C

haim begins to learn with another resource room teacher, Mrs. Brody, who is even more skilled. Tier 3 differs from tier 1 in that the groups are smaller, the teachers are more skilled, lessons are even more targeted to specific skills, and groups may meet more frequently or for longer sessions. Analyzing Chaim’s results, Mrs. Brody sees that he scored well below benchmark in consonant letter sounds and whole word reading with the nonsense word portion of the screener, so she decides to do a more detailed diagnostic assessment to pinpoint which areas of phonics he should work on. She will then meet with him in a small group four days a week instead of three times, and for 40 minutes each session instead of 30.  Chaim’s progress is also monitored closely.

One thing to keep in mind: In Morah Yehudis’s classroom, 80 percent of the class was meeting benchmark expectations via the universal screener. That means that the school’s tier 1 program is effective and doing its job. But if less than 80 percent of the grade is meeting benchmark expectations, and more than 20 percent of the group is slated for intervention, that is a sign that schools need to look very closely at the regular curriculum and classroom teaching and make some changes. “You can’t intervene your way out of a tier 1 problem,” is a quote that’s been making the rounds.

MTSS differs significantly from the “business as usual” approach that is the default in many schools — where schools only address learning challenges as noticed in the classroom by the teacher as the year progresses. Those are “wait to fail,” reactive approaches. Instead, MTSS focuses on prevention and is proactive. It ensures that the tier 1 curriculum is so strong and effective that it prevents students from needing tier 2 and 3 in the first place. Tiers 2 and 3 are expensive for schools (smaller groups, more staff), so ensuring that tier 1 is solid and preventative is the goal. In addition, the later schools intervene with struggling readers, the more complicated and difficult it becomes to successfully remediate, which is also a drain on school resources.

MTSS also differs as it means that the decisions about which students receive intervention are data driven. In some schools I’ve worked at, the decision regarding which students went to the resource room was entirely up to the teacher. With MTSS, the data from assessment is the main criterion in the decision-making process, and it isn’t solely up to a teacher to decide that, for example, little Suri is too much for her to handle in the classroom and must go out.

With MTSS, all the systems in the school are integrated, instead of operating on parallel tracks. Another difference is that the classroom and intervention instruction is systematic and explicit, unlike other (formerly) popular methods that have no research base for their effectiveness. Finally, there is an emphasis on collaborative problem- solving. No decision is made solely by the administrator or teacher; all members of the team weigh in.

One academic language therapist shared with me that when she began work, her school had approximately 70 percent of second-grade students meeting benchmark goals. Implementing MTSS bumped that up to 95 percent of all students meeting these goals. That’s an incredible statistic — and I believe that it’s one all schools can match.

Let’s make sure that our schools offer instruction that will ensure every student has the best chance of success. We can do this with three simple steps:

School leaders need to educate themselves in evidence-based practices in all aspects of teaching reading. There’s so much available research, and it’s the responsibility of school leaders to be informed.

Schools should adopt a universal screener such as Acadience, Aimsweb, mCLASS by Amplify, or i-Ready — all use some form of DIBELS (Dynamic Indicators of Basic Early Literacy Skills) to screen students in grades pre-1A/kindergarten/ primary to second grade three times a year to determine risk of reading failure, and track progress. This way, schools will have the ability to make data-driven decisions about individual students and groups of students.

After implementing a screener, schools will be able to make observations about their tier 1 curriculum. If the outcomes are poor (as stated, less than 80 percent of the grade meeting the benchmark), schools should ask questions and make decisions to help improve tier 1 instruction. Screen and ask questions BEFORE purchasing new curricula.

Remember, MTSS is about prevention. Screening and strengthening tier 1 instruction with evidenced-based methods are the first steps in setting up systems to ensure that no child is left behind.

Devorah Sasson, EdD has been involved in Jewish education since 2000 and works as a literacy coach/consultant at YBH of Passaic. She is admin of the 200+ member Google group Great Literacy Leaders of Yeshivas/Bais Yaakovs/Jewish Day Schools.

