JOHN T. LEWIS

How Dyslexia Bore a Noble Cynic

A nurse escorted me to a back room – alone. Mom and Dad were ordered to stay behind. I quickly realized this wasn't just another doctor visit. No cold stethoscopes. No wagging tongue depressors. And best of all, no shots. In its place were eye charts, magic markers, and stacks of sketch paper, Manila in color. This actually looked like it might be fun. Before I could breathe a sigh of relief, freedom turned to fear. Off to the side sat my old nemesis, a pile of Dick and Jane children's reading books.

"Uh-Oh!"

I scanned the room for an escape route. No windows were visible. The door stayed firmly shut. There's a reason why doctor appointments are never enjoyable. I was about to be diagnosed with a condition that has no cure, no saving grace, and no way out. 

I've always been a cynic, seeing the glass half empty rather than half full. Doubt creeps ever slowly. Where one detects truth, I stumble upon a mirage melting in the fiery desert sun. Where others see God, I gaze upon the devil tempting me with lustful cool deception. My jilted point of view was not born from some morbid life experience. Nor is it an absence of faith. I know for a fact that seeing is not always believing. The great film director Orson Welles once said that "any good story is almost certainly some kind of lie." I've spent a lifetime defending that theory.

"Dyslexia."

I hate that word as much as "diabetes." Both have added waves of displeasure, discomfort, and discombobulation to my life. The condition has stunted my learning, plagued my intellect, and baffled many educators assessing my test scores.

While in college, I had an English professor ream me out for the countless spelling errors found in one of my essays. Of course, this was long before personal computers with grammar software and spellcheck. Not that it would have helped. The Sharpie he used to grade my composition must've run dry. I'm sure of it. There was so much red on the paper, it resembled a soldier's dying love letter at the Battle of Waterloo. Each stain appeared to fade in intensity going from juicy burgundy to a dim, coral pink.

Among the angry circles and heavy slashes, he dented the margins with descriptions like "pathetic," "unreadable," and "atrocious!" Just above the title page, he plastered a large letter "D!" Next to it, one last irate comment bled across the thin, white paper.

"The only thing that's saving you from a failing grade is the fact that you're a gifted writer!"

My eyes moved over his terse words again and again – making sure I read them correctly. Less durable students might have been crushed. I, however, was buoyed, feeling triumphant, singled out for my exceptional talents as a storyteller…

The glow didn't last long. I might have been a gifted writer in my professor's opinion. But, I was still a lousy speller. Worse, I still had dyslexia. And that would never change, no matter how hard I tried.  

I must have been around seven when originally diagnosed. I noticed something was off way before that, but kept it largely to myself. Letters skipped off my eyes like a flat rock across a still lake. Jumbled. Numbers too. Arranged then rearranged. Backwards, forwards, over-under. Verbal reading exercises became a high wire circus act. My classmates tortured me with ridicule. Our teacher, Ms. Mancuso, tried her best to shield me from their mockery. The malicious jabs still landed, despite her best efforts. Kids are cruel. It's a given. If the tables were turned, it might have been me leading the insult charge.

I figured the only way to stop them from laughing at me was to get them laughing with me. The Dick and Jane book series turned into a Vegas comedy act.

"Watch Dick run. Watch Dick and Jane run. Watch John make a fool of himself."

I joked, cut up, and generally played the court jester. I bobbed and weaved more than Muhammad Ali around a boxing ring. A wicked stutter didn't help. It became more prominent when I got nervous, which was all the time.

I was met by a very sprite Dr. Happy Place. That wasn't her name, but the sobriquet seemed to fit. Peppering each phrase with a liberal assortment of toothy grins, she possessed an amazing talent for speaking fast. Florescent light from the ceiling bounced off her white lab coat. Black might have been a more appropriate color. For the next hour or so, she ran me through a series of exercises and asked odd questions such as what games I enjoyed and if I had any imaginary friends. Looking back, my disruptive behavior at school must have jiggled a few alarm bells.

Next, I was invited to read aloud. Dick and Jane surely kicked my ass again, though the memory remains blurry. However, I do recall sketching pictures of a "happy place," me and neighborhood pals playing baseball in front of a packed stadium. The whole exam seemed a bit contrived. The good doctor treated me as if I were a family pet with gentle pats on the back and head. Why not clasp a collar around my neck and tie me to a pole? The scene never got creepy, but I felt awkward when no treats were offered. Could the seeds of cynicism have been planted that day? My guess, they were already rooted deep waiting to blossom.        

Soon after, my parents were summoned to consult with Dr. Happy Place. Tepidly glancing back at me every so often, they spoke in whispered tones. An uneasiness grabbed at my throat. Their fake smiles couldn't hide the seriousness of the situation as they uttered "dyslexia" for the first time. The term seemed so foreign, so exotic like the name of a Greek Olympic athlete or Russian cosmonaut. It didn't even sound remotely medical. Mom was a nurse, after all. She routinely talked shop around the house – spouting, often screaming, terms such as "blood pressure," "nerves," and "heart rate!"

