Hey Pat! I’m not stupid.

I’m the second oldest of nine children, and both my parents were college graduates; my father had a master’s degree in Chemistry from Columbia University and my mother’s degree was in Classical Languages from Elmira College. In my family, being educated was promoted a close second to being a good Catholic.

I attended Saint Mary’s parochial school. Unbeknownst to me, during my grammar school years, my parents were told I didn’t apply myself in class. As I was advancing towards the 8th grade, my parents were informed I was a slow learner. For the most part, I was unaware of and indifferent to my poor performance in school. It wasn’t that I intentionally ignored the situation – I was simply oblivious to it. My parents were concerned, and I noticed it but did not understand their disappointment. 

Throughout my school years, my grades rarely were above 70. I still remember the encouragement from Mom, when she would read my grades saying, “Oh Paul, you did well in religion and penmanship,” or, when my grades in some subjects dipped below 70, “You have to work harder on English and Math.” 

I never felt different from my siblings and friends, many of whom were high academic achievers. I was active in sports and praised by my parents for being entrepreneurial; I had, for example, a thriving paper route. No one – including my classmates -- made fun of me or thought I was stupid. I was just one other kid and never sought or attracted attention. 

It wasn’t until high school that I realized there was a disconnect between me and the other students who received better grades. High school was a different environment. We were separated by the courses we were assigned, and I was placed in the least academic of the tracks that the school placed us into. For the first time, I was isolated from some of my friends by my academic performance. 

For example, I would overhear fragments of my friends’ conversations by our lockers. They would talk about Shakespeare, for example, which was not a part of my life or curriculum. I envied them, thinking their courses were interesting. For the first time in my entire school experience, I was jealous of the “smart kids.”

In high school, I looked forward to wood shop and metal shop and I loved working with my hands. It was exciting to be in those classes and I was very good in them. I produced attractive creations, such as a laminated wooden block turned on a lathe and shaped into a beautiful bowl. I gave it to my Mom, who would always say, Paul is good with his hands just like my father who was an engraver. 

I enjoyed shop classes, but still, they were the only classes I looked forward to – until a life-changing encounter with an English teacher named Mrs. Reid. 

Through high school, I was socially promoted and had to attend summer school to make up a required history class I had failed. During the regular school year, I was assigned to the non-academic track and was placed in an English class designed for slow learners taught by Mrs. Reid. 

`I had her for English for three consecutive years and enjoyed the class because she read the classics aloud most days. When I heard the spoken word, the impact of the language became clear to me. I didn’t have to decode from its written form. It was understandable and entertaining. This was the first time I was emotionally engaged in a classroom. 

I had no way of knowing that my predicament – difficulty decoding written language while at the same time easily absorbing oral information -- was an indication that I was dealing with serious dyslexia. 

After high school, my father, who was an organic chemist who worked with laboratory glassware, encouraged me to enroll in Salem County Vocational-Technical Institute, renamed in 1972 as Salem Community College. 

Thank God, the two-year Scientific glassblowing program, had an open-door policy. I didn’t have to take an entrance examination. 

On the first week of classes, I intuitively knew fabricating laboratory glass in a gas/oxygen flame was a serious craft in the service of science. The instructor’s demonstrations and oral explanations of the process allowed me to take advantage of my memory skills. It was not unlike my first class with Mrs. Reid. I became emotionally and intellectually involved, connecting the spoken instructions with my hand skills, and knew this would complement my overall understanding of the glassblowing craft. 

I realized that combining my hand skills with technical information would make me more successful in mastering the craft. For the first time in my educational environment, I had a goal and pursued it full-throttle. As a result, hearing the instructions motivated me to redoubled my efforts to read the assignments without skipping difficult words. 

I graduated from Salem in 1963 and found considerable success in industry. My work experience led to becoming an accomplished craftsman, always meeting and exceeding my production quotas, but still contending with my inability to spell and to rapidly read directions. 

