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BY JENNIFER SILVERMAN
When I received my dyslexia diagnosis in elementary school, adults did their darndest to help me comprehend my “learning disability" in terms a kid could grasp.
I vividly recall being told that my dyslexic brain was like a massive file cabinet, overflowing with files.
According to the professionals circa my 1990's childhood, most non-dyslexics could seamlessly access a needed file as though an internal Alexa was on-hand 24/7.
Conversely, those of us who “learned differently” apparently possessed a mental library devoid of Alexa, or even the Dewey Decimal System, resulting in an inability to retrieve perpetually jumbled files.
I often return to this imagery on occasions in which the perfect word utterly eludes me.
I’ve always relished that satisfying moment when words accurately express feelings in precise vernacular.
I once read that for many of us, there is a singular instance when our minds realize we nurture a vast vocabulary, and suddenly we unlock the treasure trove, and our language expands.
In middle school, I adored a textbook called Wordly Wise.
At the time, I imagined that new words were akin to a dormant superpower, waiting to be cultivated.
When certain subjects did not come easily to this dyslexic kid, words gave me the aplomb to feel smart - despite feeling different.
This walk down scholarly lane got me thinking about the labels that define us for better or worse.
In college, a supervisor proclaimed that she was “the builder” and I was “the maintainer”.
Later, as a TV wardrobe stylist, an executive declared that I was a “show pony” while my colleague was a “work horse.” (I'm still not sure which one of us should have taken more offense.)
A quote from TV’s, The Nanny also comes to mind, in which the character, Sylvia Fine, Fran's mother, asserted that two types of people exist - “pointers and schleppers.”
In professional situations over the years, I’ve often giggled internally when I recalled the classic TV quote and realized that I was indeed "pointing" or "schlepping."
So, what impact do these labels make on how we see ourselves? Do they box us in, give us a complex, or perhaps elicit confidence?
The “builder” vs. “maintainer” thing stayed with me for years.
When I later blurted it out to a co-worker in a factual, parrot-like sort of manner, it finally occurred to me that it didn’t have to be true at all.
On the other side of the coin, how frequently do positive descriptors become our mantras?
In my case, when I receive a compliment, it habitually goes in one ear and out the other, as though I’m powerless to retain something so nice. Although I remember my feelings of gratitude, I usually cannot recount the actual compliments themselves.
Why is it that the negative tends to shape our self-worth for decades, while the positive frequently fades away at warp speed?
The answer is seemingly simple, but the habit is difficult to kick.
The labels others attribute to us come to define us because we allow them to do so.
I didn’t have to accept that I was “the maintainer.” I also didn’t have to believe that being “the maintainer” prevented me from also being “the builder.” How come I couldn’t be both? How come I couldn’t be something entirely different?
At the end of the day, we regularly allow words to be limiting.
Recently, when catching up with friends, one despairing pal mentioned that she had “lost her spark.”
Another comrade had a brilliant retort – “You haven’t lost your spark. You’ve found it.”
Let’s set an intention to turn limiting beliefs around and enable our words to empower rather than restrict.
The labels we've internalized can only hurt us with our permission; Let’s stop giving it.
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