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By Michelle Steiner “You can go to college.” The student said. I will never forget the hope that I felt hearing those words. I did not think that with my learning disability, I was able to go to college. I had professionals who told me that I could not do it, and that if I did, I would most likely not go beyond community college. “Isn't that for smart kids?” Certainly not those with disabilities or who struggled with math. But finally, someone believed in me and gave me inspiration to follow my dreams. From the very beginning, school was a struggle for me academically and socially. I was diagnosed with a learning disability in kindergarten. My teacher noticed that I was having difficulty with writing my name, counting, tying my shoes, and doing dot-to-dot pages. I was evaluated by the school psychologist, who diagnosed me with having one. I had to repeat the grade in a new school in your district. I had specialized instruction in all areas and accommodations. The specialized instruction was designed to be based on my needs. I also had the accommodations of having the test read aloud and extended test time. Having these supports enabled me to be in the regular education classroom for Science, Social Studies, and Reading. My brain needed these accommodations to process information and to even the playing field among my peers. By the time I was in high school, I was in all regular education classes except for math and a resource room. I also struggled socially in school. I went to a small conservative school district, where if you were one of them, you were accepted. It was clear from the start that I did not fit in. Everyone knew that I struggled in the classroom and went to learning support. Quickly, I got labeled the outcast. I also had those who doubted that I could achieve my dreams with one. I had a learning support teacher who did not think that I could handle college and suggested a trade school. I also had a psychiatrist who told me that I would most likely not go beyond community college. Despite the doubts and fear, I went forward. I faced more stigma in college from both faculty and students. Disability accommodations were considered cheating. When I asked for a calculator in a math class, the professor told me we use our brains, not calculators, here. I had another professor who told me that I would have limited job choices when I graduated. My grades were dropping, and I had people tell me that I could do better. Even with all of the struggle, I did not give up. I could hear the voice of the student teacher saying, I could do it. I was able to graduate with an Associate's Degree in Early Childhood Education. I was also able to graduate from Slippery Rock University many years later. I found a program that had the least amount of math and science possible. I also had disability accommodations, and I advocated for myself. Becoming a published author was another dream of mine that came true. I always loved to read and write. I had friends in a writing group who encouraged me to write about having one. I was not ready at the time. When I was ready, it was one of the most healing things that I have ever done. Other people say that they can relate to my stories. I write about having a disability at my blog Michelle's Mission www.michellesmission.com and feature my photography too. I also work as a teacher's aide in a school for students with disabilities. I find it rewarding to help children with them. Oftentimes, listening to them is like hearing a recording of myself at their age. Many times, I hear students say that they hate their disability and wish they did not have one. I get to tell them that having a disability is not a bad thing. All the students and staff know, or will soon find out, not to ask me to help with math. My brain is not wired for that. But I can help with other subjects and life lessons. I also show my students how to advocate. One day, they will leave me, but their disability will remain. They must learn how to manage it now and speak up for themselves. I am not the same person as when I was diagnosed all of those years ago. I have gone through struggles with learning and making friends. The path to success has not always been a smooth, straight one. I have had many twists, turns, and bumps on the journey. Many people doubted me, but I also had those who believed in me. I could not have been successful without the support of family, friends, and my teachers. Especially the encouraging ones who saw the potential in me when I did not. There have been failures and hurt, but there has also been healing. Writing has been a powerful tool in this, and has given me a voice. Today, as I work with students with disabilities, I encourage them and tell them that they can do it too.
