Over. Back. Around. – Yalobusha Review

Sometimes I teach in rooms with chalkboards and I can’t write on them—I’m too aware of being dyslexic. I’m hesitant with whiteboards, too, but chalkboards are different. I’m told that’s normal, that confidence, spelling, and handwriting go out the window when writing on a board, but I’ve convinced myself otherwise. I can’t see a chalkboard, can’t hold chalk without thinking of Rhythmic Writing.

Rhythmic Writing, or what we simply called “chalkboard,” started every NILD, which stands for the National Institute for Learning Development and is a one-on-one cognitive therapy program to retrain neurobiological pathways of the brain. From the day I started first grade until the end of sixth grade, I did Rhythmic Writing six days a week, even during the summers. This meant we had a full-sized chalkboard at home that friends were drawn to, wanting to play school, draw, or just practice their handwriting, but the chalkboard was not something we played with.

Rhythmic Writing is part of NILD’s strategy to attack cognitive weakness by stimulating multiple sensory regions of the brain. The physical standing, moving, and writing on the chalkboard works one area of the brain while the copying of the writing and movement instructions works another. While marking or tracing these movements one also speaks, naming the direction of each motion, which works yet another region of the brain.

During certain exercises of Rhythmic Writing the instructor, either Mrs. Morris or my mom, may also call out direction shifts. They can ask you to reverse the motion or even ask content questions.

“Over, back, around, over, back, around, over, back around, over back, around…”

“Seven times seven?”

“Over, back… around… 49, over, back around.”

I didn’t hate chalkboard; it was just another marker of difference. A deep green rectangular symbol fixated in our childhood space that could remind me upon a single glance, you’re dyslexic, don’t forget.

Sometime in the fourth grade, I must have grown especially weary of chalkboard, because my mom added an incentive. If I had a perfect chalkboard month and did not complain once about having to do it, we could go to Build-A-Bear in Charleston. My mom, always kind but very much no-nonsense, didn’t get action through incentives, she got action by asking for it, so I must have been discouraged.

No one felt my disability more than my mom. She had two other children she’d done chalkboard with before; she’d done more chalkboard than all of us. But it bothered her that it bothered me. Because what can you say when your child says their letters move? What can you do when she begs you to read one more chapter because she can’t? What do you do when she asks why God made her stupid?

You do chalkboard. You read her books. You wish you could do more.

At Build-A-Bear, I chose a soft cream colored bear that I named Jenny B. Bear, short for Jennifer Build-a-Bear, which I found quite clever.

I never got rid of Jenny. I never could even find the heart to pack her away, truly away. Sure, she’d live in the bottom of my closet, but she wasn’t in a plastic tub like the rest of my stuffed animals. Jenny moved from my childhood room to my first apartment, from the apartment to Morgantown where she is still.

I can’t get rid of Jenny, and not because she was one of the only special things I got. I got plenty; learning disabled or not, there is no denying my privilege. But I got Jenny in part because I couldn’t read, and somehow that makes her important.

Somehow she manifests very simply how Rhythmic Writing, how NILD, how childhood is a part of me and how it’s also not. When I got Jenny, I hated myself, but that’s not what she makes me remember. Maybe that’s why remembering is so important, because as much as I hate feeling disabled, I would never want to lose what it means to remember over, back, around.

Over, back, around.

I distinctly remember leaving for NILD sessions. Leaving was always awkward; even in the later years, during fifth and sixth grade, I still felt like everyone knew I needed to go. What was stranger, though, was that I started to hope they remembered why I was leaving. What if they think I’m in the bathroom or something?

Sometimes I’d try to exaggerate my leaving by taking everything out of my desk to get my NILD binder out, adding, “Oh there it is,” for effect. It was pathetic. There was nothing I struggled with more than why I couldn’t read, why I was different, why I had to leave class, and yet I still craved the attention of leaving. There was no mistaking my NILD binder for anything else. I’d had the same one since first grade, a dark navy cloth binder with a strip of fake leather at the bottom and the world’s strongest zipper to last all that time. But I still searched through my desk and scattered the contents, flashing my sticker-covered Blue Book in front of my peers like a fishing lure.

What are all those stickers from?

Oh, these? I get these with Mrs. Morris when I can perfectly recite a page from the Blue Book, it’s actually pretty hard, you all probably couldn’t do it.

I remember leaving, but not coming back as much. I think this process was intentional—I’d go with Mrs. Morris for therapy right before lunch or right after, when things were still in transition. A few times, though, when I reentered the classroom, I’d see it changed somehow and feel they were just waiting for me to leave all along.

