A true story for parents trying to understand a child failing in school and anxious to help them also, (see below)
A tool for the child to hopefully overcome the shame and anguish of educational "failure" in a time decades before learning disabilities were identified and no treatment plans available. This is NOT a professional paper. I'm not a trained clinician or expert who managed to overcome the horror of failure.
By the time I entered Kindergarten my mom had already taught me to read, not word buy
word but sentence by sentence and eventually scanning entire pages with only a brief glance. In our home, reading was a group activity which we practiced each evening jotting down words we had yet to learn, not a chore but an activity of fun.
By the time of first grade I had already read the bulk of books in our little school library, the principal had to write me a note to check out books. The Librarian not only allowed me the max. number of books but books from the adult section and I was the only kid able to do so and it made me proud.
By the third grade my teacher was a man named "Mr. Wingo" he would place a chair in front of the class and grade papers while I read aloud, my face flushing bright red by embarrassanrement and shame. But that wasn't the worst of it.
At Arithmetic/Math time I was often sent to the blackboard to write out answers to long division, fractions, or other math problems. The other students would complete these questions in short minutes, returning to their desks as I stood there staring blankly at the blackboard in stoney silence, the passing minutes an eternity, finally Mr. Wingo would bark, "Mr Hart you may return to your desk" and I could hear the muffled snickers and giggles and the boys attempt to try and trip my feet and fall.
By the 6th. grade I was now reading books at the college level, seeking out the works of Camus, Sartre, the late, great Edna St. Millay and dozens of other. yet, still failing at Math and all the others. I no longer cared. While not really neglectful, my parents were mostly absorbed in running yje family business leaving me to my own devices of day dreaming and fantasy.
Back then there was no such thing as holding back a child from promoting to one class to a higher one, we were mostly "floated" on to the next level.
My one single highlight was when I managed in High School was to convince my dad to go to the High School and convince the principal into allowing me to take the class of Senior Composistion a class only offered to the elite college- bound students-who gave me little notice probably assuming I was one of them and for the first time ever, I felt like something greater than what I had ever felt before.
Our final in that class was to write a composition, there were a list of only five different subjects and with my ambitions of being a writer of novels or a poet, the subject selected was the one I felt no one else would ever choose. The dullest and least appealing I chose, "The school cafeteria at lunch"
We had but 15 minutes after which each row of students would get together nd compare compositions, I was chosen from our row. Then our instructor would have each row representtor take turns going in front of the class and reading our own compositions. When finished we were
told to return to our desks and put our heads down and with our heads down, she took a vote for each contender.
Finally after several long moments, we were told to raise our heads and open our eyes.
I opened mine and there on the blackboard in large block letters were the words neatly printed, "Writer of the year is David Hart" tears sprang to my eyes, and there were hugs and shouts of congratulations. I was in total shock and practically danced my way home that day.
Weeks afterward, I dropped out of High School realizing in spite of my "Last Hurrah" I would never catch up with the others.
Instead, I joined the family business. But with the the passing of years I felt incomplete and an emptyness inside, I decided to get a tutor and from there I took my G.E.D and passed. At first t the age of nearly 30, I entered a community college, initially afraid and insecure but soon discovered what an appetite I had for learning, I was ravenous for learning and happily discovered I actually LOVED school, I was warmly accepted by others of the student body. I felt absolutely at home and comfortable in my dorm. eagerly studying till the wee hours of the morning.
My grades consistently excellent. Eventually I managed to move on to University earning a degree in Special Education (Ironically) and another in Sociology. and years later I took additional classes in nursing which career-wise would have been the better choice as I never really used the Sociology but cosmetically looks darned nice framed and hung on a wall.
As I look back, I'm still unsure of what happened to me. ADD? simply a slow starter? or even mildly retarded? I probably will never know. But one thing for sure, as the musical line goes, "Hitch your wagon to a star and my friends, never look back. Thank you.
Oh and please ignore the typo's and spelling, a friend is waiting to teach me something new tonight.
By the time I entered Kindergarten my mom had already taught me to read, not word buy
word but sentence by sentence and eventually scanning entire pages with only a brief glance. In our home, reading was a group activity which we practiced each evening jotting down words we had yet to learn, not a chore but an activity of fun.
By the time of first grade I had already read the bulk of books in our little school library, the principal had to write me a note to check out books. The Librarian not only allowed me the max. number of books but books from the adult section and I was the only kid able to do so and it made me proud.
By the third grade my teacher was a man named "Mr. Wingo" he would place a chair in front of the class and grade papers while I read aloud, my face flushing bright red by embarrassanrement and shame. But that wasn't the worst of it.
At Arithmetic/Math time I was often sent to the blackboard to write out answers to long division, fractions, or other math problems. The other students would complete these questions in short minutes, returning to their desks as I stood there staring blankly at the blackboard in stoney silence, the passing minutes an eternity, finally Mr. Wingo would bark, "Mr Hart you may return to your desk" and I could hear the muffled snickers and giggles and the boys attempt to try and trip my feet and fall.
By the 6th. grade I was now reading books at the college level, seeking out the works of Camus, Sartre, the late, great Edna St. Millay and dozens of other. yet, still failing at Math and all the others. I no longer cared. While not really neglectful, my parents were mostly absorbed in running yje family business leaving me to my own devices of day dreaming and fantasy.
Back then there was no such thing as holding back a child from promoting to one class to a higher one, we were mostly "floated" on to the next level.
My one single highlight was when I managed in High School was to convince my dad to go to the High School and convince the principal into allowing me to take the class of Senior Composistion a class only offered to the elite college- bound students-who gave me little notice probably assuming I was one of them and for the first time ever, I felt like something greater than what I had ever felt before.
Our final in that class was to write a composition, there were a list of only five different subjects and with my ambitions of being a writer of novels or a poet, the subject selected was the one I felt no one else would ever choose. The dullest and least appealing I chose, "The school cafeteria at lunch"
We had but 15 minutes after which each row of students would get together nd compare compositions, I was chosen from our row. Then our instructor would have each row representtor take turns going in front of the class and reading our own compositions. When finished we were
told to return to our desks and put our heads down and with our heads down, she took a vote for each contender.
Finally after several long moments, we were told to raise our heads and open our eyes.
I opened mine and there on the blackboard in large block letters were the words neatly printed, "Writer of the year is David Hart" tears sprang to my eyes, and there were hugs and shouts of congratulations. I was in total shock and practically danced my way home that day.
Weeks afterward, I dropped out of High School realizing in spite of my "Last Hurrah" I would never catch up with the others.
Instead, I joined the family business. But with the the passing of years I felt incomplete and an emptyness inside, I decided to get a tutor and from there I took my G.E.D and passed. At first t the age of nearly 30, I entered a community college, initially afraid and insecure but soon discovered what an appetite I had for learning, I was ravenous for learning and happily discovered I actually LOVED school, I was warmly accepted by others of the student body. I felt absolutely at home and comfortable in my dorm. eagerly studying till the wee hours of the morning.
My grades consistently excellent. Eventually I managed to move on to University earning a degree in Special Education (Ironically) and another in Sociology. and years later I took additional classes in nursing which career-wise would have been the better choice as I never really used the Sociology but cosmetically looks darned nice framed and hung on a wall.
As I look back, I'm still unsure of what happened to me. ADD? simply a slow starter? or even mildly retarded? I probably will never know. But one thing for sure, as the musical line goes, "Hitch your wagon to a star and my friends, never look back. Thank you.
Oh and please ignore the typo's and spelling, a friend is waiting to teach me something new tonight.
