It was the Monday of the week before winter break, and the weekly agendas for each of my classes had just been released. I looked all of them over, writing down all of the different assignments in my calendar, excited to start crossing them off. After my Zoom meetings had concluded, I sat down at my desk, fully intending to get a sizable chunk of work done before the sun set.
An hour passed. I did not remember what I was supposed to be doing. Instead of practicing for a Spanish test, I had spent my time fidgeting with my pencils and tapping my fingernails against the wood of my desk to create pleasant sounds that were much more stimulating to my brain than the silence of remote school. I ended my day by promising to go to sleep early and do my work the next day. Instead of doing the former, I stayed up until 2 am scrolling through TikTok. It was not that I wanted to stay awake; my brain just could not stand the lull that came with trying to fall asleep.
Tuesday came and went; no work was done, other than a few math problems three minutes before midnight. I thought, tomorrow I will do better. Wednesday greeted me with 30-minute Zoom calls and a shortened school day. No work got done, once again. I really tried that day; I had all of my tabs open, I eliminated all distractions, and I tried to get a good night’s sleep. Still, I could not work.
Next, it was Thursday, and I had no choice but to do my work. English went fine. As did history, Spanish, and art. Physics and math, however, felt more like a foreign language class than Spanish did. I spent half the night just trying to copy the numbers from the digital geometry textbook to my notebook, and used the rest of the sunless hours attempting to make sense of them.
The truth was, none of this was new to me. I had fallen into the same patterns of procrastination and perpetual confusion in the previous year as well. However, my learning difficulties would not end up mattering when school was canceled in mid-March, and I did not see an assignmentnot assessed by completion for the rest of the year. The lackluster system of online learning used during the 2019-2020 school year lulled me into a false sense of security. I told myself I was fine, and that the 2020-2021 school year would be just as easy, with only one or two assignments per class that took an hour each.
Obviously, I was wrong. I knew that by December of 2020. I continued to do fine in the subjects that I enjoyed, but went on to receive several C-’s and C’s on math quizzes and tests no matter what I did. I would stay up for hours attempting to study, but would often grow intimidated by that fact that I could hardly maintain my focus for long enough to type in numbers on a calculator.
After months of struggling, my family and I contacted a doctor to discuss a possible diagnosis. I knew that what I was going through was not normal; many of my friends did, too, as when I tried to explain my issue with numbers to them, they could hardly fathom it. When the doctor told me I met the criteria for a neurodevelopmental disorder known as NVLD, I felt more relief than surprise.
NVLD, or Non-Verbal Learning Disability, is actually the opposite of what it sounds like. Individuals with NVLD are often highly verbal, and enjoy reading, writing, and all things wordy and creative. However, they struggle greatly with numbers and logical reasoning; I even found out that one of the biggest challenges for people with NVLD is geometry. After years of struggling through math and being intimidated by the mere sight of a five-digit number, I learned that I was not alone, and that many other kids had recently been informed about the possibility of an NVLD diagnosis during the pandemic, due to the unique circumstances of online learning.
Nonetheless, knowing you have an issue and attempting to solve the issue are two different things. I had a C- in math at this time, and although I now knew there was a real reason for my low grade, I refused to give up. I stayed up for hours every night over the span of a week and a half before a unit test, teaching myself the entire unit using words instead of numbers. I translated the numbers on my calculator and my notebook into letters and words; on the key of the calculator that would have said “3,” I wrote “three,” and so forth. I made flashcards that would have seemed useless to the average person, with reminders of what very common symbols of geometry were and what different phrases meant in word problems.
With tooth and nail, I fought for the 84% I ended the term with. I cut hours out of each of my days and carefully went through the textbook, reviewing every paragraph and revising all of my notes until entire paragraphs of handwritten-text were sprawled within the pages of a spiral notebook. A thick callus had developed on the inside of my middle finger, right where the pencil rubbed against my skin. My eyes grew weary and tired. My jaw and neck ached horribly with my constant leaning over to look at a computer screen. I developed carpal tunnel syndrome in my right hand.