This happened in the third grade when we started learning Latin. At lunch I learned that my classmates had each received Latin names and learned their meaning. I also learned that even though I said “that’s stupid,” I really wanted one.

For Latin, a different teacher came in a couple of times a week: Magistra Merrit, a woman in her sixties, who looked as old as Latin itself. She had that old lady makeup, the kind that clumps on the skin with noticeable lines between the foundation and blush color.

I almost always missed Latin. It was a natural time to leave for NILD because learning Latin was a privilege, reading a necessity. On occasion, though, I’d get to be in class, and my first order of business was securing a name.

“What’s my Latin name?” I demanded of Magistra Merrit.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Sarah,” I said quickly.

Magistra Merrit crinkled her eyebrows and looked down at her list. Was she seriously confused because there were two Sarahs?

“Ah, a second Sarah,” she said.

Actually I am the first Sarah. I’m a Canterbury. My family has been a part of Covenant from the very beginning, check the photos in the main office, lady.

“You will be Sara-ah!”

“What?”

“Sara-ahh,” she said just stressing the second half of my name the way you stick out your tongue and say ahh for the doctor.

“That’s the same as the name I already have.”

“No, no, it’s Latin,” she explained to the class. “You see, your name is Sarah.” She wrote on the board and then energetically explained how the dropping of the h made my Latin name new, made it special.

“You are Sara,” she wrote, then spoke again, “Sar-ahhh.”

What a rip off.

“Why does Sarah Whitt get to be called Stella then?”

She never answered my question.

Over, back, around. Over, back, around. Over, back, around. Over, back, around.

Around the first grade, I started taking pride in anything I could. Anything that could give me a reason to brag, anything that could distract from where I felt so deficient—anything other than being learning disabled.

I had three older brothers—that was unique. No one in my class had that. Sure, some had lots of siblings, but they weren’t all older. True, Sam had three older brothers, but he was a boy, so the contrast wasn’t there like me. He was just the fourth boy. I was a girl, which was special. Plus, being the only girl made people think I was tough. I was tough.

Horses came up a lot too. I was a real horse girl, not like Rachael. She carried the folders and had those fancy stable horses that you ride around with slicked back hair and shiny boots, but my horses were at my house. My house—where we had no neighbors but still lived close to town, where we had the third grade class summer pool party.

I tucked away little pieces about my life to be proud of. Collected them like those birds who build their nest with the flashiest materials they can gather to attract the attention of mates; building, building, shining, shining.

I’ve hiked the Grand Canyon. Went to the bottom and all the way back out.

I got bucked off a horse… yeah, I’m fine.

I can swim, like really fast, I could be on a team.

But of course my shiny nest wasn’t always the brightest. Even the kids who could read needed those moments.

They’d lose a tooth, get a new pet, welcome a new sibling into their family, and we’d all have to revel.

“Maria, are you sleeping okay with that new baby brother crying all night?”

Why couldn’t I have a baby brother? It wasn’t like grade-school Maria was getting up with her parents to feed, comfort, or change her baby brother.

I always used to watch my mom’s eyes as she read to me. Watched how her eyes almost twitched as they moved left to right left to right and wondered if my eyes looked like that even if I didn’t know the words I read.

I can read now, but I still watch people’s eyes when they read. Watch and think about being watched. I take books with me everywhere I go and like to be seen reading them. Like to imagine what those people must think of the books I bring to read in public. Bringing books gives me an opportunity to retreat.

Bringing books gives me the opportunity to talk about what I do and feel like it matters.

Sometimes I get distracted imagining what I look like reading in public and feel like an imposter with the book in my hand. Even alone I sometimes feel a small fourth grade Sarah reach out to me. Do you even know what you’re reading?

In the first grade, my best friend called me out for pretending to read.

I had brought a chapter book my mom let me get from the Scholastic Book Fair in to class and stared at the pages waiting for Mrs. Morris to come.

I thought the book looked really cool. That’s why I chose it in the first place. It seemed raw, seemed important with a gray and white husky on the cover. Even as a child I knew you weren’t supposed to judge a book by its cover, but when you can’t read all you have is the cover.

“Why’d you bring that book?” she asked, getting the attention of those around us.

“I’m reading it,” I said nervously, shifting the book in my hand and sitting up straighter.

“But you can’t read.”

“Yes I CAN!” I called out to her, to everyone, “yes I can,” I said.

I don’t think anyone had a follow up but I didn’t prove it, didn’t start reading the page.

