Chapter II

Learning to Read

            It was not many days thereafter, that I discovered that teaching skills were not genetic.  I came from a long line of teachers and preachers and I believed that I could be an excellent teacher, although I had no teacher training other than the stories I’d overheard growing up in a house with a teacher and a preacher. So it was a chilling moment, when I first sat with the Sparrows, the “bottom reading group” in my combined 3rd/4th Grade class.  The students in the other two reading groups, the Eagles and the Ravens read, some exquisitely, others a little haltingly, but they all read.  Then came the Sparrows. Oh dear!  They did not know any of the words! They did not know how to figure out the words!  They spoke very softly, chewed their sleeves, avoided eye contact and actively practiced the art of invisibility by withdrawing into their shirts.   In that awful moment I realized that I did not know what to do or how to even begin and my shirt began to feel too small to hide in.

       It was, however, a moment of profound realization about what I wanted to do.  I wanted to relieve these little Sparrows of their sadness about not being able to read, or write, or calculate; and to change the language used by teachers and parents to describe these suffering learners.  Charlie Williams was a Sparrow and already so defined by the language of adults, that he was locked into, and was beginning to accept, the perceptions of others.  Beyond being portrayed as a “bully” he was also described as “ defiant, lazy, stupid, rude and unteachable.”  One teacher even stated that she had told the Principal that she would not teach a class if Charlie Williams was in it and Charlie was only 9 years old.

       My desperation about how to teach reading to these non-reading 3rd and 4th Graders led me on an adventure which continues to unfold.   It was 1965 and our little school was 50 miles from Cotati, the home of Sonoma State College, one of the younger California State Schools preparing teachers for the State of California.  It was mid- September when I took a day off and drove to Sonoma State with the plan to find a course on how to teach reading.  I found the Elementary Education office and told my story to the office secretary who kindly slipped me into a schedule to see a “somebody” who could help.  I waited an hour, and then met with the “somebody” who informed me that to take a reading class I had to be on the “Professional Track.”  The obvious next question was, “How do I get on the Professional Track?”  He explained that the first step was to take a penmanship test.  “Piece of cake,” I thought.  I came through school when the Palmer Method of handwriting was in vogue, and although I am left-handed, I can produce beautiful cursive writing when I have to. “Sign me up,” I said.  He then informed me that the penmanship test had already been given for the semester and the next test would be given in January.  In disbelief I asked, “Do you mean to tell me I cannot take a reading class until I take the penmanship test which won’t be given until January?”   He assured me that I would be first on the list for January. I left understanding that schedules and penmanship were more important than my Sparrows’ genuine need to learn to read.

That first year of teaching shaped my commitment to learn about learning, and to change the language used to describe students, so that in our schools teaching could begin, rather than learning end.  I was never able to find a reading class, but I attended every workshop on learning or reading and on that journey I had the fortune of meeting a dazzling educator who had a small “reading clinic” in San Rafael, CA.  I resigned at the end of my first year of teaching and went to work at her clinic. 

It was there that I first learned about learning disabilities.  The Senior Educator at the clinic trained me in their innovative techniques.  I learned about issues of visual processing and visual memory. In those days everything was visual processing. Auditory processing issues had not yet been identified or studied.  At the Clinic we worked with students on their difficulties with visual-motor integration, sequencing and discrimination using tackistascopes and metronomes. We had some magnificent successes, some plodding improvements and some frustrating failures, but we were batting higher than the regular classroom teachers and bringing a new language to the education of children.

After 3 years at the reading clinic, my first job was as a Learning Specialist for a small progressive private school in San Francisco, CA.  I was thrilled to introduce new ways of looking at students experiencing difficulties with learning. Teachers could have a different language to describe “why Johnny couldn’t read,” and in that process, some of the labeling used to describe the Charlie Williams in each class could be erased and   exchanged for labels which defined a disorder rather than a character flaw.  But there was the rub!

Some 35 years later, I, we, those of us from that generation who were committed to change, have seen the change. Most teachers have the new language and many have a good understanding of the nature of visual or auditory processing deficits, the role of  ponemic awareness, dyslexia, word retrieval problems, graphomotor deficits, working memory deficits, ADHD, Autism, nonverbal learning disabilities, etc.   So the labels have been changed. 

We now have classrooms with children, like Charlie Williams, who are formally labeled with “disabilities,” “disorders” or “neurodivergent” and who qualify for “special” help.  The structure that first promoted the notion that certain children were just “lazy…not trying or stupid” now promotes the notion that there is something organically wrong with the child.

When the problem resided in the child as a character flaw, we could hold to the belief that with enough punishment, embarrassment, shaming, etc., the child would shape up and fly right.  With the problem now defined as a disability or disorder, the child is stuck with the diagnosis of being impaired forever, and the only real help must come from  “specialists.”  The kind of help these children need,  defined by a “dis” or “di”, is outside the purview of the classroom teacher.

What’s Next?