All posts by MLE

I have a shoe box in my closet filled with poems, essays and short stories. All writings from years ago when I was earning my university degree. Now my email is brimming with drafts of anecdotes and ranting spiels. There are even flash drives with manuscripts and screenplays to boot somewhere. Until recently, I lacked the courage to share. The truth is,I am a story teller, a philosopher and a survivor who many look to for advice, opinion and insight. I have decided not to let my insecurities about putting my words to print continue to be my accuse or deterrent not to share. Please enjoy.

Meet Nicole

1988 – Nicole

Meet Nicole
People Talk

An excerpt from The Only Road Manuscript

How could Mother Nature do this to me? She thought, catching a glimpse of her own silhouette in the window. A fat drop of condensation streaked down the fog covered glass as the school bus bumped and clambered its way down the road. Nicole Bradley had been dreading the first day of school ever since the hair dresser had given her the worst hair cut known to man. Even the most well balanced adult would be stripped of their self-confidence and forced to face their meager and humble insecurities. For this preteen, this was devastating at a catastrophic level.

Nightmare Hair Cut

It was 1988, and she was going into grade seven. To over compensate for her misgivings, Nicole had strategically over stocked her back to school wardrobe with skirts and dresses in every color and length. Her body had betrayed her over the summer. It seemed a cruel joke that puberty had somehow managed to come calling on every other girl in her class, while confining Nicole to the underdeveloped frame of a fourth grader. Nicole had spent the entire summer beneath an oversized t-shirt in hope of concealing what she did not have. Meanwhile, her friends sported two piece bathing suits and outfits that made it hard not to notice their newly blossomed womanly figures. Her lack thereof, was just as obvious and she was insanely aware. Insecurities rendered her breathless. She nearly drowned in the deep turbulent waters of self-consciousness that held her back from splashing around in just a swim suit. On more occasions than she cared to recall, Nicole had been mistaken for a boy. Such blunders crashed against her with an undertow that continually pulled her self-esteem below the surface.

Gender confusion at a hair salon was probably the most tragic scenario possible for any twelve year old and considerably more prevalent for one desperate to come into her own. Nicole stayed true to her unbearably awkward adolescence and wished for nothing more than to appear older. The thought of looking like a younger boy was so inconceivable that her ego had not even considered it for fear she would short circuit.

“You’ll be beating the girls off with a stick.” The hair dresser said, whisking a handheld mirror around Nicole’s shoulders and neck displaying the back of her newly shaved scalp.

At first, Nicole was optimistic, thinking that she had just got the latest, chic style. Images of Pat Benatar and Annie Lennox flashed in her mind as she bobbed her head trying to convince herself that it was not so bad. The entrance chime rang and Nicole’s chair was left in a slow spin when all came into focus. Everything happened at once. The impact of the hairdresser’s words collided with the horrified expression on her mother’s face . For a moment there was no movement and no sound. The mood in the salon shifted. The proud grin of the hairdresser’s soured the instant she realized her disastrous error. Scrambling to lather her hands with styling gel, the hairdresser vigorously jammed her fingers into Nicole’s hair. Intentionally blocking her client’s view with her own body, the hairdresser was determined to spike and shape the obviously masculine do. It was the eighties; hair was all about height, right? It would be more feminine the higher it was, or so the women at the salon had encouraged.

The tears did not come until after Nicole had sat on the bathroom counter at home. With her feet in the sink, she experimented in the mirror with the little hair she had left. It was a mushroom. That was what they had called it, before she and her mother left the Salon, far from impressed. Nicole’s straight strawberry blonde hair seemed more golden now that her skin was visible beneath the extremely short hair around her ears and in the back. The top was much longer in comparison, all three inches of it. With exaggerated sighs, Nicole was trying to make the best of it until her sister charged into the confined room.

Enter Satan

“This, I have got to see.” Debra pushed open the door and stood with one hand still perched on the knob and the other on her hip. There, she stared at her little sister, unblinking for what seemed like minutes, before bursting into laughter. “Oh my God, she scalped you, like you needed to look more like a boy.” She left just as abruptly as she had entered but not before adding, “Well, you got the whole butch thing down.”

Nicole did not even bother looking back into the mirror before climbing down from the counter. Behind clenched teeth, she swallowed the warm saliva that often gathers when preparing to cry or throw up. Her eyes welled up and threatened to unload heavy streams of tears. Bravely, she walked down the hall and resisted all emotion until she reached her room and closed the door. Crumpling on the floor in a heap, Nicole pressed her back against the wall that separated her from her sister and the rest of the world. There, all alone, she wept in silence.

That was over a week ago. Nicole had been avoiding her friends ever since. She had clearly given up on the notion that her hair would grow out in seven days, though not from lack of trying on her budget and resources. The fact that beer, egg, and leave-in conditioners were not successful growing agent was a lesson she learned the hard way. Of course, both of these disaster remedies had been suggested by Debra, in her typical matter a fact tone. Once she cried tears of frustration, sadness and rotten odor, Nicole finally relented and relied on hope.

Back to School

She was hopeful that by the time school started, she would have grown comfortable with her new look, maybe even create ways to style it to give it flare. Hopefulness would not help that she looked like a confused little boy. All that distinguished her from the boys at school was the sea green pencil skirt she was wearing. Not permitted to wear make-up yet, Nicole hoped that her apparel would be enough to avoid the snickers and head tilts of pity. She glared at her spiky reflection in the window of the bus, again, dreading the first day of school. Fortunately, Nicole remained oblivious to the next crisis that lurked just around the corner.

She was slow to descend the very large steep steps of the school bus. Not only because she was reluctant to face her friends, but she was very careful not to stress the limited slit in her skirt. Distracted by this maneuver, she almost didn’t recognized Lindsay as the girl who grabbed her arm and ushered her from the bus. Stopping only after they reached the sheltered insert of the external gymnasium double doors. The massive steel slabs were set into the red bricked wall of the school. Once out of sight Lindsay’s giant blue eyes searched Nicole’s with wild intent.

