writing with dyslexia

I could not really read until I was about eight. I have a distinct memory from 1977-- around June-- when I was sitting in my elementary school class watching other kids read. I had just transferred schools and was living with my Swedish grandmother. I remember holding the book that we were reading in class, and not be able to follow along with the written text. I remember thinking that the other students were kind of like some linguistic wizards, casting spells as they read out loud the words on the written page. 

At first, I did not really understand why I could not follow along. I was not sure why I could not read. Maybe I thought it was because I went to a different school than the other students. I thought maybe they are just ahead of us at this school. But, then I remembered the other kids at my other school who could also read with ease. So I kept wondering why I couldn't.

I struggled. I tried hard. I practiced my handwritten, but kept alternating my style. But, I still had trouble reading. I was kept in school at recess to work and catch up but received absolutely no help.

I think part of it was that I did not see myself represented in the literature and history. I remember one day when we were talking about history. The teacher, who was white, pointed to a map of Europe and said, "People left Europe because it was crowded." And that was it. No discussion of mistahi-maskwa (Big Bear), residential schools, or a history of colonialization. 

I also remember another day we were reading a story. There were people who the teach noted had accents. I then told the teacher that she had an accent. She did not talk like my Cree or Swedish relatives. "No," she said, "I do not have an accent." I confronted her, because I could not accept her position. I was not very old, but remember feeling dislocated and out of place in the space of my so-called education.

My disconnect only seemed to amplify my dyslexia. If I would have had something that I could wrap my imagination around I could relate to,  then I think I would have learned to read earlier. Also, because I was half-Cree, I was seen as needing remedial help and was seen as not being intelligent: this view of Indigenous and mixed-ancestry students was very common in Saskatchewan during my early school years. 

But, then in the summer of 1982,  I started to read. Then in the summer of 1982, I began to read with a vicious appetite. I went to the local library constantly. I was attracted to history and philosophy books.   I turned myself to reading, and I began at that point to devour books. My reading improved greatly in the next little bit. By the time I was thirteen I was reading Immanuel Kant's Critique of Pure Reason which is quite nerdy. 

I learned how to deal with my dyslexia. When I would write, I would write on different colour paper. I would use different colours in pens. I varied my handwriting-- all techniques that I used to deal with my reading challenge. 

As I moved into graduate studies, I had little sympathy for my plight: "Well, you made it this far ..." I was often dismissed, and no one took the time to help me. I experienced stiff opposition to using Indigenous concepts and the Cree language in my work. But, my dyslexia was a like a weighted stone, but I keep going-- and learned to write with it.

I still struggle with dyslexia. I read things over and over-- and still make simple errors. Yet, I continue to write. My hope is that for any reading this who may struggle with dyslexia, or other things such as this, that you will continue to write despite the challenge. I found the struggle of dealing with it, made me  more interesting writer, helped me build empathy for others who struggle with writing, and also allows me to constantly look at my work in different ways. Instead of being a heavy stone weighing upon, I see dyslexia as a possibility for creativity: I see colours different, and I see the forms and shapes of words differently. Being dyslexic is just another pathway . . . 

Note: there is no capitalization in Cree.