The first year of my PhD was in 2020, during COVID. I had moved from the city I grew up in, moved away from a college and English department where I was the “star” to a bigger pond with bigger fish. During class we all watched the clock from our socially distanced desks and waited for our instructors to repeat/summarize our discussion to the members of class joining in on Zoom.

The hybridity of the half-in-person half-online class made time creep, and my instructors searched for ways to connect our two groups. The second week of class they announced: “We’re going to ask someone to take notes during class to share with the people on Zoom. There is a shared Google doc for everyone to keep notes on during class.”

My heart rate began to quicken.

You can see people type in Google docs, can see the live letters they choose, the mistakes they make. I can’t spell.

I started to shake my foot and breathe in and out of my mouth under my mask.

“Meghan,” they said, smiling, “would you take notes today?”

Oh my gosh, they’re asking people, they aren’t going to wait for someone to volunteer?

“Yes, no problem.”

Weeks passed by and I hadn’t taken notes yet so I started to hold off on getting my laptop out. After all, they couldn’t require that we have technology for a class, right? That’s classist to assume!

I started writing in my notebook until someone else volunteered to take notes each week. When I did finally get my laptop out, I would watch other people type instead of listening. No one acted like it was a big deal. Other people flipped their letters on occasion.

You should just email them so they don’t ask, I told myself.

Dear Drs. ______ and _______, hi, hope you are doing well. I am reaching out because… because. I’m reaching out because I don’t want you to ask me to take notes. It’s bringing up childhood trauma related to being learning disabled and honestly I don’t like that those feelings are coming up at all. I thought I worked through all of that.

I sent nothing and eventually they did ask.

“Umm,” I heard myself muttering, “I would, um I would really rather not. If, um, if that’s okay? I don’t really…” My voice trails off and I only mouth under my mask, I don’t really like writing in front of people.

“I’ll do it,” someone said.

“Thanks.”

And they all moved on.

I wanted to explain it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be a team player. It wasn’t that I thought I shouldn’t have to contribute. They didn’t know me. I hadn’t proved what I was worth.

I cried after class.

Over, back, around. Over, back, around. Over, back, around. Over, back, around.

As much as I saw my childhood self as an academic outcast, there were moments I would shine. What I lacked in reading, I made up for in creativity and ability to memorize. Oral book reports were the best. Even though I couldn’t read, I knew the books we were assigned outside of class perfectly. My mom would read those to me at night and I hung onto each word.

I’d strategize ways to deliver these reports uniquely, practice them in front of my mirror and even rehearse them for Mrs. Morris.

One of my best performances was on the Little House on the Prairie series. Instead of just reporting on the books I decided I would play the character. I had mom braid my hair like Laura Ingalls on the far-from-period-accurate TV show and brought in a blue-and-white-checkered apron from home that I slipped on over our uniform for my report.

“My name is Laura Ingalls,” I said, watching my classmates’ attention lock onto me, “and I want to tell you about a special time in my life.”

If I had time to prepare, I could play any part. This was how I earned the coveted role of the dragon in our fourth grade medieval festival’s play, The Reluctant Dragon. This was how I wowed the third grade crowd during my report on Woodrow Wilson for the Presidents’ Day program. This was why I was picked first for our mock debate in the fifth grade.

Preparedness was the ease for anxiety.

It was when others interrupted my plans that things fell apart.

Ways I still think about or feel learning disabled:

I can’t unscramble words, so I was glad when Words With Friends faded from popularity, happy when we stopped doing crosswords or word searches in school, and I wish everyone would stop telling me to try Wordle.
I have a directional disorder. So, I still extend my thumb and pointer finger out to “make my L’s.” Mrs. Morris taught me that. She said look for the hand that makes an L, L like the start of my brother’s name, and that’s left. I don’t want to see a map. I don’t want to hear about directions.
I suck at the mirrored setting of Mario Kart. Suck and get aggravated that it’s not technically mirrored.
I write out any notes I might need to put on the board when I teach. Even words I know I can spell. Everything just looks wrong when I write on the board.
I cannot write, say, or hear certain words without remembering how I taught myself to memorize their spelling: Oxygen: ox-Y-gen. People: pe-O-ple. Desserts has two s’s because you always want more dessert, but no one wants more deserts. Research: re-Sea-rch.
I hear “left, right, left, right, left, right, switch” and “over, back, around” upon seeing a chalkboard.
I get places early.
I never make my students read anything out loud.
I practice conversations I might have during the day in the car on the way to work.
I read my work out loud as I write because I can write, I can read, but I still hear the letters best.
I still update Mrs. Morris. I even sent her my thesis, and I read her reply sometimes when I feel low.

“Everyone read a paragraph or so,” Mrs. Terry said. Such words were terrifying.

