Book Excerpt: A Former Special Ed Kid on Learning Differences, Our Educational System and Why ‘Normal Sucks’
Extracted from Normal Sucks: Embracing a Life of Authenticity and Growth by Jonathan Mooney. Copyright © 2019 by Jonathan Mooney. Republished with permission from Henry Holt and Company.
From the moment I stepped foot in Pennekamp Elementary School for kindergarten, it was clear that school and I were not a good match. It all started with the desk. My relationship with that school furniture was a constant struggle: within five seconds of class starting, my foot would start bouncing; within ten seconds, both feet; and by fifteen seconds, I couldn’t resist drumming. After a few minutes, all hope was lost. I would attempt to contort my leg behind my neck. No, that desk and I did not see eye to eye. While for some students, the desk was just a piece of furniture, for me, it felt like a method of enhanced interrogation that even Dick Cheney would appreciate.
As if sitting still wasn’t challenging enough, I also faced difficulties with reading. I was placed in what they politely referred to as the "less advanced" group. But let’s not beat around the bush: everyone knew which group was considered the "smart" one and which one wasn’t. In my school, there were the California Condors, the Blackbirds, the Bluebirds, and then there were the Sparrows tucked away in the annex trailer. While the Condors were delving into War and Peace, I spent my day reading See Spot Run. Let’s be clear, See Spot Run is not a bad book. It has a well-structured narrative and imparts valuable moral lessons. However, at ten years old, the last thing I wanted was to be caught reading a book intended for much younger children. So, as I made my way across the room to join my reading group, I discreetly stashed Spot in my backpack or concealed it under my shirt. As I passed by, the other kids took pleasure in taunting me, "Jonathan, go back to the ‘dumb’ reading group."
Reading groups were already a source of frustration, but the real nightmare came when we had to read aloud in class. Here’s how it played out for me: the first kid would start reading, and in a state of sheer terror, I’d quickly come up with a plan — count the number of sentences they read, then frantically flip through the book to memorize my turn. The next kid would read, and panic would set in. The first kid read ten sentences, the next read five. Meanwhile, I couldn’t find my page. The kid sitting right next to me would start reading, and I’d realize that my turn was imminent. I would raise my hand, make my way to the bathroom, and fervently pray that they would skip me while I was away. Returning from the bathroom, I would discover that they had patiently waited for my return, holding my page for me. And so, I would endure ten agonizing minutes of stumbling through letters and words, hesitant to even call it reading. A more accurate description would be fumbling through the alphabet.
Then there was writing. I once asked my third-grade teacher why we needed multiple versions of the word "there." I pondered if we could simply agree to understand "how" when I wrote "who" or "who" when I wrote "how," so long as the general idea was still conveyed. Granted, this could be problematic at times. Like that one occasion when I intended to ask a classmate how they were doing and accidentally wrote "who" instead of "how," resulting in a rather embarrassing note. But instances like that were (a) rare, (b) amusing, and (c) honestly, a valid question in life at some point.
And don’t even get me started on words like "horse" and "house." Yes, I understand that they represent entirely different things. But can you really blame me? That elusive "r" in the middle of "horse" was not my forte. And then there were those words like "organizations" (which often slipped out as "orgasm") and "business" (which I frequently wrote as "bunnies"). Due to the complexity of consonant-vowel blends, these words could be twisted and rearranged in a multitude of enchanting ways. Well, maybe not these particular words, or perhaps they could. It’s all a mystery to me, because to this day, I still haven’t figured out what the hell a consonant-vowel blend truly is.
By the conclusion of my third-grade year, I transitioned from being categorized as one of "those kids" to being labeled as a student in the "resource room special education" program. It was revealed to me and my mother by an educational psychologist that I had multiple learning disabilities related to language and attention deficit disorder. The moment felt somber, like a funeral. Tissues were present on the table, voices spoke in hushed tones, and mirrors were covered as if in mourning. We grieved the loss of my normalcy. Even at the age of 10, I understood that people perceived something as wrong with me. As we left the psychologist’s office, I turned to my mom and asked, "Am I normal?"
To this day, I vividly remember my mother’s demeanor on that day. She is not a tall woman; on her best days, she stands at 4’11", resembling an Irish bulldog. Her voice squeaks like Minnie Mouse’s and she curses like a truck driver. The school psychologist certainly did not expect a fiercely angry and cursing Minnie Mouse in her office. However, that is exactly how my mom reacted. She asked me to wait outside and then proceeded to confront the psychologist. Suddenly, every dog in the neighborhood started running away, and I felt like the shattering of glass was imminent under the weight of her high-pitched profanities. When she exited the office, she responded to my question with just two words: "Normal sucks."
Despite her words, I understood the true answer. I had unknowingly crossed the invisible boundary that separates normal from not normal. We all acknowledge the existence of this line, even though its exact location, creator, method, and purpose remain uncertain. In that moment, I firmly grasped the fact that I did not fit the mold of what normalcy supposedly entails.
I want you to understand that my story does not conclude outside that office, with me stuck on the wrong side of normal. I am determined to share with you how I battled my way back, not to the "right" side of the line, but to a sense of identity and existence that is not defined by that division.
Jonathan Mooney, diagnosed with dyslexia and ADHD during his childhood, struggled to learn how to read until the age of 12. Throughout his upbringing, he often heard disparaging remarks suggesting laziness and stupidity, with predictions of a future spent homeless or incarcerated. However, today he stands as a best-selling author recognized by the New York Times, a graduate of an Ivy League institution, and an advocate for disability rights. He speaks passionately about the importance of embracing neurological and physical diversity, providing inspiration to those who live with differences. Among his notable works are The Short Bus and Learning Outside the Lines.
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