“I know, I know. It’s really bad isn’t it?” Nicole plucked at strands of hair sporadically; a nervous impulse which had manifested itself into a complex over the past week.

“What? No. This isn’t about your hair, but now that you mention it, WOW!” Her eyes grew even wider which did not seem possible. A big eyed ‘wow’ from Lindsay Petticomb was never good, more sarcastic. Nicole translated this verbal and facial expression as only best friends can. Lindsay had managed to communicate in an instant that Nicole’s hair was shocking, not a great look, but they could be seen walking around together. This gave Nicole a little solace. “When was the last time you saw Frank Fortelli?” Lindsay asked with an interrogating edge.

“Why, is he here?” Nicole started surveying her surroundings with greater panic than she had anticipated.

“No.” Lindsay returned, holding each letter’s sound as if ready to burst into song.

“Good. He moved to go live with his dad.” Nicole said still looking around Lindsay. Once she realized that scouring the yard was pointless, Nicole’s gaze landed back to Lindsay who was still demanding an answer with her wide eyes. Nicole instantly began to blink. Her eyes were dry and irritated just looking at the strain in her friend’s unwavering stare.

“When did you see him last?” This time her words were slow and serious.

“The last day of school.” Nicole said in the same speed and exaggerated clarity. “When he dumped me!” She qualified this with a confused head shake and returned her speech back to normal. “You know this, you were there with me.”

Lindsay let out a deep breath. “I thought so. I just wanted to check.” She paused and pressed her lips together.

“Lindsay!” The suspense was eating at Nicole.

“I heard something.” She shrugged apologetically, “…something that you are not going to like.”

Frank Fortelli was one of those guys that people just liked saying their entire name. He was never just Frank, it was always Frank Fortelli. He was a boy that Nicole used to go with, whatever that meant at the ripe age of twelve. Nicole had always had a boyfriend from as early as grade two, if you could call them that. It never went beyond school. The inhospitable venues of the country did not encourage preteens to hang out, nor did people live close enough to go just visit one another. Nicole almost never spoke on the phone, and on those rare occasions it was always with Lindsay. When she had gone with Frank Fortelli, her interest in boys was limited to being able to talk to them at school and participate in some of their recess activities. She did recall that Frank Fortelli had attempted to hold her hand at Track and Field, an annual event that Nicole looked forward to every year. It was a big deal to her. As a retired tomboy, Nicole had always liked to consider herself an athlete, although her body and her skill level would disagree. This never stopped her from trying. However, her interest in sport drastically outweighed her interest in boys, explaining why she had ignored the subtle advances from Frank Fortelli.

This momentary flashback of a boy she had barely thought about all summer brought a resolve. His reasons for dumping her had never crossed her mind and now the mystery was no longer. She had turned him down and crushed his fragile ego. An enlightening smirk crept across her face with this sudden realization.

Nicole could recall the last day of school and Frank Fortelli catching up with her and Lindsay just before they stepped on their neighboring buses. She could not remember for certain what he had said but, it was clear that he had dumped her. The memory of hiding crying eyes on her way home made her chuckle.

The Power of a Rumor

The story Lindsay told her was quite different and socially devastating. Nicole’s reputation was undoubtedly scarred for the rest of her adolescence. Even at twelve, this she knew with certainty. While within the shallow depths of the doorway, Nicole remained protected from judgment and ridicule. For the time being, she looked out at the fake friendly faces, ignorant to her arrival and impervious to her truth. Nicole had only a moment to be insecure about that which she had already been prepared. Dealing with a haircut that was sure to grow in seemed a manageable predicament in hind sight.

Her world had just fallen and as it hung there suspended in the morning sun of the first day of school, its future was doomed. A circulated rumor was not her’s to refute. It had a life of its own. It had pulsated and morphed as it breathed off the lips of Nicole’s bored and stagnated peers throughout the summer. No one was interested in the self- exonerating truth. Her name had been whispered about unknowingly for weeks. Although she had never kissed a boy, Nicole was marked as a slut; a groundless label that would bore a permanent imprint on her flesh, her name and her soul like a repulsive tattoo. Unfairly, the boy who branded her had gone leaving only a rumour about him, Nicole and a blue blanket in his wake.

Tough Girl - Big Truck
Meet Nicole

Find The Only Road in its entirety at

www.inkitt.com

https://www.inkitt.com/stories/drama/159258

The Thing About Teens

In their own right, teens are experts on the ‘now’ that exists in their world. Pop culture, music, movies, television shows, even hot current events regarding environmental issues are their specialties. Teens are excited about coming into their own. Being able to contribute to adult conversations that they have an invested interest in or knowledge of is a big deal. A significant milestone is achieved the moment one can relate and offer an opinion at the grown up table.

About Teens

The thing about teens is…

…their expertise is limited to the now, rather their ‘now’ as it holds value to them. They have no reference to three years ago.

And when an adult cannot comment on the newest Avril Lavigne‘s song that addresses depression and mental illness the teen then feels empowered even superior to the adult or in this case the parent who is not in the ‘know.’

That feeling goes to their head and then they turn into assholes.

My kids are approaching their teens quickly and I do not want to hate them. So I am doing everything in my power to prepare myself as well as do what it takes to guide them towards becoming the exceptional teens that are not loathed by adults around the world.

Here is how I explained it. Using a deck of cards as a metaphor for knowledge and expertise, I slapped it down on the table. This is you today. All that you know is about today with few proceeding references. You are expected to know everything about today. In five years you will also know about then. I fan the deck out demonstrating less concentrated knowledge on a specific time period. Then I spread the deck out further and explain that is what happens over decades, as in the knowledge of their parents. This is not to minimize the knowledge of others; for there was a time when we were all experts on a ‘today.’ All were relevant at the time and significant in their own right.