In the end, nothing really changed. Surgery was useless. Medications nonexistent. Reading remained arduous, letters jumbled, numbers crooked. Writing took on rules of grammar that seemingly applied to me – and me only. ("I" before "e," except after "c" – unless "c" becomes an "e" to my diseased eye or is it brain?) Doctors suggested a few rudimentary exercises such as sounding out words. (I was good at that.) Reading slower. (I was really good at that.) Terms like "phonics" and "sight words" filled my confused head. They also recommended tutors. My parents countered with an alternative remedy of their own – Catholic school.

I’m not sure if the parochial environment helped. But, what eventually developed was a ferocious appetite for reading. Libraries, oddly enough, became a sanctuary. Surrounded by tall stacks of books and endless columns of knowledge, I found comfort. Buried in an avalanche of words, each one nearly unreadable. I also prayed, prayed for a miracle cure. I knelt before statues of the Virgin Mary. Tied rosary beads around my neck as if they were talismans of healing. I begged. I pleaded in front of every bleeding crucifix possible. If one wasn't visible, I made my own – etching them in the ground soiled with dirt, on pages of text books and test papers.

It didn't work, or maybe it did. The dyslexia remained, continuing to stumble, words still jumbled. The stuttering, however, stopped. Not completely, but enough that I could talk to girls without them running to the cops. Clearly, my communication skills improved. What really needed an upgrade were my prayer techniques. The joints around my hand bones rang sore from clasping. I prayed so often a Muslim cleric would have been jealous. Could it be that I sucked at that too? Among the uncertainty, one thing was obvious. If God wasn't coming to the rescue, I'd have to save myself.

Tried and true methods kept me afloat while new survival tactics developed. My humor sharpened. Celebrity impressions started showcasing my work. If asked to read aloud, I'd often break out in song or interpret with dramatic flair. Is it any wonder I became as actor? Behind closed doors, I studied, read, and reread. I characterized, fantasized, and specialized. Novels gave way to history and biography. Those books tended to have pictures. I developed tricks on how to read a newspaper – skimming over headlines and paragraphs the way a chair umpire watches a tennis match. During bad days, I'd feign illness or pretend to lose my glasses. In reality, I had 20-20 vision… Well, sort of.

The game of keep away took on a life of its own. Never once did I let up. Never once did I give in. And never once did it ever occur to simply tell someone, especially teachers, of my condition. That would've been too easy. I viewed dyslexia as a sign of weakness. Admitting defeat might prompt sympathy or at worst, preferential treatment. I demanded to be judged on my own merits. Even if that meant failure. So, the secret stayed buried, away from view. How noble. How stupid.

A high school diploma and a university degree were eventually earned. Earned they were. It took three cracks at the SAT test before obtaining a passing score. That got me admitted to college. Yet, four years later, I nearly missed graduating, eking through the final exam of my chosen major. What else? English…

Though my reading skills improved, math comprehension never took root. My broad knowledge of dates, facts, and figures might be useful in a game of Jeopardy. But, ask me to balance a check book? Good luck. There's good reason I never have any money.

Why the gods called me to a life of theater is the ultimate cruelty. Scripts being central to the process. Memorizing lines is challenging. I'm usually the last one off-book. Cold readings have always been a nightmare. Shakespeare is especially ghoulish. Old English, new English, or sonnets punched with iambic pentameter send me running to the nearest defibrillator. I always compensated with zippy improv skills. I learned early that good acting is reacting. A coach once described the craft of acting as "lying well." Few have concealed the truth better than I.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one faking it. Whoopi Goldberg, Henry Winkler, and Octavia Spencer are some of the more celebrated actors impaired by dyslexia. Several writers have battled the dyslexia monster: cartoonist Dav Pilkey, novelist John Irving, and screenwriter J.F. Lawton among others. Hopefully, their copy editors are well compensated.

I'm not so guarded about my handicap anymore. It makes good conversation at parties. Reactions vary from hysterics to wonderment. Though sharing the ravages of dyslexia with a casting agent is probably ill-advised. My phone might never ring again. Knowing my weaknesses has only made my love of words stronger.

With age comes wisdom. I'm comfortable in my own defective skin, finally. I have no choice but to be a skeptic, street wise instead of book smart. Doubting has become second nature. Not to be feared, yet embraced. Mom and Dad must have given me the middle name of Thomas for good reason.

Then again, everyone loves a good plot twist. Maybe this entire story is one big lie, as Orson Welles suggested. Or just the sublime ramblings of a noble cynic.

Who knows?

Come to think of it, I'm not really sure of anything.

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