation and he and Billy take off to the library to do some research. After a couple of days of searching, Steve finds a school in California. He applies, and holds his breath when he opens his letter. With Billy standing next to him and gripping his hand tightly, he rips open the envelope.

“Dear Mr. Harrington,

We’re ecstatic to welcome you for the fall semester! Congratulations!”

Steve lets out a shocked laugh, like he can’t believe his eyes, and turns to Billy. “I did it!” “You did it.”

They tell The Party, and Nancy and Jonathan, and everyone is so happy for him. “I knew you could do it, kid.” Chief Hoppers says, looking at Steve proudly. The kids are a little sad, but feel better when Steve assures them he’ll be back at thanksgiving, and they can throw a week long D&D session at his house.

In the fall, Billy and Steve set off in the Camaro, a tiny apartment and 2 colleges wait for them on the west coast. Billy can’t drive fast enough.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #my writing #steve harrington #dyslexic!steve #billy x steve #billy hargrove x steve harrington #text post #harringrove fic #prompt fill #anon ask #stranger things

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mayakern · 5 years ago

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Not sure if this has ever been asked before, if so I apologize, but I absolutely love your writing! How did you start develop your writing style and what kind of practice did you/do you normally do? Also is there any place that you've found is great to post writing to get good feedback? I love writing myself but I just don't know of any good places to get feedback on anything and where I can get some good constructive criticism. Thank you so much and can't wait to read more! -Zeve

thank you, that’s very sweet!

unfortunately, i don’t have much advice to give you. i’m not a trained writer, i’ve just always really loved reading. i was lucky enough to have some really good english teachers in high school and a couple really fun classes in college, but i went to art school so there wasn’t much focus on prose. a lot of my writing practice is thanks to my love of RPing when i was growing up but i honestly haven’t written prose much since college. i don’t know if making a webcomic for 7 years counts as writing practice but uhh, i sure did do that!

this is my first time writing this way -- i’m going for sort of tonally anachronistic, with some of the trappings of like ye olde language but also modern stuff like “okay” and “would absolutely suck balls” and “fuck.”

part of what inspired this is over the past couple months one of my friends made me read the first kushiel’s dart trilogy and MAN if that ain’t a way of writing that just sticks in the brain. for the first, like, week or so after finishing the third book all my thoughts were stuck in kushiel mode and it was honestly SUPER annoying.

as far as feedback goes, i’m lucky to have a number of close friends who have been very kind in sticking it out to help me with spitfire, some of them giving me feedback on multiple iterations of the outline, some proof reading for any dumb typos/grammatical errors i make (i’ve learned recently that i am likely mildly dyslexic which really explains a lot about my life growing up lol) or just providing general beta reading feedback.

most of them don’t have tumblrs but here are some that do: @radtastical @scookart @umpunchy (this is just me wanting to thank them, please don’t ask them to beta read your work unless you’re already friends with them)

#ask #long post #spitfire #thewolfthatsleepswithsheep

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tessisawriter · 6 years ago

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Recess (Sebastian Aho)

Request (anonymous): #1 on the prompt list with Sebastian Aho?

A/N: This imagine is set during the 2018-19 season (that’s why Justin Williams appears).

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.5k

You smiled as the kids were working on their art projects, knowing that they were about to receive an amazing surprise within the next ten minutes.

You were one of the new assistant teachers at a school in Raleigh for kids with learning disabilities, and it was incredibly rewarding. The school was one of the first of its kind in the state, and you wanted to give back. Your older brother was severely dyslexic, so when he was eight years old, unable to read and the schools in Raleigh unequipped to help him, your family moved to New York City, where there were plenty of special-ed schools. You watched your brother go on to finally learn how to read, gain back his self-confidence, graduate high school, attend UNC Chapel Hill, and graduate magna cum laude with a degree in computer science. You couldn’t be prouder of him, and you knew that he wouldn’t have been able to reach his full potential without attending a special-ed school.

During your last semester at UNC Chapel Hill this past spring (of course you went to the same college as your brother—you were Irish twins), you received word that a special-ed school serving grades K-8 had opened in Raleigh. Since you were about to receive a degree in education, you reached out and expressed interest in getting a job there. They were initially wary of hiring a 22-year-old fresh out of college to teach at their fledgling school, but after your interview, they gave you the job. You taught a class of second-graders, and you loved them all. You understood the challenges they were facing, and you were patient whenever one of them acted out due to frustration.

There was a soft knock on the door, and the head teacher nodded her head at the door, signaling for you to go outside. You quietly walked away from the kids, opened the door just enough to slip outside, and closed it gently. When you turned around, you saw three players from the Carolina Hurricanes wearing their red jerseys: Justin Williams, Teuvo Teravainen, and Sebastian Aho.