One Word at a Time

As told to Sara Bonchek

A mother’s fight to have her daughter properly assessed and assisted

MY daughter was dealt a bad hand. She was in pre-1A and had just started to learn to read when Covid shut the world down. If a kid is going to have reading problems, then they’re going to be even worse if they’re learning to read by telephone, following along with a booklet while the teacher conducts a class to the background noise of each student’s busy household. When they went back to frontal classroom learning, the teachers moved right along as if the past year hadn’t happened, and my daughter was left far, far behind.

It wasn’t that my daughter struggled to read. She simply couldn’t. She didn’t recognize any of the letters — not their sound, not their shape, not their name. Nothing.

Her second-grade teacher called me early on in the school year. She sounded like a little girl (she was all of 19, fresh out of seminary) and the advice she gave me reflected that. She told me in her sweet, naive voice, “Homework is such an important part of the educational process. If you would just review the letters with her at home for five to ten minutes every night, her reading will fall into place.”

“I’ll try reading with her every evening,” I responded as politely as I could manage. “But really, if a child at second-grade level can’t even identify the letters of the alef-beis or the alphabet, then five to ten minutes of review a night isn’t going to do the trick. There’s obviously something much more serious going on.”

“At Bais XYZ, we all really want Chayale to succeed, Mrs. Berger,” she told me, lines clearly fed to her by the hanhalah. “And we all need to work together to achieve that.”

I hung up, resentful. Did she think I didn’t want my daughter to succeed? That I was a bad mother standing in the way of my daughter’s success, and that if not for the teacher’s proactivity, Chayale would fail?

I

tried to get Chayale to sit down with me each evening and review the letters. She wasn’t interested. I had to beg and plead and bribe and threaten. And finally, when she would sit down next to me on the couch, she’d look at the kriah booklet and her cheeks would flush pink. After a minute or two of starting blankly at the black-on-white rows of letters, she’d tell me she was hungry. Or needed a drink. Or the bathroom. Or she just needed to see what the other kids were doing.

I sensed the tension in her, and it reminded me of my own experiences in elementary school, struggling with reading. My mother would patiently explain concepts to me over and over again, and I’d be so afraid of disappointing her, but I couldn’t comprehend her explanations. I saw the same fear of disappointing me in Chayale’s eyes.

I didn’t want that to be our relationship.

I called the school and asked to have her evaluated by the Board of Education so she could get state-funded assistance and a tutor in school to solve the problem.

“Her teacher thinks she just needs more practice,” the principal said. “I hear that you think this is more serious than that. Let’s give her a few months practicing reading at home and then we’ll reassess.”

I wasn’t happy with that response. She was already in second grade. If we waited a few months, it would already be winter. Then there would be the evaluation process and then, if she qualified, the application process for her to receive help. It would be Purim time before anything would happen, and by Pesach, the school year would already be winding down for the summer.

This was urgent. It couldn’t wait a few months.

But this was Lakewood, where the schools called the shots. And I had a daughter in seventh grade. I needed the school’s help to get her into high school. I couldn’t afford to push more and risk getting on the school’s bad side.

I tried reading with her in the evenings. I really did.

But our mutual feelings of frustration and despair careened into each other, each crash creating electric sparks. The homework battle was taking such a huge toll on the atmosphere in our home, and I realized I. Could. No. Longer. Do. This.

I stopped trying with her altogether. We simply pretended that she didn’t have homework.

I felt so guilty. Like I was neglecting my daughter. Like I was such a bad mother.

But there was still a lioness in me that wanted the best for my daughter, and so I pushed again for her to be evaluated.

This time, the school agreed.

And what do you know? It turned out she had a serious reading disability.

For her, the letters didn’t sit still on the page. They swam all over it.

I felt so validated. So relieved.

She started working with an OT and reading specialists in the resource room. And we started to see progress. Slowly, slowly, she learned to read.

She was still reading far below grade level: She was halfway through second grade and reading like a first grader. And that really affected how she felt about herself. Even though the evaluation showed she had a high IQ, she labeled herself “dumb.”

Before a class play, the teacher had the girls write a note to their mothers and hang it on the bulletin board outside the classroom. I saw her how she turned her head and went red when I examined hers — everyone else had written lines and lines of words in small, neat handwriting. She’d only managed a sentence.