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Staring at the screen before me, endlessly morphing faces and changing voices, it kept me there, transfixed into a deep lul, neither growing nor regressing, a perfect channel filled with nothing in an empty package. I was still, my spirit was still, filled with static, calm without peace. A notification popped up on my phone as if it were to interrupt this stillness. A coworker of mine was invited to go rock climbing with some acquaintances, and he did not want to be among too unfamiliar a company, so he extended the invitation to me. I became an unwitting participant. Staring at the 15-foot wall, I decided to go forward, scaling a more difficult route, and I began by placing my feet on the proper holds, both hands where they were meant to be. One step at a time, reaching for what's just barely in my reach. Placing my right foot on the hold that was between my knees. Grabbing that U-shaped rock by stretching my body to its limit. Bringing myself up, until the final rocks of the route are at my hand. Looking down, bracing myself for the fall, and letting go. A fall, cushioned, a surreal feeling washed over me, in spite of my tired body, my mind was more than ready to tackle the next route. Hours later my body could barely move, even forming a closed fist was difficult, and when forced, painful. This pain couldn't even bother me, and as I left the bouldering wall, and went home I decided to do something more with my time. I had come to the realization, a simple one, yet one that rarely presents itself, the viability of failure. I didn't succeed every time I tackled a new route, sometimes falling midway, sometimes right at the beginning. I could feel myself becoming discouraged at times, but that feeling was supplemented with determination. The determination to eventually conquer that wall, and move on to the next one. I had come to realize that in my own life, I had come to forgo those difficult walls, the hard problems that life gives you. I grew discouraged by the initial failings, while at the same time envying those who had seemed to naturally excel. Only by falling again and again, and seeing others fall with me, did I realize there was not a single person who was the best from the beginning, we all learn from our falls more than our rises. The line that divides the competent from the incompetent is if we rise back up after we fall. I remember the first time I tried to play the piano, and considering I was only at the tender age of 7, you can only imagine the beautiful melodies I produced, which is to say, none. I stopped playing after the first time I touched the keys, yet years later, I decided it was an appropriate time to start playing again. I had no nuance, no accents, nothing to speak of, I fell over and over, stumbling upon the keys, yet it was when I struggled past my failings that I began to truly learn. That's when we learn, when we accept our failures and move past them, to gleam lessons from our falls and use them to climb just a little bit higher than before, one step at a time, one outstretched hand at a time, and one note at a time. Failures cannot define us, it is what we do with them that becomes us.
I will never forget the 100 guppy fish that lay beneath the soil of my childhood home. 100 guppy fish who came to their demise due to the innocent act of changing the temperature of the water in the tank. 100 guppy fish that lost their lives to the woman with blond hair and blue eyes, 5'3”, and a heart that holds the weight of the world. But do not fear, the perpetrator responsible for this crime organized separate funerals for all 100 of these tiny silverfish, all the while helping my sister and I find a special place to bury them all. Not only did she lead the burial service, she also made hot chocolate after the burial to help any feelings of grief fade away with each sip. Indeed I am the daughter of the said perpetrator. Growing up, my family and friends would echo the words, “Your mom is perfect, you must have learned everything you know from her.” I smile when they tell me this, usually responding with the words, “I know” or “You're right”. Admittedly, my mind wanders back to the guppy incident that happened so many years ago. This is not to say that I do not acknowledge my mother's many magnificent qualities. Like the way, she lights up a room with her smile, or her daring sense of adventure, always trying to find a way to make anything happen. I could talk about how her charming personality attracts strangers in grocery stores to come over just to say hello, or confide in her with their personal life experiences as she loads her cart with frozen vegetables. I could talk about how she embarked on a cross-country journey with a stranger. Driving from Boston Massachusetts to Arizona to pursue her passion for art. I could talk about how she is a published children's book author-illustrator who has an undying love for anthropomorphic animals. And though these things are true, I refuse to forget the moment innocent fish perished years ago, and the funeral we had for them. The 100 guppy fish we obtained when I was only 6 years old. Because if I were to forget about the guppies, I would forget about the way I watched her set up a nursery for all the newborn fish because she knew how excited her daughters would be to see the newborns. I would forget the way she held me when I got out of school after she broke the bad news, that she had accidentally changed the temperature of the water in the tank a few degrees to warm. I would forget about the trip to pet smart that occurred soon after the burial, telling my dad not to worry we are just going to “look” at the hamsters, and I would forget about the hamsters that were purchased later that day. I can't forget about the guppy fish because I can't forget any memories I have with my mom. As I am sure, anyone who meets her would hate to forget the woman who only eats the sugary tops of baked muffins. The woman is from the east coast but is bundled in a jacket and gloves anytime the weather hits below 70 degrees. The woman who knows what it is like to grow up with nothing but so willingly gives everything. The woman who doesn't let me forget about the guppies because, truly, there is light in every moment in life. So in turn, I am proud to be the daughter of the perpetrator of the mass murder of guppy fish. I am proud that I do not do well with the cold and enjoy eating the sugary tops of baked muffins. I am proud that she