“Hi, my name is Y/N L/N, thank you so much for coming today!” you said.

Almost all of the kids in your class were die-hard Canes fans, and a photo of them in their jerseys during Spirit Week went viral on the Internet, catching the attention of the Canes brass. They reached out to the school last week asking if some of their players could visit your class, and you knew the kids were going to be so excited.

“Of course! So, what are we doing today?” Justin asked.

“Well, the kids actually don’t know you’re here; we decided to make it a surprise. When my co-teacher opens the door, we’ll go inside. Recess is in ten minutes, so the kids will probably want to play a game.”

“Sounds good,” Teuvo said, Sebastian nodding along.

You couldn’t help but notice Sebastian’s eyes on you ever since you came out of the classroom. He hadn’t talked yet, so you decided to break the ice.

“Which one of you first saw the photo? I forget,” you lied.

“Sebastian.” Teuvo patted his friend on the shoulder and gave him a not-so-subtle look.

“Yes, it was me,” Sebastian confirmed. “I thought the kids were really cute and when I realized that they went to this school, I asked management if a few of us could come visit.”

“You came here because of the school?” You hoped that he didn’t come here just because the kids had learning disabilities. That happened a lot, and it got on your nerves. The kids were just like everyone else except for the way they learned best.

“A friend of mine from back home in Finland is dyslexic,” Sebastian explained, “so I have an idea of what these kids deal with every day.”

You were shocked; he came because he was actually interested in what the school did. “My brother is dyslexic, too,” you said. “That’s actually why I took this job after graduating in May. It’s rewarding to help the kids reach their full potential, even if I only impact their lives a little bit.”

“I’m sure you impact them more than just a little,” Sebastian replied, and you blushed.

An awkward silence ensued, which was thankfully broken by the door to the classroom opening.

“Please welcome Justin Williams, Teuvo Teravainen, and Sebastian Aho from the Carolina Hurricanes!” your co-teacher said, and the kids started cheering as you walked through the door with the players.

“Oh my God, it’s Sebastian Aho!” One of the kids, Sarah, said to Noah, her best friend. They had both been in the photo that Sebastian had seen on the Internet; they’d be thrilled that it was him who wanted to visit them.

The kids started to get a bit out of control with their excitement, so you stepped in: “I know you’re all excited that they’re here, and you should be, but do you remember what we talked about last week?”

They nodded, immediately settling down.

“Do you want to tell them why you’re here?” You turned your head to Sebastian and Teuvo, who were standing on your left.

After a moment of silence, Teuvo sighed and started talking. “We saw—”

“It’s okay,” Sebastian muttered, and Teuvo nodded in his direction. “We saw a photo of you in our jerseys at Spirit Week and admired how dedicated you all are to our team, so we wanted to come spend time with you.”

Sarah raised her hand next. “Which one of you saw us first?” You smiled, already knowing she would be the one who was going to ask that question. Sarah was incredibly precocious, and while you tried not to prefer some students over others, she was your favorite.

Sebastian stayed quiet, so Justin jumped in. “Seabass did,�� he said, using what you assumed was his nickname in the locker room.

The kids started giggling. At this age, they thought everything was funny, especially nicknames.

The bell rang, indicating that it was time for recess.

“Before you arrived, we talked about what we were going to do for recess,” your co-teacher addressed the players, “And they want to play duck, duck, goose. You don’t have to play if you don’t want to, of course—”

“Yes! I wanna play!” Sebastian cut her off. You were shocked; he seemed like the shy type, but there was clearly more to him than what met the eye.

“What Sebastian means is, of course we’ll play,” Justin said. You knew that he had two kids, so he was probably used to this.

The kids cheered as they ran over to the rug that they all sat on for morning meetings, and you followed after them. You felt a pair of eyes on you, so you turned around and found Sebastian staring at you while he and Teuvo were whispering to each other. He blushed and quickly broke eye contact.

The kids sat in a circle and made room for the players. While Teuvo and Justin mulled over where to sit, Sebastian immediately sat down next to Sarah.

You and your co-teacher watched as the three hockey players started up the game, and they were all naturals with the kids.

Before you knew it, recess was over, and the kids thanked Justin, Teuvo, and Sebastian for coming. Sebastian smiled at you before walking away, and you smiled back.

“You’re free to go on your lunch break now, Y/N,” your co-teacher said.

“Are you sure? The kids might be a little hyper after the visit,” you said.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it. You need to have lunch,” she said kindly, and you went over to your desk to grab your bag before leaving the classroom.

You shut the door quietly, and as you walked down the hallway, you saw someone in red running toward you. It was Sebastian.