One Sunday, three of her classmates came over. Their class row had been selected to make signs in honor of their upcoming siyum. I saw the concentration on Chayale’s face as she formed the letters and decorated her poster. The others were done way before she was. And when she held hers up next to theirs, it was so clearly inferior. Her mouth turned down and she tossed it onto the playroom floor.

I arranged a lot of extracurricular activities for her so she would have a place to shine outside of school, and because she had a great voice, she was accepted into a choir and given a lot of solos. That really helped her self-confidence.

Then the school approached me, saying there was a program that had seen success worldwide and was now piloting in Lakewood. Only a handful of girls in all of Lakewood would be able to join the pilot, and my daughter had been accepted from her school. I was a little apprehensive to send her to something being piloted, something I didn’t know a lot about, and told the principal that.

“Who’s running it?” I asked. “Who are the tutors?”

“Don’t worry,” she assured me. “It’s based on a program that’s very sound and has a lot of success.”

“But how do I know if the people running it are well-trained in the program?”

“Mrs. Berger!” The principal sounded exasperated. “This is a once-in-a lifetime opportunity. I care very much about Chayale. We’re on the same team here. I’d only suggest something that was in her best interests.”

I felt so much pressure to be a cooperative parent. And I was scared. What if I said no? Would they always use that against me, always tsk-tsk if she continued to struggle? Would they insist that if only I’d sent her to this program, she’d be fine?

So I sent her. It was after hours, once a week. I drove there and back to the other side of town.

A few months later, a teacher from the resource room called me. “Hi, Mrs. Berger,” she said cheerfully. “I wanted to ask you… uh, is everything okay with Chayele? Is there something going on at home?”

My heart started pounding. What on earth?

“No, everything seems to be fine. Why are you asking?”

“Well… Chayale had been moving along so nicely, and now she’s regressing. We’re taking some serious steps back.”

“Oh wow! I don’t know what to say. The only thing I can think of is that she’s doing this new program… maybe that’s….”

“What program is this?”

I bit my lip. “Well, the principal recommended it. She said it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“I don’t know what to say, either. Maybe you should raise this with them?”

I called the coordinator at the pilot reading program and told her about the resource room teacher’s call.

“That’s great news,” she said.

I thought I’d misheard. “Sorry?”

“This program uses a different methodology to get the brain to learn how to read. It’s almost as if we’re rewiring the brain, so the old methodologies that the resource room teachers are using aren’t working anymore.”

“You’re rewiring my daughter’s brain?” I exploded. “Oh, my goodness, you’d better make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Panicked, I reached out to her OT, who’d helped her so much and whose opinion I really respected. She was less than thrilled. “Regression is never a good thing. It should always be a red flag.”

I was at a loss for what to do. I was hearing two conflicting messages about this program and the best way for my daughter to learn to read. Uncertain, I decided to wait out the year, but not to continue if the program offered anything further for next year.

Now my daughter’s in third grade. She’s reading, baruch Hashem, but she’s still playing catch-up with the rest of the class. As much progress as she makes, everyone else is making progress, too, so the gap between them and her is enormous.

Reading is still hard for her. She does it slowly. She continues to go to the resource room and has modified tests and homework, but the success she sees there is building up an image of herself as someone who can succeed.

No, she doesn’t curl up with a book on long Friday nights. But yesterday, she looked through the catalog of Purim costumes and was able to read the descriptions. That was a huge achievement.

We’re not aiming to make a scholar out of her. We’re aiming for her to be able to function. And there, we’re reaching our goal. One word at a time.

Late Bloomer

Orlie Gold

A woman shares her journey as she battled to master basic kriah

I am in kindergarten, in one of the biggest classes in my tiny school. I am a little girl who loves sports and stories. It’s time to start learning kriah. I don’t seem to be catching on as quickly as my peers, but my confidence doesn’t waver.

I am in first grade. My first siddur is the few pages of davening we’ve learned, its cover made of cardboard wrapped in aluminum. My teacher tells us to treasure our siddur and I try, I really do. But I don’t like when I’m called on to read. I read very slowly and it makes me feel bad, so I try to be funny in class instead. I’m not really sure why, but it doesn’t work. The kids don’t laugh and I get in trouble for the first time.

