And the Tree was Happy

A neon green blanket that used to be fuzzy is now matted down by use. A young boy lies underneath this invincible shield. His mother’s arms hold him as they share this green shield. He is protected from outside. All that matters is the storybook in his mother’s warm hand. Everything else fades to black as he watches a tree speak from behind the green pages. He lies there in awe, as this tree gives all it has to a boy like him.

A boy tries to listen from behind a thick white door. The muffled voice speaks of a disa—something. All the boy knew was that he enjoyed playing with the blocks and puzzles the doctor had for him. His mother invites him behind the thick door, into a room with bright white lights. The Doctor tells him he is different from other kids. She tells him that schoolwork will be harder for him than most. She tells him that he can’t and shouldn’t aim for high scores in school. A little boy who loves to run discovers that he is slow. 

The boy informed his pre-K confidant, Jack, of his newfound disease: Dyslexia. The next day, Jack tells the boy, “My parents said we can’t be friends…I think it’s contagious.”  The boy vows from this day on to hide his disease. A little boy who loved to speak stays silent. 

A sunlight yellow rug is inhabited by elementary school kids. Bright yellow streamers are hung from the classroom’s walls. Separated from the rest, seated at a narrow brown wooden desk, is a young brown boy who does not participate in Spanish class. His classmates, who don’t look like him, ask, “How come he doesn’t have to do the work?” La profesora responds: “he is different.” The boy who wishes to know the language his mother speaks most naturally needs to concentrate on English. While the kids on the yellow rug learn the boy's supposed native tongue, he doodles cartoons of a superhero on lined essay paper. The bell rings. The boy spends his recess running from ear to ear, telling all who listen that he already knows everything they learn in Spanish class. The boy wonders why he wasted his recess on this story. A young boy learns to lie. 

Sweaty palms stare at a ticking clock as a book with tan paper, huge paragraphs, and words squeezed together barrels its way towards the boy. His heart is pounding as he begs God to speed up time. English class is almost over. The teacher says, “Let's have four more readers.” The boy's eyes dart to the book, then to the next reader, then the next, then to himself. His heart stops. Tears begin to build. A fear he has never felt envelops his spirit. The big book lands in his hands. One trillion pairs of eyes beat down on him. The spotlight shifts, the curtain pulls back, the stage is set. The book feels slippery in his sweaty palms. The words shrink into letters. The letters on the page begin to move. As he tries to read this twisted crossword, he stutters, mumbles, and slowly shrinks. The page turns into black ink. The audience fades to black, all while the burning spotlight creates sweat on his upper brow. The boy is only awakened from this trance when the teacher says, “I think that’s enough for today.” The book is taken from the boy. Then, with a raised voice, she looked the boy in his watery eyes and exclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have to practice our reading at home!” A boy places a green-paged book in storage that day. 

The boy sat in English class, watching the door while his classmates wrote essays. Three knocks on the door at this time of day meant embarrassment was behind. A woman with red glasses and a red tote bag that read: Spell-Read Learning School opened the door and pulled the boy out of normalcy. The boy sat with his tutor in the school lobby, breaking down words as if he were just learning how to read. Embarrassment reddened the boy's face. The tutor was handed the dreaded spelling test that all the boys’ friends laugh over. The tutor reads: “approximate…divisible…seizure.” Mixed between these words is a timid, cracking voice saying: “skip…skip…skip.” The voice continues: “rehearse…indicate…longitude.” Mixed between these words are stifled sobs followed by: “l-o-n-j-e-t…I can’t do it.” The boy’s embarrassment overflowed into tears. The woman with the red tote said, “Let’s try again tomorrow.” The boy could only dream of normalcy. The boy wanted to be in the normal classroom more than he wanted to be able to spell lonjetood. 

The moon beamed through his bedroom window. Drooping eyes fought against their natural desire. A hammer tapped, tapped, and tapped against his exhausted brain. His grayscale bedroom became more of a dream than a library. His brain begged him to stop. His pride urged him on. The boy was tired-tired of being slow. Tired of being told what he can and can’t do. His loving mother thought he was asleep. The boy disobeyed his mother to read ancient history. The boy's tired brain was devoid of curiosity; it was filled with a deep, uncontrollable desire to be anything but dyslexic. He refused to rest until he was certain of a 100%, because then, maybe, just maybe, he would be normal. A rebellious teen, disobeying his mother, read dyslexia as dysfunctional. 