“Oh, there you are,” Sebastian said when he reached you, out of breath.

“Did you forget something in the classroom?” you asked.

“Yeah. Do you want to maybe have dinner sometime? I mean, only if you want to,” Sebastian said, blushing furiously.

“I’d like that,” you replied, smiling at him.

“Really?” He looked genuinely surprised.

“Really,” you said, holding out your phone. He just looked at it, a puzzled look on his face.

“Oh, of course, we should exchange numbers,” Sebastian said while taking your phone out of your hand. “There. Text me and I’ll have your number.”

“Okay,” you said, typing out a quick text that read, “Hi, it’s Y/N 😊”

His phone pinged, and he looked at his phone, smiling. You loved his smile.

“I’m leaving tonight for a road trip, but I’ll be back on Friday morning. Do you want to have dinner on Friday?” Sebastian asked.

“Sounds good,” you said.

“Sebastian! We have to go to practice!” Teuvo shouted from down the hall.

Sebastian blushed again. “I’ll see you on Friday, then? Where should I pick you up?”

“My house. I’ll text you the address.”

“Great, see you then!” he said brightly, kissing you on the cheek before jogging back down the hall.

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beccabeans · 5 years ago

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Hello

So I'm totally stealing this from @nova-artino-is-a-queen she recently took the time to introduce herself and I thought that was such a lovely idea, I had to do it myself! (Also if you aren't following her go follow her, her fics are amazing and shes an awesome human being)

my name is Becca I'm 22 years old (yes I know I'm one of the older people in the Marissa Meyer fandoms)

She/her

I'm straight

I'm dyslexic

I absolutely hated reading until my senior year of highschool when my English teacher told me to read Cinder (she set aside 30 mintes, sometimes more, at the end of class to let us free read, and saw that I was struggling)

My asks are always open, and I love getting suggestions for art

I have anxiety so dming kind of stresses me out, but I'm a great listener

Going to college to become a teacher

I do the choreography for my little brothers elementary school musicals, and have a passion for theater in general

I really like to draw, but I actually only started drawing recently (within the last couple years) I didn't really draw at all while in highschool

I really want to start doing commissions, but I'm too afraid to start

I'm the third oldest out of 8 kids in my family (6 brothers 1 sister)

I grew up in New England but I'm currently living in the mid west (and I like it here so much better, everyone's much nicer here)

My favorite color is mint

I hate cheese (yes I know I'll probably get hate for that, but I just think it's disgusting)

I was trying to think of another fact about myself cause I didn't want to end it at the cheese hate, but I honestly can't think of anything else that's significant.

So yeah that's about it. Feel free to send me asks if you have any questions about me or anything. And thank you for following me ❤️

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carryforthtradition · 4 years ago

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Wrestles with Books by Masha Savitz

Excerpt from magical realism memoir, Fish Eyes For Pearls

I am born into the tribe of Israelites, the Children of Israel, people of the book.  Israel, Yisrael means ‘wrestles with God.’

What does it mean to be dyslexic as one from the people of the book?

I’m one who wrestles with books.

I’m a stranger in a foreign land and although I seem to speak the same language, I don’t understand.

This foreign place is school.

I am a character in my own imagined sequel to Camus’ book that I am assigned to read in high school, but never do.

Why would someone who claims to be an existentialist bother writing a book in the first place?

School is the first box.

People banter around the phrase, ‘Think outside the box.’ I didn’t know there was a box. I don’t know of this common system.

Some of us are born in the box, some are herded in soon after, while others need maps and instruction for finding it and operating within its proximity.

Some of us need this instruction drawn in colourful pictures depicting icons and landmarks associated with related emotional resonance. Some need mathematical equations, precise data with circumference for com- fort. Some prefer nautical, elemental references, including the movement of stars, time of year for bird migration and weather patterns.

Still others need it sung in a lullaby.

How does one enter The Box, and what might the consequences or rewards be for doing so? Can you get back out once you get in, are there emergency exits, public transportation, equal access for all?

Kindergarten is lovely, but all becomes alien thereafter.

I’m not indifferent, just different.

In third grade, I wonder how everyone else knows what to do, when I am so lost. We build a huge Noah’s ark. I make the lions. This, I get.

My father asks about my homework assignments. I don’t know. Why don’t I know there are homework assignments? He is frustrated, loses his temper with me. I feel bad that my smart papa has a dud for a daughter. I burrow deep into myself.

In high school, I sit down to study for a final exam, pulling out the year’s notes, all utterly incomprehensible gibberish, turns me cold and sick inside.

Like the moment we find out that Jack Nicholson, in The Shining, has spent all his time writing a book comprised of just one sentence, ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’, repeated a bazillion times.

That sick feeling.

