Mr Oliver mentioned his “dyslexia “ numerous times. I prefer to use “ learning differences”. We are People with learning differences. Jamie sounds brilliant. All over the place but brilliant and heartfelt. I have about 10 of him in my family. And I am one. The literary world was strictly off limits for me as well....go Jamie all the best......Beginning of Poetry ( For The Trombone Player)
in order to compensate for my slow reading I'd prematurely finish sentences and stumbling over words. Transposing letters and words made reading in front of parents, teachers and classmates excruciating. In grade school (1962-1968) I was put into a group for slow readers. Falling further and further behind I started putting on more weight and exploded with rage to defend against my feelings of shame and hopelessness. Today we know these are symptoms consistent with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).
Fortunately my Mother Ms. Donna R.... could see I was suffering a great deal and hired a tutor, Dr. Watson helped me with reading comprehension and writing. To say Dr. Watson saved my life is an understatement. He instilled in me an ethic for learning and confidence to go on to College.
I struggled to read music but could play the trombone by ear. Every time I was made to read in front of my classmates I was bullied. But when I improvised ( as in the emerging Second City of Chicago) in drama class I had the ability to make people laugh and cry. Frost said, “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.” Frost's injunction reminded me of Baudelaire poem, Get Drunk: "Time to get drunk! Don't be martyred slaves of Time, Get drunk! Stay drunk! On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!" I take this to mean that when I commit to a feeling or line, go all the way.
My "learning disability", "learning difference" , "dyslexia" is undefinable. "I" / "we" don't have language to describe this experience. Language and experience get lost in translation. I dealt with my shame for a long time by becoming defensive, self-medicating or giving up. But eventually that same part of me that played the trombone by ear or improvised on stage welled up inside me while driving a Special Transit bus down Balsam Avenue in 25 years ago.
In a moment of deep despair I recalled a dream from the previous night in which, "I'm singing a song I've composed in green/open field. I knew instantly that I'd have to find a way to express all my rejection, failure, sadness and joy. This was the beginning of poetry.
Jeff .....2016
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