In second grade, I have a scary teacher who is sometimes really fun. We learn Shemoneh Esreh for the first time; each paragraph is a song. I love to sing, so I am great at davening. I’m terrified when the teacher calls on me. After I read, my tummy hurts and a knot swells in my throat. I feel different from everyone.

I am a third grader now. I haven’t davened all summer. I am excited to relearn the songs I was so good at singing in school. I have the same teacher as last year. This year, we learn that really, Shemoneh Esreh is meant to be davened quietly, so we aren’t going to be singing out loud. I am devastated. I don’t remember the songs, so I stand in silence and wait for davening to be over. I am not good at davening anymore.

I am a fourth-grade girl. I feel big because I have multiple teachers now. In Chumash, I love the stories we learn, but I hope my teachers don’t call on me. We start to learn shorashim. I’m not getting it. I know I’m not. I embarrass myself in front of my class way too many times to count. When I ask my teacher to translate things for me, she gives me a look that makes me feel small. Like I’m asking a question that shouldn’t be asked. Like I should know this already, but I don’t. I don’t want to try anymore.

During davening, I sing the songs I think I know to myself. I try to do it quietly, but sometimes, my voice is heard and girls tell me that they heard me singing the wrong words. My cheeks flush as I deny what I know is true. I am a terrible davener.

In fifth grade, I keep up my charade at davening, but I’m better at pretending now. I think this teacher is my scariest one yet. Everyone else seems to like the teacher, so maybe there’s something wrong with me? I am glad when I’m pulled out of Ivrit to learn extra Chumash and Navi. The tutor is nice and interested in me and the things I like. I start to feel comfortable asking questions and I am actually learning. I come into Chumash and Navi class already knowing the material, so I look smart. I feel more confident, but I resent the fact that I have to do double the work to keep up with the rest of my class. I don’t realize that missing Ivrit means that I am giving up something else instead.

A similar schedule continues into sixth grade. I get extra help in Chumash and Navi when the rest of my class has Ivrit.

When Rosh Hashanah comes around, my mother tells me it’s time for me to be in shul and not helping the babysitter with the kids. I hate it. I don’t know what is going on, when to stand and sit, or when to bow. Shemoneh Esreh is even more confusing than ever. I sit and stand for hours, pretending to whisper to myself. Yom Kippur is the same. I hope Hashem forgives me.

O

ne Shabbos, I confess my davening challenges to my closest friend. I don’t see pity in Esti’s eyes, just understanding. She suggests that I teach myself Shemoneh Esreh little by little. “Start by reading the first paragraph while everyone else davens. Maybe that’s enough time for you to finish the first paragraph. And when you’re comfortable with it, you can say it faster and teach yourself the next paragraph. And the next one. And then you’ll be able to say the entire Shemoneh Esreh.”

Relief fills me as I resolve to try this new path.

The following Monday, every syllable is an unbearable challenge as the rest of my class’s lips race swiftly to the finish line. I am at a crawl. When the first student steps back from her davening, I am almost finished. I take my three steps along with my class and don’t feel empty inside.

For seventh grade, I have young, fresh-out-of-seminary teachers for Chumash and Navi who command a classroom, but do not engender fear. I continue to get tutoring during Ivrit. I continue to shrink into my seat when my teachers search for a girl to read a pasuk.

I start to study by choice now. My grades rise slightly, but I know I’m still the dumbest. I don’t really care that my teachers or parents believe I could have done better. I know I couldn’t have.

My crawl in davening has progressed to toddler walking. My reading skills do not improve, but my memorization of the paragraphs does. I read through the paragraphs I “graduated” from as quickly as I can so that I have the time I need to painfully work my way through every syllable of each word in my new paragraph. Each decision to start a new paragraph requires mental preparation. By the time seventh grade ends, I am at a walking pace for half of Shemoneh Esreh.

By the time eighth grade rolls around, I have Schottenstein Interlinear translated machzorim for Yamim Noraim that my Bubby got for me. While I struggle with the Hebrew, I can read English much faster and still keep my eyes on the page that contains Hebrew words. I don’t have to be standing for Shemoneh Esreh for what feels like hours. When the other girls in shul take their three steps back, I’m about ten minutes behind them instead of 30.

My efforts in school start to show.