Frightening- because this looks like the writing of a mad person. I burrow deeper. Never tell anyone.

But as an art major, I get into university. My personal essay and portfolio are strong. In painting class, I come to sense my intelligence.

I feel like NASA, discovering intelligent life, my own.

It has its own way of organizing, perceiving, analysing, it doesn’t live in my mind, no, somewhere deeper.

I will cherish and slowly learn to trust it, defend it, cultivate it, as it cultivates me- moving from the non- verbal languages to the written, expanding into my mind and heart, eyes and hands and into empty space.

At eight years old, I am fascinated with the back cover of a children’s scrapbook that my grandparents buy me. It is decorated with astrological symbols and signs. The written word, now, begins to interest me.

I read my first books in my twenties.

Astrology books allow me to match my own perceptions and knowing with the written words before me, creating a symbiotic relationship between my thoughts and words in reverse, a process which will eventually begin at the written word and lead to comprehension.

For the first time, the written word, this collection of letters and symbols, has a relationship with something I know. A pathway is forged in my mind for associating words with cognitive ideas and thoughts. Though decoding is still arduous, with effort I crack the codes.

My mind doesn’t build files. So, like a computer, if there is no file or system to save it to, bye-bye.

I don’t make this connection until after an entire summer of trying to organize my apartment, I find at the end it is no more organized than the day I started.

I walk around with a photo album or box of chargers and extension cords, trying to figure out where it goes, can’t decide, and pick up another object. Weeks of this make Jack a dull boy.

To support myself through college I get a job teaching at a religious after-school program at a synagogue outside of Boston. But I am ambivalent about being a teacher, since I had loathed school. I feel like a traitor.

There are children and there are grownups. Us and them.

I cannot conceive how it can be that grownups don’t remember how it was to be a child. Do they really forget? How does this happen?

When I am still a child, I wish as hard as I can to imprint this on my soul and mind, instructing my future self never to forget being a child.

This may be in part the reason it is easy for me to connect with children.

I never forgot. And I don’t forget. And some things about teaching become evident:

1. I have the opportunity to make school for others what it never was for me.

2. Whatever I hope to achieve as an artist happens more readily, efficaciously in a classroom.

I can create a small community of joy and expansion, honouring the individual, while working and sharing together as a collective.

I spot all the kids who are drifting away. I see their manoeuvres to keep me off their trail, so that I won’t suspect they do not understand the lesson.

I know where they are, I know how they feel. I know how to bring them back. We expect children to meet us where we are. That is impossible.

Like someone adrift on a raft in the ocean, it’s a search and rescue mission.

We must get into the cold water with a life jacket in hand, because they are scared. They would rather fail from not trying, than fail after trying, because that is too humiliating. They will do what they can to avoid any more bruising. Protecting their fragile ego.

Because I am them, I know how to find them and get them safely back to shore. I won’t let you drown I try to say to them in the silent language of my gaze. Ich und Du, I and thou.

In this space created between us, the atoms that will form pathways, bridges, avenues trails and rails. Seeds yielding life.

While working with children I will often sense the profound field that is created, and the words I and Thou, coined by Vienna born philosopher, Martin Buber.

My first awareness of Buber is in a Jewish Encyclopaedia, where in volume ‘B’, there is in an old photo of Buber from the early 60s. My young father’s face beams out from among all the parade celebrants at the side of the eighty-year-old philosopher!

Without having read his work, I sense that this is in part Buber’s thesis, his foundation. Success lies in the space between. The mutuality. Where, sharing that same space, rapport is experienced. Then, can come communication, where all is possible, a third entity of commonality. The new colour made between two primary colours. The fertile green ground of potentiality created between yellow and blue.

The students, like works of art, require similar skills from me. It will be a dance between my will and their potential- a process of discovery.

My cousin, a child psychologist, connects me with a job to shadow an eight-year-old boy in a private Cambridge elementary school.

W has moved out. This gig should be lucrative and maybe rewarding. I meet Jared, the boy, and his mother for a preliminary interview over coffee.

He is quite a frail little thing, sleepy heavy lids, freckled chipmunk cheeks. He smiles politely, wiggling in his chair with feet dangling a foot from the floor.

I am now part of the second-grade class. The children pet my burgundy velvet full bodysuit. Jared throws blocks across the class at some other children and then runs out of the building. The teacher wants Jared out altogether. His meagre demeanour becomes meaner and meaner as he morphs into a petite terror.

I am given my own little office in hopes that I will occupy him for the school day and keep everyone safe.

Initially, I am told that Jared gets frustrated because he has learning challenges. Squatting on the floor of my office, he sharpens a pencil, and with great fervour, stabs my booted foot repeatedly, a maniacal grin across his face.