I do not know Avril Lavigne’s song about mental illness, but I do know how in 1974, Jaws kept an entire generation out of all bodies of water and how critical Public Enemy was to the music industry as rap found its way to mainstream in the 1990s.  

Pulling the deck further apart, I explained that my parents have an even greater wealth of information. It is spread across many more decades just more thinly.  All are relevant, all equally as enlightening. I would not dare question my father’s knowledge of the sixties because I wasn’t there just as my kids avoid discussing anything predating 2017 because they haven’t a thing to add.

They are supposed to know more about today than I do.

And if ever they dare be condescending when I am not as knowledgeable about whom Taylor Swift is dating, I have reserved the right to smack them upside the head or pelt them with questions regarding Rodney King and the L.A riots or the impact Quentin Jerome Tarantino had on Hollywood. It’s amazing how quickly their pretentious smug expressions falter when I make mention of something outside of their expertise of today.

I have pleaded with my kids to be respectful no matter what.

Everyone is an expert on something and that deserves not to be minimized or disregarded.  We all have a part to play. My concern are the parents who distance themselves from their know it all teens at a time when they need our social guidance the most. 

It is perfectly natural to feel empowered with knowledge but constantly impressing upon our young adults that the wisest of us all knows that they know nothing at all. 

Praise your teens for engaging in conversation and celebrate their knowledge but instill upon their new developing minds and opinion that their deck of cards remains a short stack.

In the meantime, if my son ever makes fun of me for not knowing the words to the newest Shawn Mendez song I will change the wifi password and send him to his room with the Joshua Tree CD. 

Meet Bono, smart ass!

Shared Priorities

Happy couples have shared priorities.

Yes, by all means; career goals, financial budgeting, parenting approaches, retirement plans, blah, blah, blah.

All of those are shared priorities for the future, for the long run.  But those are not the shared priorities of everyday bliss. They will not help you achieve a happy and successful relationship for the day to day.

There is a secret to a happy relationship and I am going to share it with you.

Shared Priorities

Do everything you can to make your partner happy.  Ensure that they have the same goal.

If you are making them happy…

and they are making you happy….

happiness all around!

It is really that simple.  That is the shared priority.  Know your partner’s priorities and make them your own.

Clearly, this calls for an example.

Let me start by saying, do not compromise on what matters most.  This method will not help you if you haven’t already picked a partner worth fighting for.

After a failed marriage, I realized that I had betrayed myself. I had fooled myself into ignoring the attributes that I had once held highest when choosing a partner. To me, one must possess an unflappable work ethic, a kind heart and capable hands. Once I reestablished my sure grasp of those character traits, I found my true love, to whom I married.  These three attributes are the foundation of the man, husband, and father he is and why I love him so.

This, unfortunately does not mean that we brought the same priorities to the relationship. For the big picture future goals everything aligned.  It was the small, everyday expectations that we just assumed our alike hearts would agree upon.  They didn’t.

And I bet either do yours.

That being said, my partner likes for specific places in our home to be tidy and clean. This, I refer to as ‘showcase‘ clean.  You may already be nodding with agreement, and I would nod too if these places were the kitchen, the bathroom, or even the front foyer. Nope, my husband wants the laundry room to be spotless.  Yep, that room also known as the mudroom.

He once dedicated an entire day to clean this area to his liking.  In doing so, he moved all which made this room functional into the garage.  To be fair, when he was finished, it was showcase clean. It was a spotless, shiny, and useless laundry room, just like a Home Depot floor display.

To be clear, I don’t get it. The need to have the room that is meant to be hidden away behind closed doors clean, over all other rooms in the house, is beyond my comprehension. I mean, we keep that cat’s litter box in the laundry room, for Pete sake.  However, I do try to keep the washer and dryer clear of clutter and the floor free of laundry when I can.  On the flip side, he returns the favour by refraining from hanging things on the banister at the bottom of the stairs – which drives me crazy.

When we were first together hats, coats, and bags could often be found dangling in the middle of the living room from the railing of the stairway in centre view of the front door.  Grrrrrr.

This meeting of the minds or sharing of the priorities did not come easily.  It came after an explosive argument.

We all believe that we are easy to live with.  Your partner would disagree. Just ask them.  Have an open conversation. Do not make it a competition. Listen. Do not get defensive.

If they are brave enough to share with you what irks them, be strong enough to accept what you hear.

Be prepared to express your priorities too- again not a competition.  You do not need to ‘out do‘ their uncapped toothpaste complaint by lashing out about the swallow of milk they left in the fridge, that, honestly had not bothered you before the conversation began.  In addition to listening and not getting defensive, take a moment to pull on a thicker layer of skin if you haven’t already got one.

It is also important to understand that this takes time.  Just by expressing your priorities to your partner does not mean that they adopt them as their own immediately.  Again, I still don’t get the need to have the dryer top clear. It took a long time for me to stop myself before haphazardly emptying my arms onto the first surface when coming into the house from the garage.  The drier is a natural catch-all. Avoiding unloading there was a process.

At first, I would make the laundry room part of my tidying routine. Once I realized that the clutter collecting on the drier was mostly mine, I began curbing the habit.

Do not get me wrong.  When things are hectic, the house is a mess, and I am dropping more balls than juggling, I have to admit the driers’ cleanliness is the first to fall off my priority list. Why?  Because, the drier top is not my priority.

It is natural for the priorities of others to be the first dismissed or ignored when distracted.  It is also really easy to dump my things on the drier when I see a rogue backpack looped over the banister of the stairs.  This, I know is 80% petty, but  100% honest.

Hey, I said that the theory was simple, not the practice.

But, imagine how wonderful life would be if your partners’ aim everyday was to meet your priorities. If their number one goal was to make you happy, how easy would it be to match that goal?  Sounds pretty incredible, right? So why not have the conversation.  Start there.

Make your partner’s priorities your priority. When they do the same…

…that is the

Shared Priority

The Importance of Sex

How important is sex in your relationship?

