My Dyslexia Confession: I'm Never Doing Macrame Again.

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BY JENNIFER SILVERMAN

Like most lessons we learn early on in life, we tend to assume that the knowledge has forever seeped into our brains.

My dyslexia confession?

It turns out that lessons don't fall into the "learned for a lifetime" category automatically – at least not for me.

Ever the overachiever, I began sporting signs of childhood dyslexia way back in preschool.

Around age three, I was eagerly tackling a pattern duplication lesson. Apparently, I did indeed recreate the pattern as instructed, but backwards.

My teacher promptly tipped off my parents that a learning disability diagnosis was in the cards.

By the time elementary school rolled around, I was officially dyslexic.

I’ve heard oodles of horror stories about students who struggled to thrive in an educational system which refused to accept the existence of various types of classroom learners - all while being reprimanded and embarrassed for learning differently.

I was so fortunate that my educational experience was largely the opposite.

Although I certainly had my share of dyslexic frustrations and encounters with students who pointed fingers, I was bolstered by extremely supportive parents and a group of very special educators who believed that every student could excel in their own way.

When I struggled with multiplication tables in elementary school, Ms. Strull invented games that enabled me to understand the concept.

When middle school science was giving me trouble, Mrs. Nefouse encouraged me to transform the teacher’s lounge into a rainforest to learn about the animal kingdom. (Turns out I’m partial to lemurs and lots of colorful construction paper.)

Mrs. Nefouse was my principal for 8 years and has been my greatest educational cheerleader and mentor for life.

She constantly reminded me that it’s okay to be different; in fact, it’s a lot more interesting. She emboldened me to not conform to the masses or their standards, but to learn in my own way and embrace my out of the box thinking.

Even though dyslexia created a lifelong challenge for me, I have always taken pride in being unique.

Everything Mrs. Nefouse and my elementary and middle school teachers taught me about my self worth and intellect were priceless gifts.

Let’s time travel to present day. Now a 38-year-old grownup, I attended a pal's birthday party, which included a macrame lesson.

I was enjoying the activity and company of my fellow partygoers, when suddenly I hit a dyslexic wall.

I realized that for the life of me, I could not wrap my brain around how to configure the yarn to achieve the desired knot - a task everyone around me accomplished with ease.

After several attempts, I was reacquainted with those familiar adolescent feelings of exasperation and embarrassment.

After decades of practicing my non-conformist affirmations, I suddenly found myself right back in middle school - and I froze.

I wanted to declare macrame passé and suggest that we all play Scrabble instead.

As I reluctantly resisted my urge to disparage macrame, I was met with some unexpected events:

First, I realized that the other partygoers became aware of my dyslexic predicament but were not judging me – in fact they immediately showed all kinds of support.

Second, while contemplating if my macrame plant hanger might just “accidentally” fall out the window, I heard Mrs. Nefouse’s comforting voice in my head:

“What are you doing? Who cares about the knot! We see the beauty in being ourselves and doing things differently, remember? Do it your own way!”

Thankful for the telepathic channeling that had miraculously manifested, I promptly invented my own knot, remembering that doing something differently is indeed, “way cool” as the preteen me would have said.

Sometimes, we need a nudge to remind us of what we already knew in middle school – just be yourself.

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