The teen sat in a cold classroom with eye bags drooping to the floor. The exam made its way into his hands. He robotically listed off each memorized answer. A refrigerator-worthy report card was a mask the teen wore over dyslexia. He believed that with every “A” his disability lessened. This toxic medicine was his sweet, sweet addiction. The teen placed his dark blue pen on his cold desk. His drooping eyes gazed from empty desk to empty desk, finding only one occupied. He locked eyes with his blunt-faced teacher. Paranoia grabbed the teen’s arms and chained him to his blue plastic chair. The teen could’ve sworn that he heard his teacher muttering under his breath: “This lazy Hispanic didn’t study, he's so slow, he never gets the concepts as fast as the other kids, he must be an incompetent test taker, he has a middle school reading level, he is a bad writer.” The teen, beginning to experience withdrawal symptoms, forces himself to stand. And like some exchange in an alley, the teen traded his robotic answers for the “A” he was craving. A teen adopts a strange addiction.  

The brown-skinned teen in the white school building forgot about the time his loving mother spent reading to him from under that protective green blanket. Now the teen listened to an impersonal machine voice butcher Shakespeare's English through headphones that matted down his poofy hair. The teen relied on this machine because it could keep his secret. The teen who was so focused on keeping his secret refused to ask for help. Despite the teen’s best efforts, his peers began to note the last one out to finish, the slowest reader, and the one who couldn’t spell. The teen's secret was out. The white schoolhouse took the boys' heritage and slurred it. His namesake was degraded to Retardo. 

On the ride to the doctor, the boy gazed out the window into the baby blue sky, pretending the car was flying among the clouds. Driving back from the doctor, the boy stared at the beige car mat under his feet. He couldn’t help but wonder: “Is my life over? Am I stupid? Why can’t I be good at school?” The boy’s loving mother got his little watery eyes to look up when she spoke to the intercom, “One vanilla sundae, please.” The boy arrived home; he felt changed. His older brother met him at the door. He took a knee. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. And said words that would stick with the boy for the rest of his life, “dyslexia is not a disability, it is a superpower.” 

It took me 19 years to understand my brother’s words. 

I read slower than most, but I love reading. I write slower than most, but I love writing. My brain works differently than most, but today I let it. Today, I am a dyslexic author. Today I use my superpower to write, to create art. The dyslexic brain is often considered an artistic mind. Writing is my artistry. I no longer hide or fight against my superpower; I use it. Any writing before was created out of fear and pride; now my writing is created with confidence and passion. I only became a writer when I openly shared my disability. I only became a writer when I asked for, accepted, and acknowledged help.  

One day, he noticed: 

The hours his loving mother spent teaching herself the nuances of a language that is not native to her. 

The mother, who was already exhausted from providing food and shelter, spent her free time teaching a young boy to read and write. The mother who did not care that the boy needed more help than most. The mother who smiled when she educated the boy. 

The mother who spent hours reading ancient history textbooks so she could write comprehensive summaries, all for her lost son. The mother who sat her son down and explained, chapter by chapter readings the boy couldn’t fully understand on his own. The mother whose voice made learning seem…possible. 

The boy’s dyslexic father who became a doctor, immigrated with nothing, taught himself English, built his own practice from the ground up, and taught the boy to defy the odds. 

The teen’s dyslexic brothers who taught him the software he could not figure out on his own, to help him read. The brothers who taught the teen, by example, how to use his superpower. 

The teen’s sisters who edited his papers. The sisters who with all love and patience taught the teen basic grammar and encouraged and inspired him to keep writing. 

The young adult’s mother who, to this day, ensures that her son gets the accommodations he needs. 

I could not be a writer without my mother, without the woman with the red tote, without my high school teachers who missed their lunch to wait for me to finish an exam, without my college professors who inspire and encourage my art. Today I sit on the green stump with a smile on my face, books by my side, and a pen in hand. Perhaps I am the boy who took for granted all that The Giving Tree has given me, but there is always time to say thank you.