Seriously, in a percentage, how much does romance matter?

three elements of relationship health
Importance of Sex – pixteller

Three elements of health
Health Trifecta

At the very least we need food, water, and sleep to survive.  When a cold or flu take hold, these three components are essential in restoring our health and strength.  A relationship is very much the same. As its own life force, it too has requirements to exist.  These crucial elements ought to be thoroughly evaluated and weighed when a relationship is in need of a checkup.

three elements of health
Health 2 Trifecta

Experts cannot agree on the perfect balance of food, water, and sleep to remain healthy. This is because it varies among people. Age and activity level are both significant factors that help determine an individual’s perfect balance. Such conditions have the same effect on one’s relationship. The balance continues to be the catalyst for harmony.

Communication, shared priorities, and sex, these are the essentials of a relationship.

That is not to say that they are the only components. Family, finances, free time, future plans along with a slew of factors that don’t start with ‘F’ contribute to the overall wellness of your bond. But if your relationship has come down with a cold; communication, shared priorities, and sex are the foundation.  Everything else can melt away.

Without this trifecta there is no relationship.

In saying that, I ask again, how do you rate sex?

Now, ask yourself, would your partner agree?

If not, see Shared Priorities.

Sex is not only a primal need but it is also an expression of love, togetherness and intimacy that can be matched with no other.

This is not to rate the quality or quantity of your physical relationship. Follow the seduction links if you need help with that.  This is a way to gauge the importance of sex to your relationship.

Understand that this is an ever changing number.  Commonly, there is a very strong co-relation between quantity and importance.  Those who feel that they aren’t ‘getting any’ or complain that is comes about too rarely, will often put a greater importance on sex in the relationship. 

Consider a long distance relationship or when someone in the couple travels; the prolonged union is often extremely sexually charged. Why?  Because sex is the only component that cannot be satisfied across the distance. Phone sex is a small consolation, a temporary substitute – but I encourage THAT all the same.

three elements of relationship health
Sex Health Trifecta

Another example would be make-up sex. Far from boring, this particular form of love making is known to be fiery and explosive. Why? Because too much communication about shared priorities has squeezed out or neglected the sex element.  Like any starved flame – it flares at the slightest hint of oxygen.

 

The point is, every couple will find harmony in their relationship using a different ratio depending on where their relationship stands.  All that matters is that both parties agree on that number.

If you have just had a very ‘active’ weekend away, you should find that sex carries less weight on the importance counter- for a little while anyway.  A new relationship usually has a very high necessity for sex as there is no foundation for communication or shared priorities.  Once the couple has established a sense of a history, the other components have had an opportunity to develop. It is then that their numbers begin to shift.

Here’s the catch.  Happiness is achieved when both people agree on the numbers. In order to find that balance, the couple must communicate and establish their shared priorities to determine where sex lies in their pie chart.

Sex, Shared Priorities, and Commutation

Good Luck.

 
 
 

1993 Brutal Truth: Crushed

High school was worse!

Unknowingly dyslexic in 1993. I was crushed.

The humiliation was not nearly as often but was far more scarring.

I am dyslexic and here is my brutal truth. 

Dyslexic: 1993
My Brutal Truth

 

Sunlight, pouring in from behind me, caught on something unexpected and shiny. I was already flinching when hairy knuckles rapped on my desk.  If it were my attention that he had wanted, he got it.   His hand in my direct eye line and the glinting gold band squeezing around his finger had been distracting enough.  The startling knock, inches from my face, was unnecessary.

Bent over my desk, I had been lost in my own continuous stream of thoughts and the ink was struggling to furiously keep up.  The words I had been about to scratch down halted at the end of the pen and I willed for my memory to desperately snatch them while I lifted my eyes.  Too late,  they were gone; at the speed of a thought into the abyss of forgotten fragments of time. Before me was a sentence left unfinished, my train of thought was reduced to a wreck.

More disappointed than annoyed,

…I looked at my Grade 12 English teacher.   His back was to me as he walked towards his desk.  Lowering himself into his chair, Mr. Fenton peered at me over his reading glasses, made tiny by his rutted round face.  When he raised his wiry brows without breaking his impatient stare it suddenly occurred to me that I was meant to follow.

We were studying Shakespeare’s Hamlet, a play I knew well thanks to Mel Gibson. The remainder of the period was ours to begin the written assignment.  Before I reached his desk, Mr. Fenton jutted his chin.

“Bring your work.” This was an obvious oversight on my part given his tone.

More annoyed than disappointed,

…I approached the big desk that stood demanding respect front and center of the classroom.  A sitting Mr. Fenton was at an awkward height and I could see the oily pores of his slick near-bald head.   It was hard to ignore the heat shooting up through to my ears brought on by the open glance of curious students.  An anonymous snort pulled Mr. Fenton’s eyes from my paper to the instantly quieted class.  No one dared to meet his gaze and before us, a plain of crowns lowered.

The painful silence stretched on while his dark eyes challenged his students.  My discomfort only grew.  Why was I there? What was going on?  Should I grab a chair?  What was I supposed to do with my hands?

Doubt and Insecurities invaded me entirely.

The scent of garlic polluted the air when Mr. Fenton returned to my work and huffed.  Never had he apologized for his weakness for the cafeteria Cesar salad; an omission he often made as an explanation to his sour breath. 

Our assignment had just been given to us at the beginning of class, not even twenty minutes earlier.  What could I have possibly written that would warrant this much scrutiny? How could he evaluate me on my preliminary notes which were more of an illegible flowchart? 

“Blood.”  He finally said and I nodded.

Realizing that he wasn’t looking at me I confirmed with a typical teen response. “Yep.”

“Yes.” He held the ‘s’ until garlic tainted the air again.

“Yes,” I echoed.

Referring back to my paper he started listing off all of my points thus far.  I wasn’t about to lean over his desk to follow the tip of his fancy pen as he tapped it around my written notes.  Even at sixteen, I was well aware of the scene that would create. Self-consciously I slid the small charm at my throat back and forth on its chain while taking stock of my shirt with its scoop neckline. Nope. No leaning today.

