Let’s see, school starts at 8:00am, so I must have been ready for tutoring by 7:15am. Which means I was out of the house by 6:30am. I remember the drill very well. Count to 100 forward and then backward. 1…2…3…I went through the numbers as I followed my teacher around the teacher’s lounge. She always started the session by dumping out yesterday’s stale coffee and starting a new pot. The lounge was steamy and swirled with the smell of years of reheated lunches. Come to think of it was actually a lot like standing inside of a dirty microwave. “…30…31…32…” it was a Catholic school…so of course Jesus was hanging over the door. “…56…57…” It would go on, me following her around the lounge, through the halls, into the empty classroom. “…77…72…73”. If I made a mistake I had to start over again. “1…2…3…” I don’t remember feeling frustrated that I never did get to 100 or wondering why my teacher didn’t try a more creative approach to helping me learn my numbers. It was so fun…especially the teacher’s lounge. “22…23…24…” The only time during school that we got to go in there was if someone fell at recess and needed an ice pack. Walking down the halls, a normally mundane activity, felt more like a companion adventure down the Amazon. “89…90…91…” Without any of my other classmates in their seats, the classroom transformed from a torture chamber to our secret tree house hideout. It never really occurred to me that I had a learning disability. All I remember is feeling special…that I got to spend a half hour alone with my teacher.