‘How is Jared doing? Is he learning his math?’ Asks his quaffed and tailored mother, sitting in my office a few days later in all shades taupe. ‘Well, when we can get past his anger.’ I answer.

‘He’s not angry,’ she replies, placing her hands in her lap.

‘Actually,’ I respond, ‘he is REALLY angry. ‘She smiles and clearing her throat explains, ‘Oh no, he’s just acting angry.’

Jared, though abusive, seems to need me. I’m the only one he has here, the only one who acknowledges that he is angry. But after years of a marriage with anger hurled in my direction at light speed, on the subway platform fresh from work, I hold back tears.

I sceptically purchase a book on energy healing from a local bookstore.

I sit at my kitchen table and read. This all makes perfect sense to me. Traditional therapy only builds a road between the emotional to that of the mental. To contextualize feelings, very important, a start, but ultimately limited. I learn that there are aspects of the self that the self cannot access. This speaks to my floundering stuck state. It seems I should consult someone that has studied with the author. I successfully track down someone in the Boston area.

After reading the book I make an appointment with Perry, an energy healer, I explain my situation...Jared is so angry and W was so angry...and I can’t take anymore anger. They need me, but abuse the one closest.

‘That’s because you are angry.’ Perry explains. ‘I’m not angry.’ I shuffle uneasy in an easy chair. He smiles, ‘No, you’re angry.’

‘Jared is not separate from you,’ he explains, ‘but rather an extension of you, and you need to see him as such, and only then, will you both heal this.’

The next morning, I take Perry’s advice. Jared and I go to the gym, and at the count of three, I instruct, we will hurl ourselves into the mats that are hanging on the wall.

‘One two three.’ We leap into the thick foam rubber blue plastic. SMASH. A shock as our bodies hit the mats.

Release. Laughter. And again.

Jared’s moods improve, as do mine. As he lightens, his academics, handwriting, and focus improve along with a joy of learning. They have diagnosed him all wrong. It’s not his school performance that makes him upset, but rather his upset that makes it impossible for him to concentrate on school work.

We write, do math, and research his favourite subject - dogs. We read about Max, a beat poet puppy and Jared writes poetry. But his parents become very concerned the day he punches a pillow.

I had brought in a pillow for him to punch as a way to express and expel the excessive, unmet anger. And, because I am now no longer threatened by anger myself, there is no invisible cap or limit to what I can handle. He is free to fully rage, and I am comfortable letting him go as far as he needs.

His slight boy frame collapses to the ground in exhaustion. Then he crawls back up and swipes some more. And when he is done, he is done. It is done. There is peace.

The next morning, we compose a poem together about the pillow, which he has beaten and thrashed the day before.

The Nothing Pillow, by Jared N.

My pillow is the colour of a sunset, it is soft as cloud, sits nice and warm like sitting by a warm fire in the winter, I want to lay on my pillow, to look at it, and make sure its ok. I call it the nothing pillow because it doesn’t do anything, and when I lie on it, I think of nothing. The stuffing is like cotton candy, I want to eat it. When I hold my pillow,

I feel happy as can be, I feel happy like a warm bed. Good night.

His parents accuse me of riling him up.

By the end of a winter that had left Cambridge squinty bright when the sun reflected off the miles of chalky white snow, that fell that year, Jared has a new school.

A few weeks later Jared’s prominent lawyer father calls to apologize for accusations and to thank me for ‘keeping it together’ when everyone else was ‘going under.’ Jared’s Head of Child Psychology therapist lauds me for seeing what even he missed. He writes me a letter of recommendation for a Master’s in social work at an East Coast school, but West cost is beckoning.

At my new job, I am asked to tutor Eric, athletic, magnetic smile and sweet nature.

He slips through years of Hebrew classes without learning how to read. Now, I am hired to catch him up, prepare him to come in front of the community for his Bar Mitzvah, leading and chanting prayers and scripture in Hebrew.

I work with Eric and he makes great strides. When I move to LA, another teacher takes over for me. She calls me and wants to know the secret of my success.

‘How did you do it Masha? Did you find out his diagnosis?’

‘No,’ I explain, I have a distrust and disinterest in diagnoses. They are too often wrong.

‘Then how? You did really well with him. What did you do?’

‘I played football with him,’ I answer.

‘What? Football? What are you talking about?’ He is athletic, and I show up on the football field, looking inept where he is a star. I’m on his turf, willing to be incompetent, willing to look foolish. So, he is prepared to take a risk with me, in my classroom.

We are equals, willing to go beyond protected boundaries, defended borders, trusting that the other will gently guide us towards success with encouragement and aplomb.