“All of your examples are in the literal sense. Battle, death and sickness.”  From over his shoulder, his eyes found me again.  “Come on think. What else?”

I knew that I was staring at him blankly, but not for lack of an answer, more from the pure shock that I had been centerd out like this.

Although I felt colour rise to my cheeks, my lips grew cold from my gaping.

Suddenly, Mr. Fenton rolled back and stood snagging the attention of the entire room.  “You sit here and think about it.”

“What?”  I could not keep the chilling surprise or volume from my voice.

Equally confused expressions looked back at me from the rows of my peers.  Mr. Fenton’s fingers curled around my upper arms and dug in as he plopped me into his chair and steered me towards his desk. Panic and embarrassment swelled inside me and a bolt of pressure raced to my head.  Wildly, I scanned the room looking for a kind understanding face when I spotted a friend. Her contorted mouth said it all.  Clearly, the odd behavior of our teacher had not gone unnoticed, but…

…no one else felt the uneasiness coil coldly down their spines. 

Paralyzed by a fear, forever tethered me to the fourth grade, I sat motionless at the front of the room.  Feeling so small and fragile, a single breath could cause me to break, my mind whirled around the senseless humiliation.  I tried to reach back to where I was before Mr. Fenton interrupted my work. Fingers of thought flicked through my memory trying to grasp at anything that had been there but my pounding heart pulled all threads from my grasp.  I had nothing.  It was gone.

I picked up my teacher’s heavy pen and lowered it again upon sight of my trembling hands.  Did he really expect me to be able to explore the concept of blood in the play more deeply from his desk? 

Thankfully, the bell rang blared before I had to find out.  Mr. Fenton was leaning on the window ledge at the back of the class when I darted back to my desk to collect my things and flee from the room.

By the following day, I had reasoned that Mr. Fenton had no way of knowing the deeply rooted fear he had inflicted upon me with his actions the day before. So, I did all that I could to push it from my mind and not drag it with me back to English class. I had barely sat down when Mr. Fenton began to bellow instructions to the class.  We were to pick up where we had left off the day before and then to my horror he said my name.    

‘Ms. Wright,’ he hissed the ‘s’ like a ‘z’.

My eyes snapped to his and he motioned for me to follow him out into the hall.  The mass that had collected in my throat was too much to swallow so I took to chewing on my tongue to ward off the tears.  My heart clobbered so hard that it hurt to breathe.  Out the door, I went, but he was already walking down the hall. Then he turned, where I hadn’t known there to be a room.  When I got there, it was the side entrance into an office I didn’t recognize.  The name on the desk was not Mr. Fenton, it was Mrs. Blackwell the Vice Principal and my teacher looked disturbingly satisfied as he slid into the big wing back chair.  Cautiously I took the seat across from him. 

There was one window looking out over the courtyard directly behind the desk and Mr. Fenton’s glowing silhouette was almost ironic. Shadows created by the few secretaries in the main office, blurred beyond the closed blinds of the wall of glass to my right.

“I see that you have enrolled into OAC English class next semester.” His gaudy ring caught the sunlight again as he steepled his fingers, pressing his elbows into the soft arms of his mobile throne.

This wasn’t a question and I had.  My plans were well thought out and precise.  My high school excelled and specialized in the sciences, not my particular expertise. The idea was to take all the required OAC courses needed for my university application as quickly as possible so that I could add electives to my transcript my final year.  That way, I could enroll in courses available from other high school’s from the surrounding area and use my spare for commuting.   As well, English was by far my worst subject, by taking it early I could enroll in an upgrade summer course, offered only to students who had already completed OAC English. 

I had no illusions about my limitations and academic challenges.  My plan was to accept my disadvantages and get ahead of them.

It was perfect.  Or at least I thought it had been before this blindsided ambush.

“I want you to take a look at this.”  Mr. Fenton opened a folder that had been sitting on the plastic desk protector and plucked out papers.  He held them towards me but I had to stand to retrieve them.  There were three or four pages neatly stapled together. “That is an essay written by a student of mine last year.  It is an example of where you are expected to be.  Where your writing should be.”

Flipping through the pages I feigned interest all the while the date kept flashing in my mind.  It was October! The semester had just begun. This was hardly enough time for teachers to learn all of their student’s names let alone their potential. How could Mr. Fenton possibly know anything about my writing?  We had yet to hand in a single assignment.   The next thing he said tore me from my thoughts.

“I think that you should drop out.”

I froze without being able to look up.

These few words crushed me. 

“I teach OAC English, and you don’t have what it takes to pass that class.”

After that, I didn’t hear anything else he had to say. He had just obliterated my plans for high school, shattered my expectations for graduation and quashed any hope I had for getting into university.  I had been judged and unfairly evaluated without any grounds or cause. There had yet to be anything for him to come to such a rash conclusion.  I vaguely remember nodding and floating out of the room.

Three months later,

I sat hunched over another desk.  Rows of them had been set up in the gym for exams.

It was believed that lower temperatures were stimulating and more likely to keep students alert.  I must have been the exception because being cold made me want to curl up and sleep.  Being my third exam, I had come prepared with a piping hot tea, a giant box of tissue, and a toque.  The thick wool of my puck bunny sweater helped too. Before me was my English exam and I was ready. There was no stressing because I knew my stuff. It helped too that I wasn’t enrolling into OAC English until September which knocked my plan off course by a year.  By dropping the course as suggested by my teacher I would not be eligible to apply for university until the year after my classmates; a reality I had learned to accept over the last few months.