I would carry a paper folded in my back pocket spelling out the days of the week and simple keywords that I couldn’t spell. For example, my notes helped me differentiate between the words “Tuesday” and “Thursday” and common words that I would be embarrassed to misspell. One of the most embarrassing aspects was my inability to spell my middle name, Joseph. Another challenge was differentiating between right and left and I needed to feel my throwing arm (recalling the motion of throwing a baseball) in a split second to identify my right side. 

I encountered stress from the inevitable paperwork, and all through my scientific glass crafting years, I longed to be on the creative side, where there were few rules if any. No written directions, no memos, no need to specify right or left. It was all intuitive. I wanted to experience the creative process that had its roots in my mother reading poetry aloud. 

I still didn’t understand why I was deficient in aspects of reading and writing, but in the spring of 1967, I got my first clue. My sister Margaret, who was majoring in special education, was home on spring break. I stopped by my mother’s house after work to say hello. I sat down at the kitchen table with them, opened the newspaper, and started reading the headlines aloud, stumbling through them. 

By way of explanation, my mother remarked, “Paul has always had trouble reading.”  Margaret became intent. She pointed to the Philadelphia Bulletin and told me, “Read this paragraph.”  As I stammered through the paragraph, Margaret used a word I had never heard before. “I believe Paul may be dyslexic,” she said.

My sister’s comment meant nothing to me until 1972 when I listened to Phil Donahue interviewing Caitlyn Jenner on the radio in my studio. The revelation came amidst a time of major change.

It turns out that listening to that interview was not only inspiring but mind-altering. It was an epiphany and strengthened my confidence at a time of life-altering change. It was as if a veil lifted. 

Caitlyn Jenner spoke about her challenges as a dyslexic and how she excelled at sports to compensate for her poor performance in the classroom. I was astonished to hear her story. I actually thought, “How does she know about me?”

At the end of the interview, I was bewildered by the fact that someone – of enormous personal accomplishment, in fact – shared feelings that were very personal to me, explanations of my history that I could now relate to. Everything coalesced, all at once. For the first time in my life, I identified my challenges and believed that I could overcome them. 

When the interview concluded, I rushed into the living room calling my wife. “Pat!” I said. “I’m not stupid.”  Pat looked at me in astonishment. “Of course, you’re not, I never thought you were.” 

After hearing Caitlyn’s story, I was freed from thinking I was stupid with a better understanding of the fact that visual word recognition was a disability, a biologically based challenge that could be overcome. 

Still, being self-employed meant being on the phone frequently, which presented frustration from constantly dialing wrong numbers. I would stare at the numbers needed to dial and still dial them wrong. One instance I dialed it wrong twice and out of frustration I focused on the number so intently I watch one flit over backwards in to the correct order. I was totally amazed it was like a 3-D cartoon. It was another dramatic examples of my life long reading issues.   

In 2006 I was writing my autobiography “No Green Berries or Leaves”, and part of my research was to retrieve 13 years of school grades to the 12th grade. They were stored at Pitman High School in Pitman, New Jersey, for over a half-century. When I was handed my records by a guidance counselor, I opened the envelope in the parking lot and read the report. 

At first glance, I started to laugh then quickly felt angry and embarrassed as I read my IQ score recorded at 83. I thought dear God this followed me through my school years, what a bad joke. 

Then I remembered that in ninth grade, my mother asked if I would be willing to help her teacher friend. Mom said she was studying the administration of oral IQ tests and needed a person to test. I would be paid $1.00 and it wouldn’t take much time. The idea that I could orally take a test was a dream come true especially if I could earn a dollar in the process. A week later my mom casually said, “Paul you have a higher than normal IQ.” 

At the time this meant nothing to me. Still, reflecting back on it today I thank God that during my lifetime educators have learned more about helping thousands of young people improve their reading, writing, and spelling skills, and have dedicated themselves to identifying and working with children with learning disabilities. 

I hope all children are able to get through their school years without being embarrassed or attempting to avoid situations where their disability would cause them discomfort. 

And over my fifty-plus years thanks to my mother, Mrs. Reid, and Caitlyn Jenner, I’ve educated myself by listening to over a thousand audiobooks, mostly classics. These works have not only educated me in the traditional sense but have also taught me how to explore the nuances of beauty and excellence.