I hadn’t really had a plan, just instincts. I hadn’t been trained, I was unorthodox, just showing up empty and trying to intuit with the children, something no one had done for me. My dyslexia creates empathy and understanding, but I have no direct or received method for guiding them through.

With Rabbinical aspirations and schooling, I sometimes tutor and officiate the Jewish coming of age ceremony for those thirteen years of age, a Bar and Bat Mitzvahs.

Many of the tweens I work with are outside of the synagogue school system for one reason or another - a parent not Jewish, kids with learning issues, or the child that surprises parents by wanting the ceremony when the family is not particularly religious.

Because many of the students have no Jewish background, my lessons encompass everything from reading and writing Hebrew, learning about holidays, customs and liturgy, while preparing for the ceremony that they will lead in English and Hebrew.

We often meet at coffee shops accompanied with warm sweet drinks and pastries.

Each child is a riddle with a pad lock keeping them from full success. I unscramble codes and unlock each child, one conversation, lesson, or exchange, at a time.

Ich und Du

Mitch and Devon are twin brothers. One is very sensitive, polite, deeply moral. The other is sweet natured and only interested in baseball. Neither one wants to be studying for a Bar Mitzvah. Both are only doing it for their parents.

Mitch is certain this is not for him, but reconciled. He finds religion superfluous since all humans, in his estimation, know innately how to behave and do the right thing.

Dyslexia teaches me that, because I don’t have answers like a glossary of terms I can retrieve on demand, I am empty, open with receptors up. I understand I need to approach each child on his and her own terms, comfortable with not knowing. And, through listening, with the desire and faith to prevail, there is only the Ich und Du. There, I will find the answers, in the space between us. All is revealed.

Writing the Bar Mitzvah speech offers great opportunity to crystalize and articulate beliefs and ideas. It is a way to forge the nascent adult identity, affirming the individual within the context of family and community.

The individual within society, a balance we have not been able to quite achieve. A society which prizes the self at the expense of the greater collective breeds sickness, but also, failing to value the individual weakens the strength of the collective. Middle path says Buddhism, middle path.

Mitch expands on the idea of empathy ‘You know the feelings of a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.’

Devon recites, ‘I discovered that Judaism and baseball are similar in many ways. Baseball and Judaism both have rules which allow everyone to play together, a way to measure yourself, and a standard to strive for. Both try to push you to be your best, the rabbi is like a coach, they can guide you, try to help you improve, but it is really up to you.’

After the service, I overhear Mitch say to his younger cousin, ‘Are you going to have a Bat Mitzvah? You should, it’s a lot of work but it’s so worth it.’ He sees that I overhear him. I lower my eyes, smiling in my heart.

Everyone has given up on Alex having a Bar Mitzvah. He is now fourteen.

I am told his ‘condition’ prior to our first lesson. He is diagnosed with mild Asperger’s. He needs structure, I am instructed. Well, if that’s what he needs, that’s what we will do. So, although I am more fluid in my approach, I will adapt to him, I will meet him.

But, structure is not what he needs. During my introduction, I outline in detail a very regimented schedule, and at the end remark, ‘But, I like to be open to inspiration.’

He smiles saying, ‘Yeah, that works for me.’

I ask him to repeat this, making sure he heard and understood.

We never have a rigid schedule from that day onward. He thrives. What I learn about him is the opposite of what the specialists advise. His emotions are very strong, if not addressed at the onset he is moody and unfocused. He must identify his feelings, needs, options, solutions, choices. We have incredible success, and fun. He is philosophical, creative, sensitive and sincere. He craves to express himself, to be heard. As do we all.

Maddie is bright and sassy. Her father is a professor of neurology and she, with the mind of a scientist and the attitude of a Westside girl, thinks that God and Hebrew school is a waste of her time. For weeks I try to find a way to reach her, bring her into the conversation. I explain that her agnostic voice is relevant and welcome in our class, that she too is an equally valuable part of the class. This doesn’t seem to mean anything.

I am losing her. It is like struggling with a painting. I will not give up.

We are making a short film based on a line from Deuteronomy, ‘Love God with all your heart, all of your soul, all of your everything.’ I open a conversation with her saying, ‘This project might be challenging for you to work on since you don’t believe in God.’

‘Yup.’ Only half snarky.

‘Let’s see if we can figure this out, a way for this to work for you.’

We discuss theology, science, creation, belief. She is unsure. ‘So, it’s a mystery to you?’ I reframe. ‘Yeah.’

‘What if we replace the word God for ‘Mystery’, I suggest. Instead we will say, ‘I love The Mystery with all my heart all my soul and all my everything. Would that feel right for you? Would that work?’

Bingo! Game changer! Maddie, is able to find integrity and meaning in her studies from this point forward.

