Below is an essay I wrote in my English 1320 course in the Spring of 2012. The prompt was to write about a personal borderland, or struggle, that we have experience in our lives. My professor Carter Maddox encouraged me to write about what it was like growing up with an undiagnosed learning disability and then later insisted I submit this essay to the Writing Center Essay contest.
A few years ago I decided wanted to keep a journal of some sort, however because my handwriting is so terrible the idea of a handwritten journal was not appealing, so I turned to Tumblr, therefore explaining my handle ScratchedOut27. So, I feel it fitting to post my essay here. My professors overwhelminly positive response to this essay meant so, so much to me. To have a person, who I am sure has read more pieces of writing than I can imagine, to say that my essay about my chicken scratch penmanship is one of the most moving pieces of student work he has ever read is just crazy awesome. I always found my learning disability to be so dumb, but here now, in this moment, I appreciate it.
Thank you so much Carter for being an incredible professor.
ENG 1320
Carter Maddox
2 May 2012
Trapped Words
Words and thoughts trapped never read or understood, always messy and forgotten—everyday I struggle to free myself from my own personal borderland labeled dysgraphia, a transcription disability. My psychological borderland may be nothing like the many inflicted upon Gloria Anzaldua in “How to Tame a Wild Tongue”, yet the silencing of my written voice by its own creator, my hands, negatively affected my self-esteem and academics until I embraced and adapted to my dysgraphia.
As a child the chicken scratch writing, barely legible, often mistaken as a boy’s handwriting, created such grief and frustration my positive development as an individual hindered. At four years old my mother put rubber bands on my fingers and around my wrist forcing me to hold my pencil correctly. Her attempts did little but anger me. For Christmas, Santa gave me special pencil grips, but still I could never master the “Tripod Pencil Grasp”. In kindergarten the teachers took away my jumbo fat pencil, replaced by the more debilitating standard number two pencil. The first grade arrived and it was time to learn how to properly write the alphabet. I excelled at ‘O’s but that was about it. My letters never looked like the example or my fellow classmates, mine were ugly and muddled. During recess, girls made ‘signs’, drawing each other’s names in fancy bubble letters with markers. In my attempt to fit in I would join them, yet it would only result in mockery and insincere laughter, my ‘signs’ never looking half as good as the other girls. I felt so stupid and inadequate. I am a perfectionist and it kills me to have such awful handwriting and I never knowing why. Many people said it would improve in time, it never did. What additionally aggravated me was my mother’s own famously beautiful penmanship. Such elegance she can give to a simple checklist, every letter evenly spaced connecting to the next with perfect flourish. Friends and family often would assume or ask if I inherited my mother’s gift of calligraphy, only to discover my disappointing illegible scribbles. I envied her talent, which to her held little value. I spent hours tracing over her words hoping to memorize each motion. It never stuck. My poor handwriting, this seemingly silly borderland, has affected me so greatly I am too embarrassed to write letters or ever volunteer as scribe for group project. My messy handwriting bothers me so much I even feel less feminine. What real woman, more so what sorority woman, cannot write a letter of gratitude by hand like traditionally done? Sadly I cannot, and for the longest time I never had an answer as to why.