I work through Elokai Netzor in the last month of school. Overwhelming relief washes over me as I progressively become familiar with the words. I can now complete Shemoneh Esreh and cross the finish line with my class. I finish last, but that doesn’t really matter to me. I’m not so far behind the last girl.

I’d want to go away for high school, but it’s not worth it. More people will know how dumb I am.

In ninth grade, I am alone. Esti chose to attend the school I shied away from, and my insides swarm with regret. The rest of my class is academically advanced. I spend most of my lunch periods with the class above me. They don’t seem to mind my presence and they don’t make me feel small.

During davening, I pour my heart out to Hashem. I pray that I can be successful. I pray that I can get good enough grades to go to seminary. I pray for Mashiach, because certainly then my turmoil will end.

In tenth grade, I am just a zombie, trudging my way through each day. I have some teachers that I know care about my success, and they put so much effort into pushing me through this grade. Sometimes it’s enough, and sometimes I fall short. I get some of the highest grades I have ever seen in red pen next to my name, but I know it’s because I was given special treatment.

I beg my parents to send me somewhere else. Is there even a school out there with more girls like me?

My principal meets with my parents in the last weeks of the school year. They decide that sending me away is the right thing to do. I am so touched that my principal saw I had this need.

We travel to a school that is further away. I sit in classes with the girls in my grade and meet the principal. Most of the girls are friendly and schmooze with me like I’m a normal person. I think I can fit in here.

I begin 11th grade in a new school. I have a new uniform, and I start to mold into my class. I make friends with a group of girls who have varying success in school. I find that I’m not the dumbest girl at all. I’m straight down the middle of my grade.

I am placed in Ivrit class for the first time in years. I’m light-years behind, but I try my best because I am happy. My davening in school is full of gratitude. I duck out of being chazzanis as often as I can manage because the entire school davens together. They daven parts I haven’t managed to teach myself yet. They say perakim of Tehillim that I never learned. I guess I better start learning now so I can be ready when the principal chooses me.

On the day of my first Chumash test here, my teacher places two piles on his desk. “I have two tests here,” he says. “One has questions written in English. One in Hebrew. The test you choose will not affect your grade.”

Each girl goes up to take a test. I am not the only one who takes a test from the English pile.

I head home for the summer looking forward to returning as a senior. I am actually excited to attend school.

I walk into school for orientation of my senior year. The friends that I haven’t seen in two months come running to hug me. My heart swells with warmth I can hardly process.

I daven to get into seminary. I daven that all of the work I have done has been enough. I am more familiar with the parts of tefillah I didn’t know last year, but I still avoid being chazzanis at all costs. However, my friends teach me to grow braver. Chani takes the Hebrew tests even though she knows she struggles in Hebrew. Leah and Sara mark their calendars for multiple scholarship essays to submit. I volunteer to be chazzanis once or twice.

I get into seminary. I choose a Bais Yaakov that is not academic, exactly what I need.

The summer before seminary, my mother gets kriah help on Skype for my youngest sister. I never knew there was such a thing as a kriah specialist. I have an appointment on Skype for an assessment. It is awkward. I hate being forced to read Hebrew aloud.

Conclusion: I do not have a learning disability. I just wasn’t taught to read the right way for me.

We only have a couple of lessons together before I head off to seminary. He sends me a kriah packet to practice while I’m in seminary. Hopefully, this can boost my confidence so I’m not terrified of being called on. One glance at the packet and I am deterred. It brings me back to kindergarten. The specialist gives me tips like sounding out the words in my head before I say them aloud. I feel so degraded, a sinking feeling in my heart. I hide away the packet, hoping no one ever finds it. It’s just too little, too late for me.

MY

seminary year begins with fluttering anticipation. With hopes and dreams for successful growth. There is a wide variety of girls here. Academic and non-academic girls; in-town and out-of-town; high-maintenance and simple. I weave my way through, figuring out where I fit.

On Rosh Hashanah, I challenge myself to say every word of Shemoneh Esreh in Hebrew, even if I finish long after everyone else. The challenge is brutal, but I manage it. On Yom Kippur, I attempt to do the same, and I feel like I accomplished something.

