stories

"My Story"
by
Philip Wallace

29 years ago, in a rural community in Western Kentucky, I was born into a loving and supportive, All-American, middle class type of family. I was the youngest of three children and the only boy. As a small child, I was "different," though I had yet had to face any tremendous challenges that made my "differences" a liability. I was inquisitive and outgoing, sensitive and caring, spirited and playful; I was never a Dennis the Menace bouncing off the walls." I was the sort of little boy who played well both by himself or with his peers. Sure, I was a messy klutz who was easily distracted, but such behavior is condoned in Kindergarten and First Grade.

Then all of a sudden out of nowhere came third grade, truly a year from Hell. The rules of the game had changed, leaving me baffled by a rapidly emerging gap between my peers and myself. Most of the other little boys were achieving at least some degree of prowess on the playground and in gym class, so I became the perennial "last man picked" in kick ball, softball etc.. My peers were coming into a heightened degree of development with regard to everyday skills of childhood that I had yet to achieve. Making a mess, squirming in my seat, clumsiness, and apparent carelessness were no longer dismissed as behaviors that were "normal" for my age and stage of development. Suddenly, my inadequacies became "Philip's problems" for all of those around me to view with bewilderment.

My teacher, well-intentioned as she may have been, directed her classroom using a rigid and brutal sink or swim approach. I was one of the "bright kids," who would thrive from "challenge." My penmanship was atrocious, as I had yet to make the essential smooth transition from printing to cursive writing. The prescription: "Learn to hold your pencil the 'right' way, and practice diligently, and you will then be able to produce beautiful strokes of pencil. I was led to believe that bad penmanship was somehow a precursor to a lifetime of unfulfilled hopes and dreams, never mind my charisma, creative energy, and sharp wit.

I often did not finish assignments (Damn, those shiftless third graders who have yet to learn speed reading!), especially the long lists of vocabulary words from our reading for which we were required to search methodically in the dictionary in order to transcribe the definitions. Of course, spelling and neatness counted! Corporal punishment was the "solution" to my apparent laziness, reinforcing the message that a smart kid like me was capable of "doing better" if only he would "apply himself."

On one occasion that I remember vividly, I committed a most unpardonable sin against my teacher's commandments for acceptance and success in the classroom. I, at the presumably trustworthy age of eight, misplaced my all-important spiral stenographer's notebook that contained all of my vocabulary words. This offense was also addressed through corporal punishment. I remember crying, wondering what I had done wrong. I felt intense anger, but at that tender age, I could channel the anger toward only one direction, inwardly.

Where were my parents while I was enduring these embarrassing and painful attacks upon my self-worth? My father just happened to be the principal of our elementary school, truly a mixed blessing for me at the time. Dad wanted the best for me, but he feared that his personal intervention would appear heavy-handed or petty. My Mother was an extremely patient and tolerant sort who valued my individuality. Based on the fact that I was bright and well-behaved, she assumed that there was no cause for undue alarm.

However, as events at school began to place a marked emotional toll on me, my Mother demanded that I be placed in a different classroom. My new teacher was much more flexible and empathetic, but there were still some puzzling discrepancies in my performance. I was unable to complete my achievement test in the allotted time frame that year. Yet, when I was placed in a quiet room by myself and given more time, I demonstrated aptitude that was well above average.

The school psychologist conducted a thorough evaluation of me. His diagnosis, which now appears as a short-sighted and flawed relic of the 1970's, was nevertheless helpful in that it gave some sense to my rather curious cluster of cognitive strengths and challenges. I was diagnosed with "Minimal Brain Dysfunction" (This particularly foreboding prognosis is one of many obsolete terms that now fall within the concept of ADD.) and "Borderline Hyperactivity." The psychologist speculated that my poor spatial and motor skills were due to some sort of minor lapse in mental functioning that also somehow related to my distractibility, though I was not "hyperactive" in the classic "bouncing off the walls" fashion. He also asserted that I would "outgrow" these difficulties during early adolescence.

My parents were told that Ritalin was an option but that my relatively moderate display of symptoms meant that non-medical alternatives were a reasonable approach. As an educator my father had witnessed some situations where he felt that Ritalin had been utilized as a straitjacket to merely stifle energetic and creative children. He was not necessarily dead set against Ritalin in all cases, but he viewed the medicine as a "last resort." My mother deferred to his judgment in this matter. For several years, I was given some individualized assistance from a learning disabilities teacher, and some accommodations were made on the part of my regular classroom teacher.

Years later, as I began treatment for ADD in my mid-twenties, I became plagued with a bitter case of the "If only.." syndrome in regard to my parent's decision against medication. I have, unfortunately, wasted many hours rehashing the lost potential for a more self-confident and prosperous childhood that medicine could possibly have given me. Yet, my parents were forced to make this crucial decision in an environment where so little was known about ADD; If they indeed made what my enlightened 1990's mind set would assert was a lousy decision, I now know they did so out of concern and love for me.

I now know that I did not "outgrow" ADD, and every once in a while, I fall into the trap of collectively resenting everyone in my past who has ever failed to sufficiently understand and appreciate me. Yet, when I transcend my pain to take stock of my life, I know that I am a person of worth who has so much for which to be grateful. Growing up, success was not always easy for me, but my self-esteem gradually improved over the years, as those around me began to better recognize my budding talents and downplay my limitations. As I became older, I developed a deeper and deeper love and appreciation for learning. In fact, true to ADD form, I am now currently in the midst of a major career transition; I am back in college pursuing my teaching certificate. I hope that I will be able to draw upon the experiences of my formative years to support and affirm children who feel rejected or misunderstood.

Looking back on my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood, I can assert that my ADD has always been an integral part of the unique individual I am. If I somehow suddenly found a genie in a bottle who could "cure" me from ADD, I would find this offer to be quite enticing on its face. Yet, I am certain that a more thorough and balanced examination would lead me to ask the genie for something else. (In ADD fashion that something else would probably be a trip to Las Vegas or a lifetime supply of new compact disks.)

Why would I choose to remain shackled by ADD? After all, I plead guilty to still having the worst penmanship on the face of the planet, and my gift as a writer is made possible only by the invention of word processing programs (with spell check of course). I am a certifiable klutz, who will never know the joy of winning an athletic medal, burning up the dance floor, or even walking and chewing gum at the same time. I am a daydreamer, who has never learned how to tolerate boredom or passively "follow instructions." When I am deeply involved in what I love to do or am discussing subjects that interest me, I appear oblivious to the reactions of others. When I try to juggle two tasks at once, I become a spectacle of incompetence and anxiety.

Yet, If I were "blessed" with the miraculous disappearance of the above mentioned peculiarities, I am truly afraid that I would not be able to endure the sheer boredom that my new identity would present, however smooth and graceful I would appear. I would no longer remember state capitals, old sitcom episodes, song lyrics, the sights, sounds, and smells of every unique place I have ever visited, and lighthearted family anecdotes with a precision that baffles everyone around me. I would no longer possess the capacity to rapidly analyze every bit of information that I read and hear by comparing and contrasting the new fact with the existing base of knowledge in my head, however haphazard my thought processes may appear to others. I would no longer find a slice of gentle irony in almost every situation. Yet, most important of all, I would not fully understand the depths of how much it can hurt to be misunderstood by others and the heights of how great a difference simple acts of love and affirmation can make in life.

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