The last class was over
and I held my diploma in my hand, tears in my eyes
but I didn’t want to cry.
I am a graduate.
Why should I?
I went back home with a smile on my face.
yet it was hard for me to celebrate
for the “What now?” the age-old question
nagged at me. School was my job
and summer was my time to recoup.
I was now a graduate with no experience
besides volunteering at my mother’s
elementary school library.
Ironic, for I have always had an aversion to libraries.
Never felt like I belonged there.
I took over for a summer once for a few weeks paycheck.
The only job I ever had.
That was four years ago.
I thought it was hopeless
but I tried. I applied to several places
one of them, a local art and education supply store.
They called me back after a few days.
I was so excited and nervous.
When she asked for me to come in
for a twelve minute test.
I sat down at her desk
and told her that I was “dyslexic”
the second I said it her eyes glazed over.
(I am screwed) I thought
but I pushed that aside
and answered the questions
in the allotted time.
She took the test and left the room
to check the answers.
A few minutes later she came back.
“If we have any more questions
we’ll get back to you.”
She smiled sweetly, but I knew
they we never going to call me.
I felt so foolish for even saying the word
“dyslexic” I walked out feeling ashamed
and embarrassed again.
People don’t give the benefit of the doubt.
They believe the gist of a definition
they heard decades ago
as the end all and be all
of your intelligence.
Should I have begged for a chance?
I should have learned my lesson
and not given the notice.
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