The embarrassing chicken scratch became my unwanted trademark even in high school. Friends would tease me and constantly ask how I could even read my notes. I had no quick defense to spat back; I honestly could not read my notes. My illegible handwriting, later to be diagnosed as dysgraphia, had such a tight rein on my academic performance, thus my grades suffered. Not until sophomore year of high school did I discover I have the learning disability. Dysgraphia is a transcription disability, meaning that it is a writing disorder associated with impaired handwriting. Individuals with dysgraphia, like myself, often have underdeveloped fine motor skills therefore have difficulty with the processing of written words and finger sequencing, the movement of muscles required to write. Dysgraphia can overlap with other learning disabilities such as dyslexia or attention deficit disorder, ADD. Before ever having knowledge of dysgraphia, I was diagnosed with ADD, but at the time I was tested for attention deficit disorder I was too young confirm apparent dysgraphic symptoms. By far the greatest factor of the learning disability many people cannot fathom is the inability for the dysgraphic individual to comprehend the information once written. Although my handwriting is extremely messy it is possible for some people to read, however this does not benefit me because I myself cannot read my own handwriting. I finally had a real answer, yet the diagnosis did little to improve my situation or feeling towards my handwriting. Quick from the start, I developed early as a toddler, teaching myself to read at barely three years old so it seemed unlikely for the dysgraphia to result from intellect yet, as a child unknowingly dealing with a learning disability I thought I was stupid. As I matured I understood my psychological borderland did not result from a lack of intelligence, I just could not write well and until I adapted to the disorder I would not succeed. Annoyed and dismissive, teachers would not believe me when I explained the learning disability. No reasoning or compassion was given and instead teachers thought me to be lazy and only filled with excuses. I was expected to take notes by hand like everyone else, but unlike everyone else I could not read them. I remained embarrassed to have some else edit my writings, not afraid of their opinion of the quality of my ideas, but of the fear they would be incapable of deciphering them. So I took extra time and conscious effort to write as neatly as possible but still the letters and words blurred together. No matter how invested or interested in the subject matter I could not decode the scribbles and scratches that filled the lined spiral pages. Like how Anzaldua was expected to speak a certain language, ”to accommodate English speakers rather than having them accommodate,” teachers expected me to write in a copy they could read not one that accommodates my needs (Anzaldua 81). Almost even more classic than the Diet Coke addiction is the teachers red inked cursive commentary, always in the footnotes of my handwritten papers or assignment my teachers would mention the indecipherable handwriting or deducted for neatness. At times I felt it was completely unfair for points to be docked because my assignments were messy, my thoughts or arguments were not inadequate but their physical appearance. Until teachers accepted my learning disability and were willing to adapt “my tongue will be illegitimate,” my thoughts trapped and never given the credit deserved (Anzaldua 81).
Not until a student in university have I successfully adapted to my learning disability. I came to college expecting to utilize my laptop for note taking only to discover most professors do not allow students to use laptops or other electronic devices in class. I placed all hope in the keyboard of my new MacBook Pro, shocked by the anti-technology policy I spoke with my Cultural Anthropology professor. Luckily she was nice and understanding, but explained to me most professors will not be so tolerate. We cut a deal, for the first unit she required me to handwrite all of my notes, the second unit I would type the lecture notes, if my second exam grade improved dramatically than the first exam I would be allowed technology privileges. As expected I failed the first exam, I had to rely solely off of notes I could not even read. It may have been the study of past cultures, however it did not mean writing like a Neanderthal was acceptable. After typing notes my exam grades went from a low D to no lower than a 98. That experiment confirmed the best solution to deal with the dysgraphia was to get approved technology privileges. Hesitant and embarrassed to register with the Office of Disability Services, I arranged an appointment with an adviser to discuss my options. I am still shy to mention I am approved by ODS, but I should have no shame, my academic success was in jeopardy and I took the initiative necessary to secure it. Yes it took a few years to finally accept my dysgraphia like Anzaldua said, “I will no longer be made to feel ashamed of existing. I will have my voice,” (Anzaldua 81).
I spent so many years frustrated and aggravated with myself wishing I could just be normal, unknowing I would one day accept my dysgraphia, the psychological borderland that created lower grades and lower self-esteem. I have had to adapt and adjust with my dysgraphia. I try to be as electronically efficient as possible, typing my notes and keeping an agenda in my phone. I refuse to allow my deficits drown me. It is unimaginable how something so small like the way you write affects the rest of your life. Everyday I am forced to face my biggest challenge and my borderland releasing my words.
I have attached a handwritten version of my essay for a reason. Although you expect our essays to be typed, thank God, some teachers and professors in the past have only accepted handwritten papers or essays. In these cases I can’t help but wonder how often the legibility of handwriting has come into factor. Would my grade be any different when typed versus the same handwritten version? I understand not everyone has perfect penmanship and most people are in rush to complete their thought before it escapes them, yet I am still curious. If you had asked for a handwritten version on our paper would you be able to not only read mine entirely but also understand my written voice? Or would you be distracted by its imperfection visually, unable to make out any valuable thoughts?
I ask this because when I physically write an essay I personally feel my written voice fade. I become too stressed just trying to write neatly enough that all desire to write dies. Even though I can barely read my writings I feel like the reader would be able to sense this somehow. It may just be because I know myself but I just wonder if there is any difference between the papers.
Works Cited
Anzaldua, Gloria. “How to Tame a Wild Tongue,” Borderlands/La Frontera, The New Mestiza.
3rd ed. San Fransico: Aunt Lute Books, 1987. 81. Print.
The revised handwritten version corrupted so attached is the original file prior to suggested edits by my professor.
Loving this post by an amazingly brave woman. Thank you so much for sharing your story!