has come to success in writing and illustrating children's books. But I am even more proud that she creates a space where anyone can come to feel at peace. A place where friends, family, and strangers come to feel at home. A place where friends come up to me and ask to come over because my house is a place of acceptance. I have found “perfect” is perhaps not the right word, and also, I have come to realize that I wouldn't want it to be. I mean perfect doesn't come with mud pies, massive pillow forts, or star gazing on the hood of the car in the driveway. Perfect doesn't come with unexplainable tears that you just can't seem to stop, and perfect certainly doesn't come with the burial of 100 guppy fish. But I couldn't be prouder of the perfectly imperfect world she has created for me. So, I would like to thank the perpetrator for giving me a home with walls I can draw on and carpeted floors so that when I trip over my feet, it's soft when I land. Most importantly, I would like to thank her for teaching me how to make gravestones. A simple rock with a smooth face inscribed with one word serves as a reminder to remember. I would like to thank her for, after every imperfection, she would remind me that it is just another rock I can write on. Taking the hurt to the grave but never losing sight of what it taught me. These gravestones act as pillars showing me how much I have grown. They resemble the strength she has embedded in me from a young age to overcome life's imperfections. Because of my mom, I am able to stand with about a thousand gravestones. Because of my mom, I chose not to forget but instead cherish the imperfect.
I would like to take this opportunity right here, right now, to show my immense appreciation and gratitude to teachers. You do what I cannot do. You have the patience that I will never have. You amaze me every day. Teachers, I love you. And I respect you. Will you marry me? I'll do anything, if you'll only promise to never leave me again. School is a point of contention in our household. I love it, my husband loves it, my daughter likes it occasionally, and my son hates it. I can't say that I blame him either. He has ADHD and is the square peg trying to fit into the round hole when it comes to getting along at school. In the couple months leading up to spring break 2020, he was completely unable to be in his classroom all day. I would get phone calls from the school telling me that he was hanging out in the hallway with the Education Assistant because the class was too distracting. We toyed with the idea of homeschooling him. But after a trial period of about 5 days where we brought him home at midday, we realised that we didn't have the stamina for it. He asks a lot of fucking questions. They come rapid-fire, like bullets out of a semi-automatic, and he doesn't wait for the answer to the first one before asking the next twelve. The vast majority of them are obscure, or require a PhD in something like mechanical, aeronautical, or medical engineering. Despite our best efforts, he wasn't interested in going on hikes or bike rides, or doing any at-home learning. He just wanted to watch tv and play Minecraft. In the end, we worked to get him back to school for full days and agreed that we would not be bringing up homeschooling again. Ever. Obviously we all know how that turned out when lockdown rolled around. Can we just agree that there are certain things that you need an actual human in front of you for? Yes, we have amazing technology at our disposal. Yes, it has opened up the world and made things possible that were previously impossible. But as a species, we have not yet evolved past the need for human connection. The in-person kind (I can't even believe I have to specify that.) We'll know when we've evolved past it because we won't ever feel lonely. In fact, we probably won't feel anything at all. We won't feel an urge to fall in love, or have sex, or make a real friend. Until that day, a day that I hope never comes for mankind, we still need each other: not virtually, but physically. Which is why this whole virtual schooling thing is not going to work. The platform our school is using for online learning is meant for adults, therefore it has a chat box as well as the video function. At any point, students with unlimited access to their technology and minimal parent supervision can contact their teachers day and night. And they have. At all hours of the night. The school has sent out numerous emails to the parents asking them to get a handle on their kids so they don't interrupt the private lives of their teachers. It's been a disaster. But that doesn't even begin to describe the online learning portion. Each day the class has a morning meeting from 09:30-09:50. It goes a little like this: “Good morning Tiana…good morning Tiana…can you unmute yourself please? Tiana? Please can you unmute yourself? Okay I think there's an issue there, good morning Rashid, can you mute your mic please, there's too much noise in the background. I need those students that are currently using the chat box to post memes and videos to please stop because it's distracting.” That carries on for a few minutes. Then the teacher says, “Okay so now that everyone is here, we're going to do our greeting chain.” The first time I heard that, I thought, surely there must be a mistake. She just greeted everyone, didn't she? But alas, they must now greet each other. The greeting chain has a theme based on the first letter of the day of the week, such as “Wine Guzzling Wednesday” or “Fuck This Pandemic Friday.” Its success was dependent entirely on the students' level of interest (somewhere in the negative numbers for my son) and willingness to participate. While I think the exercise was an unprecedented waste of time and resources, I found plenty to be amused by. My personal favourite was when the class was playing 20 questions. The teacher held up a paper bag and asked everyone to guess what was inside. After about 47 questions, the kids had it pinned down as a food item and proceeded to list off every variety of orange they could think of. Kid: Is it an orange? Teacher: It is not an orange. Kid: Is it a clementine? Teacher: It is not a clementine. It's not an orange. Kid:…Is it a mandarin? Teacher: O.K. you guys, it's not an orange. Kid: Is it a blood orange? Teacher: *exasperated* It is NOT an orange. Kid: Is it a tangerine? Teacher: IT'S A BAGEL. A BAGEL! IT'S A BAGEL! NOT AN ORANGE! A BAGEL! AND NOW IT'S COLD! *sigh* Lets work on multiplication now.