The point of this article is not to convey my story for pity. Rather, I wish to inform whoever reads my words that this did not need to happen. I should not have had to spend hours teaching myself an entire subject. I should not have had to accommodate for my own disability by sacrificing my physical health.
After my meeting with the doctor, we were sent home with the instructions to seek extra help from the school and my possible inclusion in the Green Cohort. My mother did her best to see that I had both or either one, and I received neither. Because my grades, other than math, were ‘good,’ my issues were not met with much support. Because I was not worse, I received very little assistance. Because I fit the criteria of NVLD, in which those affected often excel in history, art, English, and languages, and I had good grades in those subjects, I was not considered ‘bad enough’ to warrant assistance.
The most support I got was the “time and a half” rule in my math class, which I use for tests and quizzes, and for that, I am deeply thankful. I am also thankful for my neurotypical friends and family members who have helped me learn what does not come naturally to me, and to make up for the things I lack. However, I am not so humble that I will not express my distaste for how my situation was approached by the administration.
I bear no ill will toward anybody who looked over my case and made the decision to not admit me into the Green Cohort or allow me to receive some kind of extra help. In fact, I do not think I know enough about how that system works to make a valid critique on the more technical aspects of admitting a student into the Green Cohort, and thus I will not. I can also admit that there were other people who struggled more than I have in remote school, and were admitted into Green Cohort upon requesting entry, and that I am thankful they received that privilege.
However, this experience has left a negative impression on me. At my most exhausted, vulnerable, and frustrated, I was given very little assistance. With my differently-wired brain, I was forced to make-due. My 84% is not a success story; it is a survival story. The words on my calculator and paragraphs of text in my notebook are proof of that. The hours-long, days-on-end study-sessions before each test, only to get an 80% or below are proof of that, as well.
I am also not alone with this story. I interviewed another student, also a sophomore, who has elected to remain anonymous, about her experiences as someone seeking an ADHD diagnosis while attending online school. When I asked her how the remote learning structure affected her learning, she responded, “Because everything is online, it’s hard to visualize what I need to do for the week. Some of my classes were asynchronous, so I would go the whole week without thinking of them. With ADHD, there comes a lack of object permanence; if I can’t see it, I don’t do it.”
I later asked her if she had ever been to office hours for the subjects she struggled in, and how teachers reacted to her asking for help. “Going after school wasn’t even worth it for me because I needed everything to be explained step by step. I understand that that takes time, and teachers can’t focus on one student for the whole time. I had to either bite the bullet and teach it all to myself or pay a tutor for help,” the student answered.
Receiving a professional diagnosis is time-consuming and expensive. Not everybody can afford to access one, even if they know inside they meet the criteria for one or more disabilities. The student I interviewed added, “Teachers need to fill out a sheet on your behaviors, but it’s nearly impossible because most of them barely know you, because it feels like you’re almost never in school.” I completely agree with her statement. When I first met with the doctor, she requested that I get a teacher to fill out one of the aforementioned forms, and the teacher I sought out did not fulfill the request. They believed that I did not meet any of the criteria listed. Fundamentally, that is not their fault at all; they hardly know me. I only see them in class twice a week.
I am lucky. I am due for a full evaluation on Wednesday the 31st, and I found a teacher willing to fill out the necessary paperwork, and for that, I am deeply thankful. I have the time and the means to spend much of each day studying for a test. However, many, including the student I interviewed, are not as lucky.
People do not need to be at their absolute worst to warrant help. At the end of the day, we are all just trying to get through unprecedented times to the best of our ability. Needham High School is playing by ‘survival of the fittest’ rules, and although I am not the ‘fittest’ by that definition, I will fight for my education. If I will not be accommodated, I will make accommodations for myself. However, I should not have to.