約翰．里勃說話溫文，是維吉尼亞州利奇蒙市歌文高中學生測試負責人，他拿著我兒子路易的閱讀測試答案卷給我看，說路易有嚴重的學習障礙。

　　我不以為然，回答說：「如果問題這麼嚴重，我不會不知道。我會看得出來。」

　　里勃指著計時測驗裡的一個答案：這種測試越到後面，學生得越快作答。路易在卷末把「五月」當作一星期的某一天。里勃望著我說：「從來沒有人答錯這一題。」里勃拿出路易以前的統一標準測試成績，顯得非常參差。他說，從這些測試成績和路易的學校成績來看，我兒子不僅有閱讀困難症，還可能有注意力缺陷障礙。里勃說，路易不只是成績跟不上，而且深為學習所苦。

　　路易當時已經十六歲，個子高大，處事很有創意，長了一頭狂亂的鬈髮，在人群中顯得很突出。他幾乎從出生開始就由我獨力撫養。

　　路易小學一年級的時候，我已發覺他有閱讀困難。我怕他被視為問題學生，什麼都讀給他聽。凡是他要看的書，不管是課本還是休閒讀物，我全都讀出來給他聽。為了逗他開心，我讀時會用各種滑稽的聲音，並評論故事情節。

　　路易從小學升上中學，這時他已是個有心思、有智慧、表達力強的孩子，大部分科目都拿到B的成績，但他能夠自己閱讀的文字不多，理解也有困難。這件事我和路易很少談及，別人也不知道。我就是不肯承認自己的兒子有問題。

　　但是，路易到了九年級，課業多得我無法應付。我再也不能把什麼都讀給他聽。而他逐漸長大，越來越獨立，也不想繼續依賴我。

　　里勃為了證明他的觀點，還徵詢路易各科的老師，發覺路易近來大部分的家庭作業都沒有繳。他把路易的成績拿給我看，輕敲著滿是零分的成績單說：「路易漸漸心灰意冷了。」

　　里勃感到我也有問題。他代表公立學校，得把事情做好，必須令家長正視問題所在。最後，我不再爭辯，開始聆聽。

　　我把里勃的判斷告訴路易，他沒有自尊心受損或不知所措的神情，反而面容一寬，高聲叫道：「你是說，我不是笨蛋！」他放心了。

　　我哭起來。

　　他問：「你和我一樣擔心嗎？」

　　我哭得更厲害。

　　我一直否認事實，路易於是也不知實情，能想到的唯一合理解釋就是：自己是個笨蛋。

　　我第一次出席為路易個人設計課程的會議，心中茫然，了無主意。但隨後幾個月，我和校方人員合力制定了一套計畫，補救路易的弱點，發揮他的長處。路易加入了「盲人及閱讀困難症患者專用錄音服務」，由學校付款。這個組織的圖書館有大量雷射光碟錄音和有聲書籍，供成員使用。路易可以終身使用其服務。

　　最困難的一件事，是好好檢討我自己的態度。我為路易做的事，不少都是對的，但未能避免一個錯誤，就是把自己對求學的看法強加在路易身上，不明白他應有自己的學習道路。

　　從此，路易負起了自己的責任。他對視覺藝術很有天分：患閱讀困難症的孩子不少都有這方面的天分，原因是什麼，沒有人知道。

　　路易接受特殊教育後不久，收到高二的第一份成績單。我等待他把成績告訴我時，努力擺出一副既高興又同情的神氣。我不希望路易覺得我對他期望不大，又不希望他覺得我不滿意他的成績，兩者之間很難掌握得恰到好處。

路易上了榮譽學生榜，我鬆了口氣。他在成績單中央釘了釘書針，不讓左右兩頁合起來。成績單看起來已經有點殘破。我問路易：「你一直把成績單帶在身邊？」

　　「是啊！」他盡量顯得若無其事。

　　我也用若無其事的語氣說：「我把這成績單裝框好不好？」

　　路易說：「好吧，好得很。」

　　路易的成績越來越好。他愛上文字，把文字重組、搭配、串聯起來給別人看。現在，他已經高中畢業，在芝加哥一所社區大學就讀，準備將來從事體育新聞的工作。那是他自己選擇的道路。

Turning THE PAGE

By refusing to believe my son had a problem, I'd made it worse.

