I have the genes for dyslexia. I am also a horrible speller.
The former third-grade teacher in me suspects that I probably have an undiagnosed learning disability for spelling, but at this point in my life there’s no point in spending $3,000 for private testing so I could have an official diagnosis.
But, honestly, just typing out the words: “I’m a poor speller, and it’s not my fault,” is incredibly freeing.
Being a poor speller means I have trouble with homonyms like there, their and they’re. Double consonants trip me up. When to add LY or LLY confuses me. Catching my own typos requires dozens of edits. Foreign words like “bon appetit” are impossible. My working memory for word recognition is so weak that when I Google how to spell a word, it’s difficult for me to hold that word in my head long enough to write it down.
Conversely, I was an early reader who could tackle books by preschool. In third grade I could speed-read through a book per night. It makes sense that none of my teachers suspected a learning disability like dyslexia based on my reading ability. However, if you looked at the other raw data I produced, there were clear indicators that something was wrong. My writing samples were red-inked disasters.
In San Diego in the 1980s, children took the California Achievement Test. I’d score 99 percent in every subject but spelling, which would be in the super low 20s or 30s. That type of discrepancy is a huge red flag for a learning disability.
Another red flag is the correlation between effort and performance. It wasn’t that I didn’t try to spell words correctly. I spent my childhood hearing teachers tell me to “sound it out” or “picture the word in my head.”
But I couldn’t. Instead, I’d take my weekly spelling list and copy the words over and over again 50 times, saying the letters out loud while I wrote. This probably helped because it was a multisensory approach, but it wasn’t the systematic, sequential phonics intervention poor spellers need.
By middle school, I had given up learning how spell and switched over to adapting for my weakness. The introduction of spell check was life-changing. I stopped turning in papers in my best pen-and-ink cursive and used word processing programs instead. In special education, this is called using assistive technology to compensate for a learning disability.
There are other things I struggle with beyond spelling that are related to the same deficits. I can’t remember phone numbers or addresses, jigsaw puzzles are torture, my handwriting is subpar and — here’s a weird one — I have difficulty matching the lids on reusable containers.
When you’re a poor speller, the world tells you you’re stupid over and over again for your entire life. One typo can cut you down and make you look foolish. But you’re not stupid or foolish. Your brain is wired differently, and it’s not your fault.
People who make fun of me for spelling mistakes are jerks, but Spell Check? She’s my BFF.
Jennifer Bardsley is author of the books “Genesis Girl” and “Damaged Goods.” Find her online on Instagram @the_ya_gal, on Twitter @jennbardsley or on Facebook as The YA Gal.
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