I was eight years old, in third grade. I was a smart kid, in the accelerated class at school, but I had a secret. I felt like I was really stupid. It was a familiar feeling.
In second grade I had been unable to read. I wanted to die of embarrassment every time the teacher called on me in class to read. I couldn't figure out how to sound out words and put the sounds together to make the words sound right. My parents were called. They had tried to help me, to no avail. They learned to read without using phonics. My teacher thought I might have to be put in a special class. I was unable to sound out words and read. Luckily, my grandmother taught me, and then I became a reading fiend. The feeling of fear and humiliation when the teacher called on me and I couldn't read a word was fresh in my memory, however, in third grade.
So in third grade my family moved from Augusta, Georgia to Knoxville, Tennessee, when my father got a new job. It was traumatic, leaving Augusta. I had aunts and uncles and cousins in Augusta. I had friends. I knew my way around. It felt familiar and normal there.
We didn't know anyone when we moved to Knoxville. Big city. Confusing. The bitter cold January day when we moved into our new house it was raining. The yard was a sea of mud.
I started school the next day feeling completely overwhelmed. Big school building. I kept getting lost. They put me in the accelerated class. I couldn't keep up, at first. I didn't know my times tables. I didn't know how the class worked. None of the kids played with me.
The other little girls had long, pretty hair, and their mothers put ribbons in their hair. My hair was always a mess. My mother let me go to school with it messy rather than have a fight about it.
All that was bad but the terrible secrets I harbored were worse, to me: I couldn't tell time, tie my shoes, or put my shoes on the correct feet. My parents had tried to teach me. My brother had tried. Everyone had tried. I couldn't do any of it. It was reading anxiety all over again. (Too bad we didn't have digital clocks, or velcro-closures for shoes.)
Only years later would I learn that I had pretty severe anxiety issues as a kid.
Finally, my family went to Asheville one weekend and we had a little reunion with Dad's brothers and their families. That included my cousin Tony, 7 years older than me. Unlike most of my older cousins, he was always sweet to me. I was the baby. I was usually ignored. Tony talked to me like he was interested in what I had to say. He made me feel relaxed and calm. I basked in his attention.
I remember sitting on the steps of the hotel, confiding in him about my humiliation at not being able to tell time or tie my shoes, or put my shoes on the correct feet. He said "I can help you with that, Dee. It's all simple." He said it with such calm conviction, I believed him.
We started with telling time. Tony explained it in a way that made perfect sense. Within 5 minutes of talking about it, I could tell time on a traditional clock.
Next came shoes. He explained the curvature of the shoe matching how my toes curved and it made perfect sense. We next worked on tying the laces. That took a bit longer, but I knew if I practiced I would get it. I felt major relief.
I felt like the whole world was suddenly a beautiful place.
I had my cousin Tony to thank for that.
He continued to be not just my cousin, but my friend and my champion. He remains an important person in my life to this day, even though we both have gray hair and he has retired from teaching. (It shouldn't come as a surprise to tell you Tony grew up to become a teacher, brilliant at explaining things to his students.)
Still, to this day, I think of Tony more as a brother than a cousin. He makes me laugh and makes me feel okay about myself, and what a gift it is, to have him in my life.
