All I really remember about first grade is the long stick the teacher always had in his hand.
Several weeks into the first grade the teacher asked each child to come to the black board and spell a word he would give them.  When it was my turn I walked to the front of the class and took the caulk from the tray.  
The teacher said the word and I turned to the giant black board and spelled the word.
I looked up at the teacher and he looked at me and said "you spelled it wrong!"
I looked at the word on the board and then back at the teacher with a question on my face.
He repeated again "that I spelled the word wrong!
He said just go sit down!
The teacher asked another kid to come up and spell the word I did.
See, this is how you spell the word correctly.
I had heard this before from the teacher but I didn't know what to say.
I said that's how I spelled it, with a small smile on my face.  Hoping he would see that I did spell it right.  

YOU DID NOT SPELL IT RIGHT!

He was loud now and I sank deeply into my chair.
The room seemed to get really big and he made me feel really small.
WHY CAN'T YOU SPELL HE SHOUTS AT ME?
I didn't know what to say.
He shook his head and then shook the big stick at me.
I can see in his face that he's mad. He walks swiftly towards my desk.
He's right in front of me now and tells me to sit up straight.
His face is red and his eye's are mean.
He raises the pointer into the air, just above his shoulder, his arm half bent like when someone is using a fly swatter.
His eyes focus between me and the top of my desk.  
His arm moves forward and I think he's going to hit me on the top of my head.
His hand moves quickly and the stick becomes a blur.
There's an explosion when his stick hits my desk.
There's no noise now, everyone is quiet.
Quiet and fear settle in the room.

At first I don't cry, just shake.
I turn to get out of my seat to stand up, but I trip on the metal bar that connects the desk to the chair.
I fall sideways and hit heads with Chris who sits next to me.
Chris starts crying and I fall to my knees.
I try to get up but I'm frozen to the floor.
I want to get up, lay down, crawl under my desk.
But I can't move.
Some of the kids are crying now and I can't hear if the teacher is coming to hit me with the stupid stick.
I start crying because I'm so embarrassed.
I wish my big brother was here he would save me.

Someone screams, don't hit him again.
The teacher realizes what he's done and retreats to the front of the class.
He looks at the ******* and white clock and sees it's just a few minutes till recess, so he tells the class to go outside.
Some of the kids stand up but they don't move.
In a softer voice the teacher says it's o. k. go outside and play.
Two of my friends help me up and we walk to the door.
I'm afraid the teacher is going to call my name to stay behind.
I'm looking down as we enter the hallway and see the ugly green speckled tiles on the floor.
The closer we get to the outside doors the farther away they look.
With three squares left I break free of the hold my friends have on me and run through the door and then across the sidewalk.
While sprinting over the grass I look up and see the tall tree in the middle of the island that separates the driveway to the front of the school.
The branches are low and I can climb up if I can get there.
I jump with my hands up, and crab the lowest branch, throwing my feet against the trunk and pull.
I climb to the top of the tree and sit on a branch.
I almost fall out of the tree when the recess bell rings, it sounds so much louder now.

Another teacher is telling me to get down right now.  
I shake my head no and look away.
    I'm safe now, none can get me here.

I think about the word I spelled in class and I know I spelled it right.  
But all my home work and class work and tests have big red F's on the top of the paper.  As the weeks went on the F's got bigger and the circle around the F's got bolder,
and I begin to cry.

I'm not different, I'm just me.

I failed first grade that year which is almost impossible in 1957.
I returned the next year to the first grade.  The kids in my first grade class think I'm to old and big to play with and the kids from last years first grade class think I'm stupid.

That afternoon when I got home I ran to the boat house to hide.
I'll hide here till I get old.
My brother can bring me food.

I'd be o.k. alone

I like alone

I' am anyway
  
I say to myself, in a soft, pale, sad voice,
I spelled the word right


I didn't find out I was dyslexic until I was 22 yrs old.
Until then I was just stupid.


That was a long time ago........