What is the Lesson? I have always looked for lessons in everything because I know there is one. Quarantine started on March 16, 2020, for most of us. Everything was closed, shut down, and put on pause. It felt like our world was shattering, and during this pandemic storm, a tornado formed with pieces of our life, creating a trail of sorrow in our path. It started with my grandfather becoming bed ridden after a stroke he had earlier in the year. He obtained a bad case of pneumonia and his health deteriorated drastically. During a safe visit with my grandparents, my daughter and her brother went outside to play tag. The driveway was slick and sent my daughter sliding fast where she landed on her knee and cut it to the bone. Despite the risks, I rushed her to the E.R. where she received 11 stitches. As the tornado of life slashed through without ease, I watched my family pull together despite feeling conflicted no matter which way we turned. We were terrified deep within because the world was in a state of emergency. But, we held onto what we knew, and that was the love of our family. The world can't take that away. So, we held onto each other and made the most of each day. Not long after, schools canceled for the remainder of the year, leaving all kids homeschooled. Since schools and social gatherings had been stopped, all of my daughter's dance competitions (already paid for) were canceled until further notice. As if the rain couldn't give us a little sunshine in our path, our dog of six years, Bailey, got into poison from somewhere in the neighborhood and the vet couldn't save her. We had to say good-bye. Then, one evening after dinner, we were entertaining who could jump the highest on our trampoline and I came straight down as my ankle rolled underneath my body weight. To this day I do not know if it was broken, sprained, or fractured. I never went to the Doctor. And to top it all off, on Easter, several real tornadoes hit all around us. We were extremely fortunate and lost power for four days and counted our blessings for that. Using a generator, we managed to save some food and use lights in the house as well as help our neighbors with power. The schoolwork was put on hold unless we used a hot spot from our cellular devices. Here I am two years later looking back on all of these things that happened but remembering the precious times with my children and loved ones. Times that I hope they remember too. It is during these times of trial that we find our strength by lifting others. I am grateful for each of these events because it instilled some of the most beautiful memories and lessons during one of the most terrifying times. None of us knew what was to come, but we took one day at a time and made it an adventure every day. Each one of the “fortunate events” led to something amazing. When my daughter was hurt, she couldn't have danced, so the competitions being canceled was a blessing in disguise. Because our lives were put on hold, we had gained the most precious time with my grandfather before he passed away peacefully over the summer. We can never get that time back and for those moments of life on hold, I am thankful. My ankle healed, like all things do with time. Though Bailey's death was an experience filled with sadness and sorrow, we were given more time with her, and I know she knew how much she was loved. Sharing emotions together is a beautiful experience. Homeschooling the kids was a challenge, and I know others out there can relate. I kept them on a schedule because I know how important that is. I also made sure to sit with them and give them my undivided attention, making that my priority. I heard them when they would tell me, “My teacher doesn't do it like that,” or “I don't want to do this!” Even when they asked me, “Why do I have to get up early? None of my friends do this.” I understood. Listen to me. I will never give up on you, children, and you cannot give up on yourself. Never be a victim of your circumstance. Taking Time Is Okay Some of the most beautiful memories are created during the hardest times, and sometimes, the depths of our sorrow can create a beautiful world of happiness.