A hairy knuckle dropped onto my desk knocking mere inches from my pen. The scent of garlic had preceded him.  Beneath my enormous sweater, I stiffened and gripped by Papermate so tight the tips of my fingers turned a ghostly white.  Then, Mr. Fenton crouched beside me. So close, in fact, that I could see a roll of skin attempting to fold over the wire arm of his reading glasses in my peripheral. This time I did not lift my pen nor turn to him, my sights were set on the last few words to finish my train of thought.  He seemed to wait, but still, I wrote. Finally, Mr. Fenton placed my last assignment upon my desk.  The grade was hard to miss in its giant red ink. 

Our final independent study, making up 40 percent of our final grade had multiple components.  Mine was on a local poet and after much research and obscure digging, I had discovered the poet’s glossary.  As if he had his own language, I used the glossary to decode and translate a number of his poems.  No doubt about it, this poet was a sexist womanizer and I said as much in my oral presentation, except I think I went as far to say he was a pig. 

There I was, where I shone brightest at the front of the class prepared to present on a topic I knew inside and out.  Having a completely entranced captivated audience was exhilarating until my teacher interrupted. As luck would have it, or my bad luck as it were, Mr. Fenton knew the poet.  They had gone to school together and shared pints just a few weeks earlier.  This blow took the wind right out of my sail.  I had just openly trashed my teacher’s buddy. 

After a long awkward moment, Mr. Fenton choked out a laugh and announced that I had ‘hit the nail on the head’ with all that I unearthed;

another potentially brilliant day gone badly.

That had been weeks earlier and the anticipation of my grade for that blunder of an assignment had been overshadowed by only my exams.  I gleaned no insight to my results, not through rumor nor teacher’s meeting.  The hopefulness I had for the written component withered. Let’s just say that my presentation had been kind and humorous in comparison to the strong language I used in my essay. 

Words like predator and pedophile lack in comedic value and sharpen the edges of real accusations with well-argued points.  Learning my teacher knew this poet personally was enough for me to enroll into summer school to redo grade 12 English upon my certain failure of the class.

Staring down at the bleeding red ink, a 98  looked back at me. Disbelief snatched my response as I forced myself to consider the mark. Percent, right? Was he for real? The air in my chest turned to lead and a flood of emotion took hold, rattling me to the core.

Flattening his hand over my paper, Mr. Fenton’s football ring failed to glint under the harsh fluorescent lights of the gym.

“I underestimated you.  Good job.”  Still, I stayed silent. Standing, Mr. Fenton slipped his oversized hands into the little pockets of his suit jacket.  “It’s too bad that you dropped my course next semester.”

To that, I could only dip my head.

Again, he had crushed me

…and I refused to allow him to wreck my thoughts.  The scent of garlic faded as he strolled away.

Undefined emotions milled about my brain until my eyes landed on my pen. There was a task at hand that deserved all of my attention.   After a number of centering breaths, I absently slipped my near perfect assignment beneath my exam and continued to write.  

I am dyslexic and this is my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

1984 – Fever

1986 – Sad

1989 – Panic

1990 – Fear

1992 – Anger

1995 – Fraud

1986 Brutal Truth: Sad

Not every day at school was dark, but the saddest were those when I was evaluated.

In 1986, I was tested again and never told of my learning disability; dyslexia.

Every time they pulled me out of class I wanted to cry.

As if trapped in a spotlight without warning, the heat instantly burned my cheeks. Sweat broke within my hairline and my skin grew hot before my teacher could speak my name. The urge to grit my teeth and glare defiantly at the chalkboard was strong. Refusal to leave was evident in my unwillingness to move or even look toward the stranger at the door. But, that would have only created an even greater spectacle.

So instead, I render myself invisible by disappearing as quickly and quietly as I could.

My sadness was like a stack of books weighing me down.

Not one destroyed day, in particular, stands out. No actual dates mark my dark calendar of baggage. I only remember being yanked from so many classes at least twice a year.  The slow walk down the empty halls to a yet another tiny office unknown to students was unforgettable. As was, of course, the relentless testing. These memories are impossible to tear from the childhood scrapbook in my mind.

Merely recounting these sessions makes me sad.

Dyslexic Writer; Brutal Truth 1986
Sad

No one ever asked me if I wanted to go. And no one ever told me why I was being tested. In fact, my parent’s weren’t even aware of these back alley assessments. Make no mention of my results.
I knew why I was being tested. I was stupid and THEY (the faceless that no one ever calls by name or identifies) wanted to know how stupid I really was. They wanted to determine if I was worthy of my current grade or attending an institution.

Staring unfocused at something just over their left ear while allowing spittle to collect at the corner of my lip was tempting. If only to give them something more to report than…

…my inability to read.

But I was terrified of where that may land me.

A kid in my class once said that I was being interviewed for special ed or the community living classes as we called it back then.
The truth was I wasn’t sure what the outcome of my results would produce and fought the strains of tears that threatened.

It was not until university that I discovered that I had a learning disability called dyslexia.

Did they really think that they could pluck me from class for an hour and have me return without notice?

As if, elementary kids are known for their empathy and sensitivity. That the discretion of my classmates not to make mention or ask questions was understood.  Some would say that I was lucky to have a change of atmosphere and would assume that where I went was fun. Until another would not so subtly announce that…

dumb kids don’t get perks.  

It was so unfair and disruptive.  It took hours before something else would steal away their attention.

And, all for what?

It wasn’t as if anything changed. Once my brief absents was forgotten by my fellow students, life returned to normal. I would continue struggling along through school doing my best to blend in and avoid outing my stupidity, until the next surprise evaluation.

This was my reality throughout elementary school. It didn’t occur to me to miss my secret testing sessions until a teacher in grade 12 nearly ruined my high school career. But that’s another story.

I am dyslexic and this is my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

1984 – Fever

1989 – Panic

1990 – Fear

1992 – Anger

1993- Crushed

1995 – Fraud

1995 Brutal Truth: Fraud

Fraud

Up until 1995, I was unknowingly suffering from dyslexia. This is my brutal truth.

Being accused of fraud was one of the best things that ever happened to me.