The Bat Mitzvah makes sense as she can place herself comfortably in the tradition. When it comes time for her Bat Mitzvah, she uses the term, ‘The Mystery’ in her speech to the community, she learns her material quickly and easily.

Establishing trust is paramount.

Carl Jung believes and trusts implicitly that his patients must and will arrive at the right decisions on their own.

Since this marks one’s journey towards adulthood, I point out that this is a good example of exercising adult wisdom.

There is a time I had abandoned Ich und Du, and the consequences are not good. When I seek advice from ‘the experts’, my life lessons overwhelmingly expose their deficits, imploring me to trust my own wisdom.

A teenage boy directs a comment to me during class, ‘I thought of you the other day- in my bed.’

I consult the school therapist. ‘You need to talk to him, tell him this makes you uncomfortable.’ She insists.

I ask to speak to him after class and it’s awkward. I’m uncomfortable. These are not my words, my real sentiments. He looks shamed, mortified. He thought he was being cute.

My discussion with him hadn’t come from an authentic place in me, or acknowledged our genuine connection.

Sometimes, I handle sexual inappropriateness with a bit more levity and mastery. Two boys in the back of the seventh-grade class attempt to shock me.

‘Masha, is penis a bad word?’

‘No, penis is my favourite word,’ I respond. Screams from the back row. They babble and yell, arms flailing in adolescent gainliness.

‘Are you serious? ‘No sillies, let’s get on with work.’

I never have a behaviour problem again with this class. Putty.

And then there are the teachers that are pivotal in my life.

Geraldine Jackson, five feet of feisty, with pixy short hair and reading glasses that slide down a slightly pug nose. Lean and sparky. Often scary. She is the math teacher. I am a computative disaster. She puts me in the lower group and ignores me. The next year, she teaches English.

There is no awareness of different learning styles at this time. I assume stupidity is the culprit. ‘She’s sweet, creative.’ Is the best a teacher can say of me.

I am even a creative speller!

Every week Mrs. Jackson gives us a creative writing assignment. One week, though mine is short, my story on re-gifting makes her laugh. She reads it to the class. I am now on her radar.

From this point forward, I rise and rise to the bar set before me, becoming one of the two highest graded students in the class for creative composition. Myself and my friend, Missy.

I am not much for competition, more the Aphrodite than the Athena or Artemis. I am thrilled for us both. She is driven, petit though complains she is fat, frets about failing tests when she will score a ninety-eight.

Chances are I will score a thirty out of a hundred and I am woefully chubby. Eleven years of age.

The thesaurus is now my trusty companion, my favourite game - the wonderment of words! I seek them out, hunting words like a scavenger, a canine on the trail, a pirate for loot ‘n booty. Then, savouring the delight of the hunt, I tack them to sentences like animal heads to plaque and wall.

My treasury of gemmed jewels to which I will devote myself first comes in the form of the sixth grade Friday creative compositions where, I pull all-nighters, writing and rewriting.

Here, it starts. Deep into the hushed amorphous night, I am most awake, discovering shapes in the shapeless, word-less, time space, planting and harvesting in the rich fertile darkness. I am free.

Construction of the bridge begins.

I am born into the tribe of Israelites, the Children of

Israel, people of the book. Israel, Yisrael means ‘wrestles with God.’

What does it mean to be dyslexic as one from the people of the book?

I’m one who wrestles with books.

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savetopnow · 7 years ago

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2018-03-28 02 EDUCATION now

EDUCATION

Cathy Jo Nelson

Choose USC-SLIS for your MLIS!

New Standards – Discount Price through SCASL

Happy Thanksgiving – Happy Weeding

Put a positive spin on it

Library Flier

Cool Cat Teacher

Taking a Break to Focus: Sometimes We Need All Need to Take a Break

7 Ways My Interactive Display is a Key Part of My Student-Centered Classroom

Classroom Earth: Teach Conservation By Going Outside

5 Ideas for Writing with Technology

Is Anybody Listening?

Mndshift

When Pushing Boundaries in Math Education, Where Can Teachers Turn For Help and Camaraderie?

Why Teachers Love Using Those Magical OK Go Videos in Class

4 STEM Tools That Turn Students’ Curiosity Into Real Learning

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How Reading Novels in Math Class Can Strengthen Student Engagement

Parents Countdown to College

It’s Time for a Wake-Up Call for Parents (and Students) about College

Defanging Social Media

Spring College Visits Aren’t Just for Juniors

How One Student Hacked the College System

The College Selection Dilemma: Big or Small?

Reddit Education

on creativity and storytelling at CUE 2018 with matt Miller - Ditch that Textbook

Texas schools suspended tens of thousands of students in second grade or younger, report says

Are there any companies who will create/design a Yearbook for you?