I take advantage of the tutors the seminary offers for the most challenging classes. Mrs. Meisels’s class terrifies me. I complete my homework sheets, but I know that when tests come around, I don’t stand a chance. I am grateful that I’m rarely asked to read. I try to drink in as much inspiration as I can in my classes. I develop a desire to marry a ben Torah, something I never would have considered before.

For my model lesson, I meet with a model lesson coach. I am only doing this because the seminary requires it. I am terrified. My model lesson coach is sweet and guides me to form a solid lesson plan. As we near the end of our last session, we schmooze about seminary. I mention that I want to marry someone who will learn for a while, but I can’t because I can’t translate a pasuk, let alone a meforesh! My coach listens to me with understanding.

She tells me, “Your husband can be the leader of Torah in your home. That’s okay. In fact, that’s good. Let your children go to him for help with Chumash and Navi. And together, you can be the leaders in ruchniyus in your household.”

My thought process shifts. Suddenly, I recognize that knowing how to read and translate a Rambam isn’t a prerequisite to marry a ben Torah.

The day of my final for Mrs. Meisles’s class, I am as prepared as I’ll ever be. I am astounded at the number of girls who don’t show up to the final. I can see Mrs. Meisles is, too. As I work hard on my test, I see that she is proud of me for just being here.

Hashem brings me my bashert rather quickly. We get married and move to Eretz Yisrael. I slowly reveal my struggles with kriah and my husband gently encourages me to read for him. When I finally do, he kindly tells me I don’t read slowly at all. I think he is lying, but he assures me of it. Maybe I don’t read painfully slow?

I am expecting our first child. I daven passionately that she shouldn’t have the same struggles that I had. Hashem, please let her be smart! Life is so much easier when you’re successful academically.

She is born and she is perfect. I was made for motherhood. I have always loved babies, and now, I get to have my very own. As she grows and develops, I can tell she is bright. I can tell Hashem has answered my tefillos.

We move back to the States after we have another child. We register our oldest in one of the local schools, and she is off to start her career as a student. I daven when I can, but sometimes it’s hard to find the energy and the drive. Between carpools and laundry and suppers and my online master’s program, davening time is slim. But when I make the time, I pray for my husband’s learning and my children’s success. I don’t attend local Tehillim gatherings. I still do not have enough confidence in my kriah to take a random booklet from the top of the pile without knowing the perakim I am signing myself up for.

My oldest begins kindergarten. She has an amazing morah who is like a sweet, firm bubby. She has a kriah sefer. She is reviewing her letters from preschool. We start adding nekudos. I do kriah homework with her every night, determined to make this a positive experience for her. I am catching on to her morah’s method. It strengthens a foundation in my brain that I had left behind long ago. I notice I am reading faster. I can say new perakim of Tehillim without feeling weighed down with struggle. I am learning to read alongside my daughter!

At parent-teacher conferences, we speak to her morah about how impressed we are with her teaching method. She tells us she has been a morah for this age for many years. She found most kriah programs to be unsuccessful. There was never a transfer from sounding out syllables to being able to read full words smoothly. The intellectually inclined students managed, but so many fell behind. She developed her own method of kriah and her own sefer.

I was never dumb. In fact, I was probably always average. I just needed a method that spoke to me. I never should have given up on myself. I am incredibly grateful to this morah for the difference she has made.

I am not ashamed to tell my children of my struggles in school. I encourage them to review, explain to them that it is normal. Being a bad student is no fun when you are capable of more. I know that more than anyone.

My kriah improvements have ignited a spark of confidence in me. A spark that tells me I can take on a new perek of Tehillim, even if I haven’t practiced the words. A spark that says I can help my child with her Chumash review when my husband isn’t available.

My husband is still the leader in Torah in our household, but I am right alongside him.

Deviant Intelligence

As told to Bashie Lisker

Her dyslexia didn’t stop her from fulfilling her academic dreams

It’s not that I couldn’t see the words on the page. They weren’t swimming around or backward. But something was lost in translation between the page and my brain. When I’d process the letters I had seen, there would be massive gaps, missing chunks that I didn’t know were gone. I got good at filling in the gaps between words, solving the puzzle of what I was reading from clues like pictures.