Fraud.  This is exactly how I felt attending University; a fraud.  Somehow, I managed to graduate high school with a GPA that snagged an acceptance to my preferred post-secondary education establishment.  This was a feat within itself because…

I pulled through high school without reading a single book cover to cover.

My trick? Well, I took impeccable notes, that only I could translate and I made a point of writing essays that regurgitated the opinions of my teachers as discussed in class. I wore a path in the library carpet directly to the Cole’s Note section and specifically chose books that had been made to film, no matter how obscure. Imagine what I could have done if Google had existed back then. Anyway, all of my diversions to reading worked like a charm. Or so I had thought.

Until the day I was asked to stay after one of my first-year university tutorials.

Upon hearing my name, I froze; a familiar panic taking howl. In spite of the heat that instantly brightened my face and the pulse that throbbed hotly scorching my veins, I could not move. This should not have come as a complete surprise. After all,  everyone but me had had their midterm papers returned to them at the end of class.

My T.A was about five years my senior; a only fact that made the ‘no-notice’ discussion bearable. Well, far less intimidating than if it had been my professor that is.  As I approached the vacant seat reserved for me, she slid papers from a folder. Immediately, I recognized them as two of my own assignments.  One had been a five page, take home article; typed double spaced as required.  The other was a handwritten, in-class essay.

Hey, it was the nineties.

She tapped her capped pen on the typed title page. “Who wrote this?”

The question shocked me into silence. It was a long moment before I closed my mouth and blinked the dryness from my eyes.

“I did.” My response was not more than a squeaky whisper.

This, I had not expected. I had assumed and prepared for a bad mark and…

yet another conversation that gently suggested that I drop out of the class.  

See, dreadfully low grades mess with the bell curve and no professor wants that.  Thankfully, final grades depend on more than just the written component or I would never have made it out of fourth grade. It was always the shining marks I earned through oral presentations, class discussions and in group work that pushed me through.

“You didn’t get someone else to write this?” She peered at me without expression.

Dyslexic Writer; Brutal Truth 1995. Fraud
fraud

 

As the implication of what she was suggesting sank in, the stinging strain of tears flooded my vision.  My balled fists began to tremble beneath the table top with the hopelessness of my predicament. All I could do was shake my head. My future hung in the balance and under her severe scrutiny I was crumbling.  Finally, she sighed and pushed back into her chair.
 
“Then explain the drastic difference between these two papers.”
 

“Prep time and spell check.” I deadpanned without missing a beat.

 
Straightening again, she bounced her pen relentlessly upon my in-class essay.  It was a blur of blue arching from her fingers. Was she weighing her words or measuring my response? Suddenly the tapping stopped and the uncomfortable silence brought my eyes to her’s.
 

“This one is unreadable.”

 
I knew that she was not talking about my hand writing. It was my countless spelling errors and nonsensical rambling.  When writing, my thoughts stream so rapidly that the ink is unable to keep up. What is worse, is that I am blind to my own errors.  When I was able to type assignments,  leaving them to the last minute was never an option. My first draft was often in point form to get all of my ideas down. The second draft, I would string those points altogether into a coherent format. Then, I forget about it for as many days as possible.  The time I allotted was literally so that I could forget. My words needed to fall from my memory and sentence structure grow unfamiliar so that I could edit it better.
 
I was holding my breath waiting. Waiting to be expelled for fraud or being kicked from the program for being too stupid the belong.
Her next words changed everything. 

“You, my dear, are dyslexic.”

 
With that, she stacked my papers and aligned them perfectly by tersely dropping the edges on the table top with a clap. The expression she wore was unreadable as she pushed the sheets towards me. 
“I strongly recommend that you make an appointment to be evaluated at the learning disability center. “
 
I took little notice of my T.As leaving but she must have. Once I had composed myself, I realized that I was sitting alone in the cavernous classroom. Relief washed over me. I wasn’t going to be expelled.  And did I dare be hopeful with the idea of being evaluated at the learning disability center?
 

I am dyslexic and this my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

Overwhelmed in Spring

It ‘May’ Not be you!

Is spring overwhelming?

Last year this time, I felt completely overwhelmed.  There was something every day. And by ‘something,’ I mean that one thing that has the potential to flick an entire day into a  tailspin.  It is imperative that I be hyper organized. I am a working mom who volunteers and my kids are enrolled in multiple extracurricular programs.  My husband is the key to daily success. He is almost as essential as the over-crowded, colour coded, calendar.

One thing can derail everything!

 

A missed appointment, a car in need of repair, or a last minute meeting at the school can throw the entire schedule off kilter. 

When that ‘something’ happens, it is like grasping at ink in water.

 I juggle three and a half lives; mine, my 2 kids and 1/2 of hubby’s  (this is a settled upon agreement). When a wrench is tossed into the mix, all the balls come tumbling down and pummel me into a migraine.

Last May, the dentist had left a friendly voicemail reminding me of an appointment for my son. Unfortunately, I was listening to the message at the exact time that we were expected in the office.  I had been defeated and promptly fell apart.  How could I have missed this? I am organized and put appointments in my phone and on the calendar!  What made me ever believe that I was capable of managing 3.5 lives?  Fail!

Determined not to have this happen again, I programmed a reminder of this dreadful month into my cell. It went off.

Brace yourself!!! It’s May! Mark everything on the Calendar!

I read this and laughed because I was on the ball. All scheduling was in order and under control.

it May not be you
May

A few days later, it happened.

May tends to inspire spontaneous activities.  The nicer weather encourages teachers to hastily squeeze in last minute field trips, fund raisers, and short lived sporting events. Everything gets crammed into the last two weeks of May with very little notice to parents.

‘Short notice,’ ‘last minute,’ and ‘spontaneous’ are the sworn enemies of ‘A’ personalities and most highly functional moms (and dads)!