From "The Washington Post"

By MARTHA RANDOLPH CARR

John Ribble, a soft-spoken gentleman responsible for testing at Godwin High School in Richmond, Virginia, held out my son's answers to a reading test. Louie, he told me, had an acute learning problem.

I protested, "I'd know if he was struggling that much. I'd be able to tell."

He pointed to one answer on a timed test that required more speed as it went along.

Toward the end of the test, Louie had indicated that May was a day of the week. Ribble looked at me and said, "No one ever misses that question."

He pulled out old standardized test scores for Louie that showed wild inconsistencies. Such results, he said, and Louie's school record suggested not only that my son was dyslexic, but also that he likely had attention deficit disorder. Ribble said Louie wasn't just failing, he was suffering.

Louie was then a tall, creative 16-year-old whose wild, curly hair made him easy to find in a crowd. I'd raised him by myself almost from the time of his birth.

When Louie was in first grade, it became obvious that he had difficulty reading. To avoid having him labeled, I read everything to him. Every book he came in contact with, whether it was for school or fun, I would read to him. To entertain him, I created funny voices and made comments about the plot.

Through elementary and middle school, Louie grew into a thoughtful, intelligent, articulate boy who earned mostly B's but who had trouble comprehending the little he could read. No one else knew, and Louie and I rarely talked about it. I simply wouldn't accept that there was a problem.

In ninth grade, however, Louie's workload became so large that I couldn't keep up, could no longer read everything to him - and he was becoming too big and independent to want me to.

To prove his point, Ribble polled Louie's teachers and found out he had recently stopped turning in most of his homework. He showed me the scores, tapping the grade sheets with all the zeroes: "Luie is giving up," he said.

Ribble sensed that I was part of the problem. He was a representative of a public school system trying to do the right thing, trying to bring a parent out of denial. At long last, I stopped talking and began listening.

When I told Louie about the diagnosis, he didn't look hurt or confused. Instead, his face relaxed, and he shouted, "You mean I'm not stupid!"He was relieved.

I started to cry. "Were you worried too?"he asked.

I cried harder. By denying the truth to myself and thus keeping it from him, I had left Louie with the only other plausible answer he could come up with: He was dumb.

In a daze, I sat through the first meeting to design an individualized education program (IEP) for him. But over the next few months, the school officials and I mapped out a plan to address his weaknesses and bolster his strengths. The school paid for him to become a member of Recording for the Blind & Dyslexic, an organization that supplies CDs and books on tape from its library. He can use the service for life.

The hardest thing to do was to take a long look at my own behavior. While I had done a number of things right, I had fallen into the trap of trying to make Louie conform to my own definition of learning instead of being open to the idea that he would have his own path.

From that point, Louie began taking responsibility for himself. He is naturally talented in the visual arts. Though no one knows why, many kids with dyslexia have this gift.

Not long after he started his IEP, Louie got the first report card of his sophomore year. I tried to look both congratulatory and empathetic as I waited for him to tell me how he had done. I didn't want him to think I didn't expect much. Nor did I want him to conclude that I wouldn't be happy with whatever he had achieved. A tricky balance.

Louie had made the honor roll. A wave of relief came over me. He had stapled his report card down the middle to keep it open, and it already looked a little ragged. "You've been carrying it around?" I asked. "Yeah," he said, trying to sound casual.

"How about if I frame it?" I said, trying to do the same.

"Yeah," Louie said. "That's be good."

Good got better. Louie learned to love words, mixing and matching and stringing them together for others to read. He graduated from high school and is now at a community college in Chicago, studying to be a sports journalist - and still following his own path.