Camille Valentine
Fino-Murtaugh
Composition one
9/22/22
An On-going Story
From an early age I never liked books, it could have been a picture book, I just did not connect with reading. I never understood the books I read, the beginning never grabbed my attention, and even if I forced my way through the beginning the rest of the book was plain, nothing ever grasped my attention, and I became bored of the book very easily. I could not remember what it was about, and since I could not even remember the book, I never retained an interest in it until eighth grade when one act of kindness changed my views on reading.
I always knew there was something wrong with me when it came to reading but what I did not know is that every report cards my mom received had a little “NI” next to English and Social Studies, the main writing classes, this went on from kindergarten until sixth grade. “NI” stands for “Needs Improvement,” which is a subtle way of saying your daughter is not achieving in this topic and we are not going to do anything to help her.
My mother was always my biggest advocate for everything I did. Even when life got me down with bullies, friendships, extracurriculars, and especially classes, she always had my back. When it came to writing, she tried her best to find me the help I needed. She got me tutors and she even read books to me every night, just to make something click. She had multiple meetings, over the phone and in person, about my learning issues; with teachers, the principal, the superintendent, and anyone in between. No one wanted to help me. Their reasoning was they did not want to put me in “the system.” Aka, they did not have the funding for my learning disability unless I had Dyslexia, which I did not.
Every year, my mom would say, “Please don’t make this next year’s teacher’s problem” and teacher after teacher, nothing got fixed. Math and Science were always fine, numbers where easy for me, it was logical, and I did not have to stay in gaged with a certain subject for too long. But when it can to Social Studies and English, I plummeted, both classes were about read and writing what you know and that was the very issue I had, I could not do that. Every year till sixth grade I had the same report card, every year I had a “NI” next to English and Social Studies, and every year the school did nothing.
On the first day of seventh grade, my mother, Ms. Mary Lou Valentine, walked herself, with me? dragged by? her side into the middle school. She burst into the principal’s office, and with the Head Director of Bayport Bluepoint School District sitting in his office chair she said these words.
“You know who I am, you dealt with my bullshit with my daughter for nine years now, and I am here to tell you for the last time. If you do not help my daughter with her issues right now you will have to call the police officers because I am about to rain hell on this whole school district.” This was not even directed at me, and I was terrified, so imagine being my principal, with his boss across the room from him.
So that first day of seventh grade I did not go to a single class. Instead, I was given every type of test imaginable for learning disabilities, and it took about one test to figure out that low and behold there was an actual issue. Surprise, surprise. The vice principal called my mom, excited to tell her that they had concluded that I had a comprehension disability. Ms. Valentine thanked them and then proceeded to yell at the vice principal about how this should have been resolved years ago and how she shouldn’t be excited she should be apologetic and thankful that they got this fixed before they she? had to call the police officers. Of course, only my mom would act like that.
They found out that because of my comprehension issue, I would read and reread a sentence repeatedly and I just could not explain what it said. That is why I never liked reading, I could not understand the books I was reading, and I could not explain what I was writing. They put me in a writing modified class to help me learn how to work with my disability. And even after going to that class for a year, I had gotten nowhere with my grades. Could be new sentence here the tips and tricks just were not sticking, until my last year of middle school.
The first day of eighth grade was my birthday, so of course, I was miserable, but I was even more miserable because my first-period class was English, my worst subject. I dragged myself into class and to make matters worse the only open seat was front and center in the classroom, great. I sat down and as the bell rang, I see no other than a life-size Barbie walk through the door, Ms. Pintar, my eighth-grade English teacher. She wore a very bright hot pink dress and had a side pony and was the loudest and cheeriest teacher I have ever met. She always greeted the class with a “Happy Monday,” at the beginning of the week, all, year, long. I do not know why or how she was so happy, but she was. But still, I hated English, hated reading and writing, and wanted nothing to do with it until one act of kindness by Ms. Pintar right before Christmas.
The day before winter break, she told me to come to her at the end of the school day and as the day went on, I could not help but wonder what she wanted to talk to me. I was her worst student and I never participated in class. When the final bell rang, I went to room 219 where she was there waiting. She did not say much, she just handed me a book, a pink reading guide strip, and a note, and she left saying, “Read the note when you get home, and oh, Merry Christmas.”
I did as she said, the note said to use the strip to lay over the sentence I was reading in the book and to do that till I finished the book. The book was called One of Us is Lying by Karen McManus. It was the first book I ever read to the end. I did not just enjoy the book, I loved it, I could not put it down. I would sometimes get bored with it and go to put in down and then boom a new character and perspective was added to the whole novel, it never stayed on topic, so I was always interested in where it was going. It is my favorite book to this day, and I am so happy not only because I had a book I enjoyed, also because Ms. P was a teacher who finally saw me, saw my problem, and tried to fix it, she was just lucky that the first book worked.
The second I got back from winter break I ran to my teacher and thanked her for the book and asked if I could keep it. She said yes and I have read it at least once a year since then. Ms. P would have me stay after school sometimes where she taught me ways to communicate what I was reading and even put it on paper. My English and Social studies classes improved, and I became a straight A student because of her, and not to brag but I have been on the honor roll every quarter ever since she started helping me. Yes, I still struggle with communicating and comprehending certain things, I rewrote this about five times with countless amounts of editing and revising, but there is always room to grow and improve. That is what she taught me and what I want to instruct future students, which is why I am in art education because when communicating one way is too hard there is always another. A future student of mine will pass on that message, and none will, but if I can help at least one person who is struggling like me, my life will have been a success.
Ms.Pintar My Mom and I