I didn’t know I was dyslexic until I turned 17. I was blessed with an inquisitive mind and a love for knowledge, and I was great at science and math, but any kind of reading — English or Hebrew — was a struggle. I used to sit there in high school when we would go around and read paragraphs aloud, counting how long it would be until my turn. Over and over, I’d try to review the paragraph, but humiliating mistakes would still emerge.

I guess I developed a complex about it. I had to prove to people that I wasn’t stupid. I loved learning! But still, I felt stupid sometimes, embarrassed that I couldn’t manage to be a competent student. The school recognized that I wasn’t doing it intentionally, and some teachers worked with me and read my tests aloud.

Others blamed the fact that I was a foreigner — I moved back and forth between Israel and the United States several times, and they thought that it was the problem. There were some teachers who wouldn’t give me a break, and I resented them. They saw me struggling and decided that I was making it up, instead of suggesting that there might be something more at play. Overall, academics left me feeling like I didn’t measure up.

College was even worse. I was good at grasping science. Really good. Being dyslexic, I had to learn how to decipher the gaps between the words I read and the words I processed. It made me excellent at decoding puzzles in a different way from most people. I signed up for classes in scientific disciplines, but then I’d watch my peers read through journals and fly through exams while I had to work to get through each page. It was demoralizing. It kept reinforcing that I didn’t belong there. It took seven years for me to get my degree because my grades were so terrible, but I pushed through anyway, determined to see this through.

And I wasn’t done once I’d finished college. My dream was to become a researcher, to explore the inner workings of the brain. For my master’s, I worked on this amazing research project on the development of optic nerves in the frontal lobe, but I failed out of the actual classwork. I was told to leave the program and not return.

What was I doing here? I’d never get far when reading was such a struggle. I was sure that I’d just wasted ten years of my life on research when I wasn’t cut out for it. I was ready to give up. And then, Covid hit. A friend remembered that I was great with my hands and at the technical lab work, and I wound up in a Covid lab, studying RNA. There were plenty of people there who were just opening samples and doing busywork. But through sheer Hashgachah pratis, I was put with the PhDs and postdocs doing the real analysis.

Finally, I excelled. Because I was dyslexic, I was able to think outside the box in a way that most people couldn’t, and I was appreciated in the lab in a way that I hadn’t been in school. I was recruited for research and development, heading a small team, and I went really far there.

After that job, I was offered another job in cancer research, working alongside PhDs, doing the same work for the same pay. I was on a high. I was making lots of money, doing cool things, going to conferences, still with only my first degree. But spiritually, it wasn’t the best place for me. I had so little time for my family, and it was an environment where I felt like I had to downplay my frumkeit so I could fit in. A week after my next promotion, I quit the job.

F

amily complications interrupted my career path for a while, but I couldn’t stay away from research forever. I’m passionately curious. The brain was the final frontier for me. And I was still so fascinated by research, and ready to go back to work.

But yet again, my grades were a barrier I couldn’t get past. When I would apply for new jobs, they would ask for my GPA, and then I’d stop hearing from them or they’d just respond incredulously. But I didn’t give up. After years of being recognized for my abilities, of seeing how I could manage teams and work alongside people who didn’t have my limitations, I finally believed in myself. I wasn’t ready to stop trying.

In a bold move, I turned my attention to the Weizmann Institute of Science, one of the most illustrious research institutes in the world. The first few labs there asked for my GPA first. One of them actually said to me, “You’re really… with these grades, you’re really looking at Weizmann?” But I kept at it until finally, one professor asked for my references before my GPA.

I got the job studying prefrontal circuits in the brain. What was cool about Weizmann was that they didn’t care about my test grades. They cared how my experiments were coming out. They cared about the novel ideas that I was pushing through. The professor in charge respected my brand of “deviant intelligence” and strongly believed that it was the only way that science could grow.

Now, I work in the lab and teach neuroscience in a seminary course, dropping cutting-edge scientific information to my students.

At the end of the day, I have one degree. I’m not an academic. I even struggle to call myself a scientist. But I finally have a healthier self-conception. I understand my unique intelligence in seeing things out of the box so I can problem-solve in ways that people can’t even imagine. It took actually being in a lab, doing the practical work instead of reading about it from a book, for me to recognize that I had these abilities.

Hashem gave me a gift, obscured as it might have been for years, and I finally appreciate it now.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 946)