Dg Khan 8th Result

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Beyond #DeleteFacebook: More Thoughts on Embracing the Social Internet Over Social Media

On Social Media and Its Discontents

Stephen Hawking’s Radical Thinking

Tim Wu on the Tyranny of Convenience

Sebastian Junger Never Owned a Smartphone (and Why This Matters)

Teach Thought

8 Ways For Teachers To Save Time In The Classroom

15 Questions To Ask When Introducing New Content To Students

The TeachThought Podcast Ep. 113 Reinventing Learning: Time for a Change

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Teacher Network

Secret Teacher: we're setting dyslexic children up to feel like failures

'Allow imaginations to lead': igniting the creative spark in young writers

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Join us: sign up for the Guardian Teacher Network newsletter

Teaching union calls for 5% pay rise with possible strike backing

The Answer Sheet

Not sure what’s real or fake anymore? The News Literacy Project teaches kids how to tell the difference.

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#education

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badwhalenikki · 8 years ago

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Hiya! I'm a writer too! A couple years younger than you and can I just say HOW? You are really good at writing and I am just a little bit jealous. Like really I hate everything I write but you are awesome

Oh my sweet baby sit down and let me tell you the story of how the baddestwhale came into writing.

TL;DR I am a mess at writing and spell and grammar check have saved me from my anxiety enough to post my stories. Sorry it took so long. I got really into this

My very first time writing a story was in 1st grade and before that I was a big time story teller… But here is the kicker… I am dyslexic and I have ADHD and I when I was a kid ((not very long ago)) Teachers didn’t know what that stuff was… I went to a private school where that shit was looked at as mentally challenge… So when my happy little ass showed my teacher my first book about horses and the many facts my tiny little brain knew about them((I was an animal encyclopedia)) she gave it to my mom and asked her if she was sure I belonged at that school…

No one really thought I was smart enough to be there, hell I wasn;t even rich enough to be there. My mom was a pe coach thats the only reason I even got to go to that school! Getting off track here but back to it. EVERY time I had tried to write something… I was shot in the head… 3rd grade I learned I could draw and I stuck with that for most of my life because… EVERY FUCKING TIME I TRIED TO WRITE.

“You can even spell club? and your handwriting is like a 5 year olds… Are you stupid?”- 10th grade

“Beautiful, nicole, BE-U-TI-FUL sound it out… NO THERE’S AN A THERE.”- 6th grade

“You can understand the difference between Your and you’re? well YOU’RE obviously going nowhere.”- 8th grade

“You have a wonderful understanding of the story but your essay is full of grammatical and spelling errors… I have to fail you.” - 3rd year of college

And no one ever taught me otherwise. Any time I even wrote online to defend something or to gush about something people wouldn’t take me seriously because

“You can’t even place a comma properly… Why should I listen to what you have to say?” - Some asshole on DA

It’s not until i met the friends I have now that I even BOTHERED to write again. Honestly I am crying. Without them reading my story and telling me that they loved it… and that they’d help me with the grammar and spelling that I realized I write REALLY GOOD STORIES…And I hate some of my stories too but honestly thats just apart of art… Honestly Anon. I PROMISE your stories are probably some of the best things ever and you just cant see it past what you see as your flaws. Cause I still write even though all I see are my grammar and spelling errors ((That I can’t even notice half of the time))

Spell check is my life… I am going to write word i know… I dont know how to spell still and not correct them…

anixety genra extrodenary comfortible

… … … I see that red line and it kills me… But it also teaches me… Like Impossible. Treasure. Mountain. Orange…. Yes I couldn’t spell orange until like 7th grade Writing is a skill some are better at grammar and spell some are better at storytelling… MY ADVICE after ALLLLLLLLL of this bull shit keep at it… Find your flaws and knock them the fuck out. and if you ever EVER need help dont be afraid to message me. I’d be more than happy to help

#ask the bad whale #long answer

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grademyfinal1969-blog · 8 years ago

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Grade Finder Percents

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These questions are supported on commonly adopted criteria; the much yes answers you can resign, the statesman faithful you can presume your author to be. Joining one of the universitys some clubs or societies is a way of find people who deal the like interests as you. The straddle of feasible activities is vast and you faculty need to decide how galore societies you can realistically give to joint. Beingness a full participating member gift not be researchable for more than a few, and body fees shortly add up. Few subjects score their own societies, which may pioneer their own subject-specific events. Perhaps for this reasonableness, students from processing countries focalize more on professional degrees such as activity and direction, room, somatic and experience sciences, maths and computer sciences and eudaimonia professions (Opened Doors IIE Immediate Facts, 2006). 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