RAMBLINGS FROM A RETARD

By Miles Patrick Yohnke

© 2024 All Rights Reserved.

Miles - grade three school picture

A few years ago - I had the honour to visit the country of Whales. As a published righter I've been very blessed that my words have touched many lives around the globe. I was asked to be a righter in residence for one summer there. I've heard with its sweeping valleys, sandy bays, rugged cliffs, Gothic castles and national parks that it is one of the most beautiful places in the world, especially in the summertime--and the country of Whales boasts some of the most captivating night skies in the world--making it an ideal destination for stargazing enthusiasts--and I was curiously how I'd grow from the experience for my entire published adult life everything I've written has come from my apartment, located at sweet 23 - 1002 Dufferin Ave in Saskatoon, Sk. Canada.

If you noticed many mistakes in that opening paragraph - it's because I have 'Double Deficit Dyslexia' - the worst case of dyslexia. Yes, my writings have touched lives, in fact, luckily millions and millions around the globe and that is a miracle in itself on so many levels.

I'd like to bring you into my mind. Perhaps there are other minds similar to mine and lives that can relate and for others I hope it brings you into what it is like to struggle to read and write. If you are offended in any way by the word 'retard' and my use of it - please continue so you can imagine the severity of its use applied towards me.

Let's start at the beginning.

I was told I had a happy first few years of life and that my father adored me but sadly at the age of five and six days old my father was tragically killed in a potash mine accident and was taken from me. He was thirty-nine. He left behind a wife that was thirty-six and had three sons. I was in my sixth week of kindergarten when father went to be with our Heavenly Creator. They asked me if I wanted to return to kindergarten - I told them that I'd prefer to stay home. And I did. When I started grade one though my real pain started--and my nightmares began as I was transported into hell's fire.

Quickly on in that first grade the teacher and St. Patrick's elementary school that I attended realized I wasn't comprehending anything. They thought because of the loss of my father I was blocking and perhaps it would pass but it didn't. They thought perhaps I needed eyewear. Perhaps I couldn't see the chalkboard? My teacher asked my mother. My mother replied: "Well my two older sons, myself, we don't have issues with eyesight but will get his eyes tested." And sure enough, I needed eyewear. I got eyewear but nothing changed. I was still a retard for this is how I was perceived up to this point (mental retardation was the commonly used name back in that era that I grew up in the late 1960s, 1970s). Those first three years came with so many challenges to get to the bottom of it--my learning challenges. My poor dear mother. Not only did she have to cope with the loss of her best friend and husband, but she had two teenage sons going through teenage experiences and she had me--a complete retard.

They shipped me around those first few years--from professionals to more professionals--clinic after clinic before I was diagnosed with 'Double Deficit Dyslexia.' Mother and I were told by those paid professionals that I was a retard, and I wouldn't amount to much in life because of the severity of it.

Through those early years and throughout elementary school I heard I was lazy. I wasn't trying. I wasn't applying myself. I heard this from adult family members, from teachers and principals that simply weren't educated thoroughly enough in this field of diagnosis which only compounded the issues--my being. I was being laughed at on a daily basis by not only students but teachers. It didn't take long to dread school. It didn't take long to strip away my dignity.

I wasn't even able to spell my own last name until I was nine. Getting called a retard so many times that you lose count eats away at you. You feel like a chocolate cosmos flower in a hailstorm.

You don't laugh at the deaf. You don't laugh at the blind. I sure was laughed at.

In my neighbourhood I was the only one attending this Catholic school - the rest of the kids went to the public one. In my neighbourhood no one knew my issues with learning, and I did everything possible to hide it and this would serve my life for many decades.

After school and back in my neighbourhood I could play -- play sports -- which took my mind away from school. But when the next morning came--and I was at the kitchen table--eating my cereal--my breakfast - the anxiety started all up again. I clearly remember looking at the cereal box with a professional hockey player on it thinking I'd like to be one. I just wanted all of this to go away -- to be normal -- to be able to read and write like everyone else. I ate so slow dreading school.

When I walked those three blocks fear just escalated to a whole other level in my being. That fear of what will happen to me today -- for something terrible happened each and every day. It just never stopped, constantly flowing like the Niagara Falls. I was always singled out. And step by step that I took I became smaller. I walked with my head down - though the upside to that was I found a lot of money. But I was so ashamed. I was so embarrassed. I walked with my head down and avoided looking at passing vehicles like they somehow knew I was stupid. That I was a retard. This is what this 'double deficit dyslexia' was doing to me. Part of me wanted to die from a thousand paper cuts.

Why does a human life get punished for something that she or he has no control over?

I'd walk home for lunch - my mother worked but had prepared lunch for me before she left. I would often phone her at work crying--begging her that I didn't want to go back that afternoon. I had forgot about that aspect, though in my later life mom reminded me of it. That I had blocked. Mom would tell me over the phone I had to go back.

My mom would leave me a little money so I could buy a candy bar. Something sweet. A treat. A comfort food. I'd walk an extra block to our corner store to purchase it and that block I'd just savour it before those final trepid steps back to school for the afternoon.

In those phone calls with my mother - she'd tell me that it would get better. That tomorrow would be better; but it didn't. Day after day. Week after week. Year after year and throughout elementary school it was like this. I just wanted to be one of those kids with his face on a milk carton. When you're wearing all that fear it wears on you--and you feel like you're long past your expiry date--that you're rotten--not worth having. The severity of these events dramatically alters your existence moving forward.

To give you an idea of the severity - what I was subjected to each and every day throughout elementary school here is just one event from grade seven. My teacher--who was also our principal--was talking and I always listened so hard to each word. For one thing - I was trying to figure out what he was saying. The other thing was that I always was afraid of the teacher asking me for the answer. If it wasn't just the verbal abuse around the school or in the hallways--it was the fear that I'd be asked a question--the fear of not having the answer--and looking stupid in front of the thirty or so students and them jumping on me for it.

