We’ve all had experiences that we’ve been through, some pleasant, others…not so much (and for me, a-many more rough ones than pleasant, unfortunately), but they’re not complete without the reflection aspect. If we don’t take a minute to reflect on our experiences and learn from them, then we’ll do anything but grow as people. We’ll stay constant, not realizing life-lessons that’re just a few hard thoughts away. I realize I used the word “experiences” loosely and pretty vaguely, but they could be just about anything–maybe a fight you’ve been in, verbally or physically. Or a particular time you’ve been made fun of, teased?
Anyway, here’s one of my stories (it’s a bit of a life-story, actually), and what I took away from it:
Staring anxiously at my AP Biology textbook, I promised myself that I would not let the text get the better of me this time. I let out a deep breath and flipped to page 536. The chapter title “The Chromosomal Basis of Inheritance” already gave me some trouble. Still determined, I sampled the first sentence: “Using techniques of microscopy, cytologists worked out the process of mitosis in…”—Wait … what? Let me try rereading that. Er, cytologists did what? The third time’s a charm, right? Yes, I finally got it. I’ve just spent an aching few minutes rereading that sentence, and half of that time trying to remember what I even read about—a problem I first became aware of years before.
“Minh, it’s for you,” said my 6th grade humanities teacher as he quickly glanced at the brightly colored note from the office, and handed it to me. A wave of anxiety flushed over my face. Flustered about what I might have done wrong, I hastily grabbed the note. There was a poorly drawn checkmark in the underscore next to the words “See me immediately in P7”. My face still flushed, I left my seat and hurried out of the room. When I got there, the lady told me I hadn’t done anything wrong. But my face turned red once more when she told me about my subpar standardized reading scores, and thought it “best” to transfer me into Reading for Pleasure, a euphemistically-titled class for kids who struggle with reading. Reading isn’t what you would call my forte, for I am, and always will be, dyslexic.
At first, Reading for Pleasure was fun. The pace of the class was much less rigorous than that of my former class. I felt relieved, as I had trouble with even the simplest words in the English language. But I soon realized that the class would never let me deal with my disability head-on—it was simply an easy way out. Reading for Pleasure would label me “handicapped,” and give me an excuse to do poorly in reading. Its frivolous read-aloud exercises would help a bit, but do little to fix the problem. Altogether, the class itself was futile in its attempt to “help” me. I figured I would take matters into my own hands, and hold my own—and that’s what I’ve done ever since.
My vow was tested when I registered for the rigorously timed SAT. Though its accommodations were tempting, to accept them would have been tantamount to raising the white flag of surrender. I would be returning to the world of Reading for Pleasure—that room that alleviated but never really solved the problem. And that was something I wasn’t willing to do. Confident, I signed up. Real life isn’t going to accommodate me the same way Reading for Pleasure did. The real world isn’t going to nurse me and make sure I’m okay. I can do it on my own—I will not let something even as challenging as dyslexia get in my way.
The QT Psychologist 