Then, the labeling started. Lazy, stupid, developmentally delayed, ADHD

Chumash.

Again.

I sighed as I looked at the timetable. Should I skip?

You’re in eleventh grade, I scolded myself. Skipping class is so beyond you.

I looked around, helpless. What else should I do?

As usual, my indecisiveness landed me in trouble. Mrs. Adler strolled into the classroom, and I was thrown into the raging sea, with no life jacket on.

No one knew I fell off the boat. No one would stretch out their hand to save me. No one even knew I needed saving.

At first, they thought I needed glasses, or had a lazy eye. Then they thought I needed more time. And then? Then, the labeling started. Lazy, stupid, developmentally delayed, ADHD.

I was just a confused nine-year-old with adorable pigtails. I had no idea what they even wanted from me. I was a smart kid. I was good at dancing, I was good at drawing, I was good at numbers, but for them, I was nothing, just because I could not read.

I got into high school only because my mother was friends with the principal. Good thing she was, because otherwise I would have probably been left at home until my hair turned white.  No high school would accept a teenager who cannot read — never mind if she was a brilliant student in every other area.