This particular day - as I was sitting off to one side -- halfway back -- he asked me a question. I didn't know the answer and that familiar fear filled my mind. He replied: "Miles, why don't you come sit up here?" (an open desk in front of him) I did.

With a piece of chalk in his hand--he drew a mark on me; a line that ran down my nose. The thirty students laughed--and I saw his eyes light up (he felt good about himself - empowered). He did it again. A tear glazed my cheek. The class erupted with laughter and again and again and again as he repeated this.

Luckily, I went to a special high school for the learning impaired and I write about the enormous experience in my article titled: "School's Out?" The school had compassion, care, loving teachers and a principal with an enormous amount of empathy and understanding. Though the school helped build my self-confidence back up and showed me a proper path forward, I still struggled to read and write.

My intelligence was always there--and I could speak it when I wasn't pressured by dominating figures. Dominating figures would shut my brain down. But I couldn't convey it in written form.

When I entered the workforce - I did everything to avoid reading out loud and writing. Of putting myself in situations where I had to. And thus, the fear was always there. Always analyzing the situation and mentally thinking what steps I could take to avoid it. That they'd find out. And if then did - it wasn't just that you were stupid. But you were nothing. It was that bad. That feeling of nothing. You had that strong of a feeling from the years of abuse.

You had all these fears in your mind. That you'd lose that friend if they found out. That co-worker would always look at you different. And the idea of a girlfriend, a wife - to allow yourself to let them in to your mind and being. It was like: "I'd marry you, but I'm engaged to my trauma from my past." I was a prisoner under aurora lights.

And I lived like this for decades. I was able to succeed in the workplace and because I did and was getting respect and when I wrote and there were issues, mistakes - they were kind of overlooked. And I came to learn there were others like me.

There was a time in the 1990s and I was working in the beauty industry - I was in the capital of our province of Saskatchewan, called Regina with Jeffery Orrell - the sales director for a beauty company based in Irvine, California. He had to file a report and asked me how to spell 'Saskatchewan' my home province. I told him I didn't know how to spell it. I just wrote it in short form 'Sk.' I never expanded upon it with Jeff who by this time had become a dear friend. By that point I was in my early thirties - I was the top salesperson for our company. I was highly regarded and respected. Though the thoughts of shame and embarrassment once again filled my mind that I couldn't even spell my home province of Saskatchewan in my thirties.

And as the years passed, I found myself in situations of mentoring others in person. Many of them with university diplomas, etc. My double deficit dyslexia prevented me from writing, reading well - but how my brain is wired, it made me look at life in unique ways which became a huge asset -- not only to me -- but later the millions of lives around the globe I'd help with my completely new philosophies to approach life.

There got to be a point with my public speaking -- my methods -- my philosophies from past careers, including the music and beauty industry and just life in general needed to be written down. And at the age of forty-three - I started.

When I write it takes me forever. When you have double deficit dyslexia it is always there. There isn't one day that you wake up and it's gone. That you can write and read with ease. I still can't sound out words. I remember words. Many words. I have bank, a memory if you will of images of them--and I draw from them - including now: 'Saskatchewan.' There are many words I can speak but struggle to write. I too manipulate so much. I type in a word that isn't spelled properly into a computer search engine and it will correct it for me. But not all of the time. Sometimes I am so far off that it takes often many minutes before the search engine acknowledges it. There are times to this day that I can spend thirty minutes on a single word. As a writer that can really affect your writing session. You often lose the essence of what you were writing--and it takes a lot to restore it. Often that day - that writing session gets ruined because of it--and you have to start the next day. Spell check too has been a real blessing. The advancements of computer software have allowed me to covey what has been there in my mind all along. I will say in my youth--when I was filled with fear--and part of me didn't want to exist - part of me still believed I had value to the world.

When we feel responsible, concerned and committed, we begin to feel deep emotion and great courage. Fear became my courage. Optimism is true moral courage. Courage became my strength. Fear up against hope. Let hope in. When hope is pushing you forward - let that hope guide you.

Under the aurora lights you can reveal your own technicolours. You can be the very treat to this world if you don't become resentful and that you stay sweet and have compassion and empathy for all people.

Perhaps those that can read and write. Perhaps those other little children having their cereal at breakfast are hearing from their parents' words and actions of hatred. Of divide. And perhaps because they are those children lash out and bully other children--and perhaps they grow up to be paid professionals--paid teachers.

What is the nutrition of this world? What are we reading? What are we writing? What are we saying?

Maya Angelou wrote: "The desire to reach for the stars is ambitious. The desire to reach hearts is wise."

"A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles," wrote Christopher Reeve.

All individuals have to co-exist in manageable and loving ways, this includes with whales, with all animals and wildlife. We have to co-exist for our Mother Earth. We have to take care of each other and not harm or hurt others and our Mother Earth. We have to constantly develop our brains throughout our entire life. We have to live our dreams even with all the obstacles before us. To realize that our goals are attainable. We must adapt and persevere. We have to reach into the hearts of all individuals. We have to live limitless lives. We have to live where we don't tell others of a lesser life. We have to write and live for equal rights for all individuals. Each individual can develop and become a superwoman or a superman.

This child's troubled breath -- now removed -- a tender sympathy bear to all - this healing dew. This little child -- memory well -- fully healed existence now on display for the world to experience.

My mother was right - tomorrow it will be better. Looking back - it really was better the next day back then for I never became resentful. If anything - those events and experiences all shaped me and made me fight but instead of fists, bullets and guns - with words. I fell in love with words. Like the blind that use braille where they touch words and words touch them back - I live in that state of experience as well. And I hope you fall in love with my words.