The Lie

I was 6. Our 1st grade class was in the library. My brunette, small framed teacher, Mrs. Reese, stood on the carpeted bleachers with another teacher. I was sitting close by. She cupped her mouth and leaned over to her colleague’s ear and whispered a bit too loudly, “Melissa is in the lowest reading group.” The look on their faces was that of disappointment. I didn’t know what it all meant, but their faces spoke volumes.

My world sort a stopped around me. Up until that point, I thought I was alright. I thought I was ok. I lived to make my teacher proud of me. I lived to make others proud of me. I still live to make others proud of me. I still look for the approval of others.

Had I disappointed her?

I frowned and began to feel small, even smaller than my pip squeak frame.

What did it all mean?

Not long after that day, my sweet mama and I sat at the kitchen table, at our home on College Street in Tulsa, OK. The morning sun peeked through the windows. She pulled me onto her lap. I felt safe on her lap. She gently spoke with me about repeating 1st grade, mentioning that my reading skills were not up to par and that Mrs. Reese thought it best for me to do 1st grade all over again. Mom being a teacher took the advice of Mrs. Reese.

It took me awhile to grasp what all of it meant. I had to let it all sink in. That would mean my friends would move onto 2nd grade, that I would be left behind, that I was not like my classmates, that I didn’t measure up to them, that I was being separated away from them. I would miss them. I would have to start over. I would have to learn to like new people. It was all scary. I didn’t like not knowing what was coming up next. I thrived on predictability. It made me feel safe. I was out of my comfort zone.

I made that single moment of my life mean gigantic things for the rest of my life. Right then and there I knew I was different. At that moment, I knew I was unlike all the other students in my class. I made this news mean that I was stupid and flawed. That was the story I told myself. I created the story. I created the dialogue in my head.

I felt broken.

I felt lost.

I felt sad.

I remember the labels. The labels hurt. I was so much more than the labels, but they seemed to define me at such a young age. I was diagnosed with ADHD and dyslexia in 1st grade. ADHD is when the left nymph of your brain is malfunctioned. ADHD sufferers are extremely bright individuals that think differently and are wired in a different way. I wish I would’ve known then what I know now about ADHD. Brains of those that suffer are brilliant and creative.

I wrote letters backwards and numbers sideways. My classmates didn’t do those things. I saw things in a unique and interesting way. I’ve always been quirky and thought outside of the box. I see the world a little differently, do my art a bit wacky, dress my own way- not like the latest fashion trends would suggest I should, and listen to eclectic music. I’ve never followed the crowd or tried to be someone I’m not, and always spoken from my heart.

At the impressionable and tender age of 6 years old, I longed to fit in and belong and be like my classmates. I wanted to be as smart as they were. I wanted to be them. I’d have done anything to have been like my classmates, to write just so, to read the right way, to line my numbers up the way I was supposed to, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not seem to be like my schoolmates.

I felt different from that moment on. I felt stupid and dumb and flawed and behind. Seeing all of my friends move on was so hard for me to understand. I wanted to stay with them. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to be them.

I’d created this lie about myself: I was not good enough. I carried it around like a 100 pound shield. I lugged it around and it imprisoned me. I made up the fact that staying behind must have meant I was behind. I believed a lie, a lie that if I repeated 1st grade, that meant I wasn’t smart, that I was dumb, that I was not good enough, and that I was flawed.

So, this one event screwed up my life.

It meant that I had to try harder than everyone else. I had to work hard to stand out. I had to be the best at everything. I had to be bigger and better and harder working and more focused. I had to prove myself to the world. I had to prove I was worthy. I had to earn my keep. I’d do things in my life I didn’t want to do in order to be liked, to be accepted, and to stand out. I had to be liked. I had to be loved. I had to measure up. I just had to. If I didn’t, I wasn’t enough. The only way I was good enough is if someone said I was. I had to get approval. I had to hear them say I was ok. I had to hear them say I was smart to actually believe I was. If they said nothing, I’d fill in the blanks with the worst case scenario, which meant they probably didn’t think much of me.

 

The truth: my mother placed me in Kindergarten too early. My birthday is in June. No one considered that. I had not thought of it until my husband and I were sitting on the couch one day and he told me. So, developmentally, I would’ve written my letters backwards, my numbers would not be lined up, and of course I would not be reading very well. I was not developmentally ready for that set of skills. This whole time, for 20 years, I’ve believed I was flawed, broken, a mess, that I lacked focus, and that I was not good enough being me.

You see, once I was diagnosed, my mom was determined not to let me fail. She would hire tutor after tutor after tutor after tutor for me, whether I needed them or not. She was determined to keep me sheltered. Her standards for me were set low and if I didn’t meet them, she would shrug her shoulders and use my ADHD and dyslexia as reasons why I didn’t succeed. I was allowed to be subpar and get ok grades. My mom used my ADHD as a crutch for me to be so so. She was just doing what she thought was right. She was so incredibly afraid for me to fail and fall.

I think it is profoundly dangerous to limit our kids and allow them to be subpar, ok, or so so. I think it is profoundly dangerous to set the bar super duper low and make excuses for our kids. When we set the bar high, our kids will oblige. Our kids rise to the occasion. We mustn’t label our kids. We meet them where they are. We meet them with love, care, and empathy. We allow them to lead us to what brings them joy and what ignites their spirit. We don’t impose our interests on them, live vicariously through our kids, or impose our wills onto them. We meet them where they are and allow them to be who they are and we embrace them for their essence.

