E is for Education—and the Lessons That Stick

Using the letter E for the A to Z Blog Challenge was another hard choice for me, but I settled on writing about education. It fits with my overall theme of things that have shaped me. But then, can’t we all say that about our education, or lack thereof, to one degree or another?

My mom and dad never made it to high school, but they were both well educated in the ways the world works. Their generation were avid newspaper readers; my mom also read a lot of fiction. My dad was self‑taught, mechanical and could fix anything. That doesn’t sound all that impressive to the Google‑it generation, who can get how‑to directions or step‑by‑step videos for things Dad’s generation had to figure out by instinct, logic and trial and error.

In my generation, finishing high school was more the norm, and I did, but I’d be the first to admit I didn’t do all that well in school. In grade school I struggled with mild, undiagnosed dyslexia paired with being left‑handed in a school where a couple of teachers tried to change the latter or pronounced me “stupid” because of the former. Today schools don’t do that, and I’ll let AI explain why: “Forcing a left-handed child to use their right hand disrupts natural brain development, often causing emotional distress, academic confusion, and neurological stress. Common consequences include reduced coordination, stuttering, dyslexia-like issues, shyness, and lower self-esteem. Handedness is rooted in brain wiring, not just habit.”

I struggled with reading and had a hard time keeping up in classes that required keeping my nose in a book. Thankfully, I excelled at art, mechanical drawing, home ec and math, so my average got me accepted—probationally—into college. There, I had to take what we students called Dumbbell English.

Something happened that summer between high school and college. It was as if the two sides of my brain quit warring over control, and I aced both semesters of Dumbbell English. It might also be because the class gave us all a fresh start without the preconceived opinions of our intelligence or lack thereof. I’ve had two outstanding teachers in my life, and the woman who taught that course was one of them. I still have the worn and tattered books we used those semesters: Basic Composition and Clear and Correct Writing.

Note to my nieces: If you ever have to move me out of Independent Living and into Memory Care, make sure these books go with me. They’ve always been my benchmarks, reminding me that I’m not stupid or dumb—words no child should ever hear an adult, much less a teacher, label them.

One of the guys who lives in my building offered me a watercolor set of his wife’s shortly after she had to go to Memory Care. “She doesn’t use them,” he said. I told him to leave them in her room unless she asks him to take them away. “She’s been an artist her whole life,” I went on. “On her good days, she probably still thinks of herself as an artist, and seeing the watercolor set could help with that.” I’m a firm believer in keeping benchmarks around for people struggling to remember who they are.

The other outstanding teacher in my life taught a class called Women in Transition that I took twenty‑three years later. It was a required, no‑credit course for—yes—older women going back to college to finish their degrees. Had I stayed in college back in the ’60s, it would have taken only a year to graduate, assuming I didn’t flunk out, which was a possibility given the fact that I had left all the heavy‑reading courses for my senior year and was still struggling with the slow-reader bugaboo. But between the ’60s and the ’80s they added a bunch more required classes, so it took me two years to finally graduate. The day I walked across the stage to get my diploma was one of the top two happiest days of my life.

If you want to hear about the other happiest day, you’ll have to come back on the 9th, when the letter H will be my muse. And no, it’s not about my wedding day. ©

 

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