The long weekend in May is a common target date to launch meetings, first practices and exhibition games for summer sports and activities. It’s like a race to schedule before we all lose that Monday. All the while, spring programs are only counting down the number of weekly meets until the end of year celebration. This does not mention the everyday icons on your calendar; vet, dentist, doctors, birthday parties, oil changes, cleat shopping and on and on.

Double bookings are my favourite! You must divide and concur or you will never survive!

 

It is as if May just smiled with a head tilt and said….

“Happy Mother’s Day!”  

 

Now, every appointment, activity, and obligation you have ever known will come crashing down upon you in the form of a voicemail, permission form, or smartphone notification.

What I am trying to say is, that it May not be you!  You May be highly functional and uber organized; May is not. In fact, it was sent here to test our sanity and remind us that sometimes, some things just cannot be done.

You are not alone. May you remain calm and stress-free.  June is on its way! Give yourself a break!

 

1984 Brutal Truth: Fever

Fever

Every day in school a feverish nightmare was likely to occur.  Back then I was unaware of my learning disability and knew nothing of dyslexia.

This is my story.  A brutal truth, unknowingly living with dyslexia in 1984.

1984 Brutal Truth
Fever

“…fever…”

Fever should rhyme with never. Right? This was my only thought as I stared at the foreign word. Standing at the front of the room, I could barely see over the podium. I clutched the open book in my hands. The black letters swelled as the many faces of my grade four class blurred and shimmered in my peripheral.

“What?” Mr. Moir asked not bothering to leave his desk.

Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose from beneath his glasses. He was a stout man who liked to wear the color of oatmeal. Across the top of his shiny head strands of hair laid like lines in the sky after an air show. There was no sympathy in his expression once he dragged his palm down his rough chin. He looked tired and even a little annoyed. Meanwhile,

I was the one facing my worst fear;

standing in front of my entire class reading a passage I had never laid eyes on before.  It took everything I had not to cry or pee my pants and my teacher looked bored.

He scratched the air with his finger as a gesture for me to bring the book to him. When I did so, I pointed at the word with my chewed down finger nail.

“Fever.” He said these two ugly syllables in a way that showed his crowded bottom teeth.

I had never been eye level with Mr. Mori before and did not care for it at all.

“Fever.” I echoed in a whisper. “But it looks like never,” I dared to explain.

His face crumpled as if he were refraining from saying,

‘stupid girl.’

Then, from behind me, the tempered giggles and snorts that I ignored, became alive. The entire room erupted into laughter and I saw the jagged line of Mr. Moir’s teeth again. He too was laughing.

My face grew hot and my eyes burned. I felt so small and naked.  Ice cold realization hit me;

this was where my nightmares lived. 

Closed in by the chalkboard wall, the giant teacher’s desk, and the podium, I was trapped by fear and humiliation. This moment stretched on and slithered around me, swaying the room. Once the clatter of laughter subsided there was no apology or even pointless face covering. I was not asked to return to my seat. Instead, mercilessly, Mr. Moir pointed to the podium.

“Proceed.” He said as if nothing had happened.

I was not yet freed from this nightmare.

I am dyslexic and this is my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

1986 – Sad

1989 – Panic

1990 – Fear

1992 – Anger

1993- Crushed

1995 – Fraud

1992 Brutal Truth: Anger

Anger

This is my story.  A brutal truth, unknowingly living with dyslexia in 1992.

Dyslexia: Anger
My Brutal Truth: 1992

High school is a lonely and unkind place for a student struggling with a learning disability that no one talks about.  Anger is an emotion easily sparked.

“What is wrong with you?” Her question alone was heart-wrenching but the tone nearly earned her a slap.

The lines being read aloud were slow and careful.  The unbearable silence that followed her intrusive question made me tremble.

A group of us had gathered in the only classroom with a carpeted area and fabric covered furniture.  I had just landed a speaking role in the high school play and we were meeting to do a run through. Clueless to what that meant, I hadn’t known to be nervous. I was still humming from the excitement of being a cast member. This was a really big deal for me. There were many exceptionally talented kids at my school. The auditions had been a testament to that. Beautiful voices, amazing dancing, and tremendous acting commanded the stage and I had not felt worthy to claim a spot.

There I was, with the script in my hand, sitting among the best and brightest.  I was in awe. Then the reading began.

Cue the panic.

The lead male role was awarded to a very popular, charming and ridiculously hot senior who was a triple threat. In fact, he still is.

When he read, my heart swelled as I listened in amazement. No one seemed uncomfortable or worried about reading their lines. I, on the other hand, was fearful of peeing my pants. Luckily, I only had two lines, one in each act.   There was plenty of time for me to find them and burn them to memory before my character was introduced.

The star of the show was speaking very slowly and carefully. This affected me deeply. I was thrilled that he read like me, except without any of my visible anxiety. So, when the girl beside me interrupted him with her outrageously rude question, I am sure I bared my teeth.

“What is wrong with you?” Her wrinkled nose and furrowed brow froze on the last word.

A long, dreadfully awkward moment passed and something inside me fractured for him. He looked to her and then passed his gaze over all of us.

“I’m dyslexic.”

He said this evenly; simply.  There was no apology. It was a fact that he shared in a way that made it her problem, not his.

The breath I released once he returned to his lines was one that I had been holding my entire life. I was amazed by him and this revelation of not being alone was truly freeing. A bubble of glee made me grin when the ignorant girl beside me raised her script to conceal her blazing cheeks. It was a beautiful thing.

Even to this day, he has no idea how the delivery of those two words changed my life.  Before then, I had never heard of dyslexia nor had I known anyone to openly admit to something so hushed with such confidence and conviction.   He is unaware of the impact that he had on me that day. And I wish I could say that I was no longer afraid, but that would be a lie.  Just learning that others struggle and prevail with dyslexia was immensely inspiring.

For that, I will continue to write.

I am a dyslexic writer and this is my brutal truth.

1981 – Sour Note

1984 – Fever

1986 – Sad

1989 – Panic

1990 – Fear

1993- Crushed

1995 – Fraud