If I could go back to my 6 year old self, I’d tell her: she’s not flawed, she’s not stupid, and that she’s good enough as she is. She was never ever broken or slow or wrong or not bright. She was where she was supposed to be and she was being who she was supposed to be and she was right where she was supposed to be.

If I could go back to Mrs. Reese, I’d tell her to bite her tongue, to watch how loud she whispers, and to be sure that her words are not being overheard by an impressionable innocent little girl. Teachers have a gigantic impact on their students. They are such an influential part of our lives. I’d tell her that talking crap about students is not in her best interest. I’d tell her that telling secrets is never ok and that secrets make us feel excluded and make us feel sad and make us feel small and less than. Secrets break us apart and keep us disconnected.

I’d tell her that my struggles in school became the fuel and drive to enable me to become a damn good teacher for 9 years on the westside of Phoenix.

Truth: we change the system for our kids, we don’t mold our kids to the system. We adjust our teaching to accommodate the needs of our child. We create plans for each of our children and we do what it takes to get them to read. They don’t fit our mold, our mold changes for them. We adapt, modify, slow down, teach information in chunks, and educate in ways that make sense to each and every child. Sometimes, kids need to be taught in big groups, small groups, one on one, or in special pull out programs. We do what we have to do to help teach our students as best we can. We adjust our teaching style to accommodate each students learning style.

I’m not flawed. I never was.

I’m not stupid. I’m smart

I’m a creative artist. Speaking of being an artist. It was my freshman year of college. My thrown pieces in ceramics were never symmetrical. My figure drawings were never very realistic looking. I always made my art unlike everyone around me. I once stayed up for 24 hours drawing the human skeleton. Others were sleeping and I was drawing each and every vertebrae and all the ribs. It was hard, but I had to complete my work. At evaluation time, we were asked to feature our favorite pieces of our art. I was nervous. We had to hang up our art in front of the whole class. My art always stood out from the rest. I was proud of my art. My teacher pulled me aside, later, and told me I was not living up to her expectations as an artist and that I needed to try harder. I ran home in tears. I wept because art was my escape, my safe place, the place where I felt like I was at home. Expressing myself thought various mediums made me feel alive, as there is no right or wrong in art, no exact answer, but rather up to the interpreter. I felt alive and happy and free when I created! I still feel that way when I create. It’s as if the whole wide world disappears. I’m addicted.

I was so impacted by her words, that I dropped my art minor and walked away from my art. I thought I wasn’t good enough. But, I can’t not create. I can’t not paint. I can’t not draw. It was then and there, my sophomore year of college that I picked up my minor in art, again. I couldn’t let one teacher’s opinion break my heart or deter me from not following my heart and continue my passion for creation. I went on to finish my art minor and my senior year of college, that same teacher hugged me and told me she was proud of me.

I was not born to blend in with my classmates, but rather to stand out and be my true self. Our words are incredibly important. The labels in which we place on our kids are incredibly detrimental because they will live up to those labels. And that is all they will think they are. Our kids are not labels, they are bright beings with such promise and such special gifts inside.

My mom provided me with tutors and I used them as a crutch. Had I been made to figure it out, had I been required to fail first, had I been given the opportunity to be fully self-expressed, would I have been more successful? Who knows. My mom did her best with the skillset she was gifted at the time. She was parenting from fear. Parenting from fear is dangerous. Let your kids fall and fail and help them learn how to get back up and make their way back. They’ll learn though the journey, as will you. Prepare them for life because life has hiccups and isn’t so smooth all the time. Prepare them for the real world.

School was hard for me. I had to sit in the front row. I had to take notes. I had to study a lot. I had to work hard. I was never the girl that could just wing it. I had to go to class and read and take notes and review my notes over and over again. I had to make flashcards and have study buddies. I had to go to Sylvan Learning Center to figure out how to overcome my test anxiety.

I took my SAT many many many times. I didn’t get a low score because I was stupid. I’d start sweating, looking at the clock, tapping my pencil, reading the questions over and over again, sweat some more, look at the clock, again, tap my pencil, again, worry about getting a bad grade, and more. My anxiety took over and I scored low.

I got accepted into one of the top 10 best private schools in the country (1997), Goshen College. I got in by the skin of my teeth and probably should not have been accepted in, but it was my hard work ethic, my unwavering faith, and my hard study skills that got me in. My mom thought I should have attended a school for ADHD sufferers. I disagreed. I flourished, but I sat in the front row, studied my ass off, attended every single class, didn’t party too much, and stayed on course because I wanted to become a teacher. I wanted to help those kids that felt like they were over looked, lacked focus, struggled, those that felt less than, and those that felt stupid. I wanted to teach students like me.

I got one D, but got decent grades beyond that one bad grade. I graduated in 2002 with a Bachelors Degree in Elementary Education and a Minor in Art.. I taught elementary aged kids for 9 years and then I earned my Masters Degree from the University of Phoenix in Curriculum and Instruction. I got straight A’s without any medication for ADHD. I was determined to succeed!

What lie have you been telling yourself for years? What did you decide about yourself long ago that has prevented you from reaching your full potential, kept you from being truly self- expressed, kept you from being brave, kept you from taking risks, kept you from challenging yourself, kept you small, and prevented you from living life with absolute abandon and determination?

Set yourself free from the shackles you’ve placed upon yourself. Don’t live for one more day with the lies that hold you back. Don’t let the labels deter you from your goals, dreams, and ambitions. Don’t let a person tell you that you can only reach as high as they allow, because it is not true. You can do whatever it is you put your mind to.

You are not the labels bestowed upon you.

You have an amazing soul, a radiating heart, a beautiful mind, and a loving spirit.

So, soar, friend, soar!