Dyslexia Never Dies: You Live with It

I got my own phone number wrong yesterday because I “dyslexed” the numerals. Worse, I also gave out the wrong number to family and friends.

I rarely think about “being dyslexic,” except when I am reminded — like yesterday, when I returned to the SFR store where I bought my French cell phone.

“My cell phone doesn’t ring,” I attempt to say in French to the young woman who finally comes to help me. The actual words I use mean “my phone doesn’t listen.” (Don’t ask.) Oh, and I also left my wallet at home.

Fortunately, I don’t need I.D. and, somehow, she understands. After a few minutes on her computer, she politely explains that nothing is wrong with my phone’s settings. It will ring (or listen) if I call the right number.

I’m embarrassed and a little angry at myself. Not only was I sure I had memorized the number correctly. I immediately tried to figure out a mnemonic device to somehow make the eight digits meaningful. That’s why I can still remember the last four digits of the Princess phone (“It’s little…It’s lovely…It lights”) my parents gave me when I was a teenager: “1066” — the Battle of Hastings.

There was a time, until the late 90’s, when I could ask an operator (a woman who worked for the phone company and actually talked to customers) for an “easy number” — repeating or at least consecutive digits. My landlines in New York and Massachusetts both ended in “9090” and my 18-year-old cell number in “4646.”

No such luck in 2021. I’m at the mercy of a computer when I purchase my burner phone. But I’m relieved that at least the first four digits assigned to me — “2332” — are palindromic. I just have to remember to start with “2.”

The second four digits — “1537” — are more challenging. No historical event comes to mind. So I divide it into two pieces, “15 ” and “37.” But without my permission or knowledge, my brain reverses them.

I first learned I was dyslexic when my son was diagnosed. He — old enough now to be considered “middle age” — was then 13, and I was 41. I wrote about it in 1988 for New York magazine, among other reasons because as a “special education” major in college, I never term dyslexia. The field of learning disabilities has come a long way since then.

Dyslexia has nothing to do with how smart you are. More often today, it’s considered a learning difference, “an umbrella term for a variety of related symptoms.”

No two dyslexics are alike. My son for example, has difficulty with visual processing — he doesn’t learn as well through his eyes. But he can hear a piece of music once and play it. He can assemble anything without an instruction manual and finds his way without a map.

In contrast, I have no sense of direction. I was the blindfolded kid, paper tail in hand, who ended up in the next room in search of the donkey. When the teacher said “Boys and girls, raise your right hand,” I had to think about it. And unlike my son, I learn best with my eyes; I can almost see words as I say them. But my particular brain sometimes takes in so much and goes so fast, flitting from one idea to the next, that it’s hard to distinguish details from main idea.

Growing up when I did and being a good student, I never knew had “a problem.” I somehow compensated. But when I was writing the article for New York, sifting through mountains of literature and interviews about learning differences, I called Lynne Hacker, the speech/language pathologist who’d worked with my son in a panic.

“I think I’m dyslexic, too.” I was overwhelmed by the information I’d accumulated from her and other experts on such a broad subject. Where to start?

“Well, you probably are dyslexic,” she said, reminding me of the genetic component. “But you have written other big pieces before. What have you done in the past?”

I don’t do outlines. I walk around for days when I’m working on a piece, writing in my head. I often write chunks of copy, too, not sure where they’ll end up. Then I jot all the ideas down on a big piece of paper, so I can step back to see what’s most important, what comes first — in essence, where I’m going.

When I explained this ritual to Lynne, already ten years into my career as a journalist, she said, “Well, that’s working for you, so keep doing what you’re doing.”

And I did. But every now and then — like when I screw up my own phone number — I remember that my brain is not only different, it’s not infallible and it’s fragile, probably more so today than it was in 1988.

As The Social Dilemma so cogently lays out, my brain — yours, too — has been ravaged, exploited, and manipulated, as Big Tech vies for my attention. I was born with a gerbil brain and a body that can’t sit still. (Proof can be seen in a grainy 16mm film of my four-year-old self bobbing up and down during my brother’s Bar Mitzvah service.) Today, everyone has at least a touch of A. D. D. — Attention Deficit Disorder (which I also covered for New York).

As disabilities go, I’ll take dyslexia. But when it comes down to it, healthy coping consists of the same elements no matter what your issue: Do your best. Figure out ways around a problem if you can’t tackle it the way other people can. Most important, remember that everyone carries around that something makes life a little more challenging. No one is good at everything. And certainly not all of the time.

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