Immediately my fourth-grade self would begin to count.

Okay so 1, 2, 3… 11, 12, if she goes that way I’ll be 10, or if that way 12.

I would count paragraphs and practice the one I thought I’d land on. I could read, sort of, just some words really got to me.

Instead of listening to others I’d practice my paragraph in my head, but then some hero would read more than one paragraph, they’d throw everything off.

When I did read out loud my eyes would move too fast, focusing on the words ahead, and not the word I was on, which would cause me to pause. Every time I paused, someone would whisper-yell it to me. It would be some word I knew, like “he,” or “the,” and it infuriated me. Didn’t the idiot know I was looking a few lines down at a different word?

Sometimes, after I would read, Mrs. Terry would start reading for a while, which I always read into.

Eventually, I could read, but the preparation didn’t stop. I never did homework the day it was due—too much stress. I never skipped any assigned homework, even the recommended reading. I took pages of notes for class, drafting points I might bring up. People started calling me a perfectionist. But dyslexic kids can’t be perfectionists.

I’m not a perfectionist—I just don’t like being surprised.

In the first grade, I decided I needed glasses. Anytime someone got glasses it seemed like a big deal. Everyone would try to take turns putting on the new glasses until some adult caught us and gave them back to their owners. The worse someone’s vision was, the better; I loved putting on someone else’s glasses and seeing the world through frosty lenses.

My mom made an early morning appointment so I wouldn’t miss too much school, and I drank in the attention. Wouldn’t this be great, coming into class late, with new glasses.

I sat in the eye exam chair, mesmerized by all the contraptions.

“Cover your left eye and tell me the letters on the lowest line you can read,” the doctor said. I read in perfect clarity each chart he gave, making sure to let him know I could read the bottom line.

Then something strange happened. They put something in my eyes and I couldn’t see. This time I really couldn’t see. It was like I really was wearing someone else’s glasses. What has this quack done?

First grade me didn’t know what dilating eyes meant. I was just shocked that my fabulous plan was suddenly not working. Blurry eyed, still in the chair, it got worse.

“She has perfect vision. I mean, like, perfect. I don’t really see a need for her to have glasses.”

I wanted to cry. What did my mom’s face look like? I couldn’t tell. She would be mad.

“I mean, we can get her some glasses. I guess if she’s having trouble seeing the board there is a slight…”

My mom cut him off. “No, she’s fine.”

On the van ride between the doctor’s and school I looked out at my new blurry world.

“Mom, I can’t see.”

“Your eyes are just dilated, it will wear off.”

“No, I seriously can’t see. For real this time.”

I stepped back into Mrs. Stanley’s classroom glassesless and blurry. I had to be quick on my feet; I had promised my first grade public glasses.

“I was going to get glasses but it turns out I have perfect vision.” Are they impressed? I couldn’t see to tell. I bet they’re impressed.

“I don’t need glasses because I actually have better than perfect vision. Like, I can see better than most people. The doctor told me.”

“You know you talk about getting a PhD a lot,” Kevin said to me in the car.

We were on our way back from attending his brother’s law school graduation.

“What?”

“You talk a lot about getting a PhD,” he repeated, “I just don’t want you to think that’s the only thing that matters.”

How dare you.

“Are you talking about when Hannah’s dad asked if we have to call Jason Dr. now? Because you don’t. No one calls lawyers doctors, that’s not just a me thing.”

“No, just in general,” he answered calmly.

“Well, sorry for talking, then,” I said.

“No, it’s not that. It just seems like all you talk about. You know you don’t need one to be special, right?” he said, his eyes still focused forward on the road.

“I do not talk about it a lot!”

He wasn’t right; I was humble. I would never brag about these things, especially as someone who grew up with the learning problems I did. I mean, I was a child who couldn’t read.

He wasn’t right. I didn’t bring it up with any motive in mind, and so what if I did. If I did, I was compensating for how little I saw in myself. Was that wrong? Maybe talking about a PhD is a way to tell myself, you don’t have to feel stupid, Sarah. Maybe getting a PhD had shifted along the way from pursuing a dream to protecting myself from ever feeling not enough again.

“You’re right,” I said, “I hate when you’re right,” and I started to cry.

SARAH TRAUTWEIN is a PhD candidate and writer born and raised in Huntington, West Virginia. Trautwein currently teaches composition, literature, and creative writing at Marshall University. Her nonfiction work has been featured in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, GNU Journal, The Blue Mountain Review, Change Seven, and in The Storyteller Anthology.

The art that appears alongside this piece is “children at play” by GRETA KOSHENINA.