NLD Cross-Culturally

Born two months prematurely and at less than four pounds, I was a sickly child. My mom hadbeen in labor for three days (when I found this out, I finally realized why she didn’twant any more kids!) This apparently caused some neurological difficulties, includingepilepsy, which made me different from other children. Besides all this, I started schoolin Poland, continued in Israel in Hebrew, and then on to the States where I mastered mythird language, English. So besides all the other problems, I had to adjust to threedifferent cultures and master three languages by age ten!

Well… so much for the theory that people with NLD should be sheltered from changes andnovel situations. I was in a different school (and often a new city) each year until 9thgrade, as we moved from Warsaw to Tel Aviv to Haifa to Chicago to Philadelphia toSyracuse. I don’t know if I was simply too traumatized, but I remember very little ofthose early years. This may be due to the medication I was on for epilepsy from the time Iwas a child until I was fourteen. Or it may be due to my various languages — I wonder,for instance, if my memories of Israel
are “locked up” inside the Hebrew which I have forgotten.

Because Warsaw was completely demolished in World War II, housing was scarce. We lived inan old army barracks converted to civilian housing after the war. There, we had two rooms:one served as a living room, the other as a bedroom. The kitchen and bathroom were sharedby the
tenants, so there was a lot of commonality. We had a tiny fridge in which many familieskept milk and butter. Mostly, my mom went shopping for each day’s groceries after work.Another family had a small, black and white TV which we occasionally all got together towatch.

My parents both worked and I went every day to preschool. Always eager to learn, and witha love for books, I tagged after my mother in the evenings until I learned my letters andwas able to form them into words. I knew how to read before I went to school, but otherthings were difficult for me. I went to school not being able to tie my shoes, and I neverlearned to ride a bike. Cutting and pasting were difficult, too. I fell off the jungle gymin my preschool, broke my hip, and ended up in a body cast for weeks, requiring extensivephysical therapy afterwards to re-learn to walk.

My mom remembers one day, when she picked me up from preschool, I was sitting on the floorwith my legs stretched out, with two little kids tying each of my shoes. They were happyto show off their new skills, and I was more than happy to let them!

My parents split up when I was four, and when I was six my mom and I moved out of the armybarracks into modern, colorful apartments.  Because there were only two of us, welived with Jean, a single lady.  We had the big room, she had the small one. Again,the kitchen and
bathroom were shared. Less than a year later, mom and I left Poland for Israel.

We traveled by train to Vienna and then to Naples, then by boat to the Israeli port ofHaifa. The ship was big and vast, full of glittering lights and shimmering objects. My momwas sick most of the trip, so I played on the deck by myself; there were no other kids.The dining room
had large tables and chandeliers.

I remember little of Israel. Everything was strange. I didn’t know the language andcouldn’t understand at first. I had a new alphabet to master. I lived with my grandmotherat first, who was to me a total stranger (she and my uncle had left Poland when I wastwo). She brought
me to school, where I was given a strange new name, Ylana. I still think of myself asIvona. This new name isn’t me; it is a tag, pointing to an object that happens to be me.The kids torment me in school.  They call me “mishuge”, crazy, chase me andthrow things at me. Later,
my mom and I moved to a little house, then got an apartment near the sea. I remember thevast sea and playing in the water and the sand.

Determined to be like the others, I got my mom to buy me a jumprope. I practiced for weeksand months until I could do it. But it didn’t help me to play with the other kids, and Inever mastered the more complicated steps like Double Dutch.

Once more, I was unable to communicate with other kids in school, further alienating mefrom my peers. There was no ESL back then; I was simply put in school and expected to”sink or swim.” I learned English from the “University of the Street”– the same way I had learned
Hebrew. The same was true about my perceptual and motor problems.  There was nospecial ed; I was mainstreamed with the other kids, and was not fully aware of mydisabilities. Again, it was sink or swim. My parents were busy working and keeping house,and I was left alone to
fend for myself and find my way in this new land. It does not help that everythingAmerican was ridiculed by my parents: the makeup, the high heels, the food.

When I encounter new food in the cafeteria, it seems strange to me. I’m not used to themushy bread or the sweet, sickly soda. At home, my parents still buy rye bread, comparingAmerican white to the consistency of cotton. But it does not help when I tell these thingsto other
kids. They’re not amused; they’re insulted. When I bring sandwiches on dark, firm bread,they look at me strangely, but I’m too oblivious to notice.

This rejection of everything American didn’t help me to fit in. I was not only physicallyclumsy, but culturally and socially clumsy as well.  I received no special help,either ESL to learn English or special ed to help me cope with my perceptual and motordysfunctions. I was simply
placed in school and told to sink or swim. I’m not sure how aware I was of my differences,although these things set me apart from other children, who continually picked on me andteased me. Although we moved frequently — 4th grade in Chicago, 5th through 7th inPhiladelphia, 8th in Syracuse NY — in spite of where we lived I was always the school
scapegoat. I had no friends; I was constantly in trouble; and I was suspended from schoolon numerous occasions.

I remember one of those occasions, when in 6th grade I lashed out at a girl on theplayground and ripped her raincoat. Kids had been teasing, taunting, and hitting me, but Iwas unable to tell who had done what (since I had trouble differentiating faces). Belindahad been an
innocent standby. Later we became friends, but shortly afterwards her family moved toMichigan.

My stepfather always acted as if he was the only one that mattered.  Accordingly,dinner conversations were sermonic monologues either about his work problems or about someissue of international or political importance. As I grew older and interested in currentevents, my
opinions were mocked and derided. He felt he was the only one who knew anything, the onlyone capable of making decisions. He always assumed he was right and everyone else waswrong. It was a relationship of domination where he was the master, I the slave.

My fear and hatred of George grew, fed by the feelings of powerlessness against thistyrant who had entered my life. My feelings of powerlessness grew with the intensity ofGeorge’s assaults. These were both mental put downs — ie, I was stupid, didn’t knowanything, good for nothing — and physical — he was the disciplinarian, and I, acting outmy bitterness and hostility, was always in trouble.

Not only was I the scapegoat at school; at home I was the whipping boy and a constanttarget of his continual criticisms and put-downs. In his eyes, I could never do anythingright, and he could never be wrong. If anything was broken or damaged, it was my fault,”regardless.” My misbehavior only accentuated this role. Everything was my fault– even my stepfather’s failures at work were my fault. I didn’t want my mom to loseanother husband. I felt like I was responsible to keep their marriage together.

I remember one incident when my friend Margaret came and brought a record over. We triedto play it but couldn’t get the stereo to work. Later I realized it had been broken, butat the time I was blamed for breaking it.

I became frustrated, hostile, and angry. I lashed out at everyone — not so much at home,where I was repressed by the controlling influence of George, but more so at school.Feeling hopeless, bitter, and rejected, these feelings only “boiled over” intomy school relationships, which were marked by rejection, teasing, and torment.

One incident stands out from when I was thirteen. My mother was picking me up on a busystreet at rush hour. I was trying to cross to get to her car, but there was too muchtraffic — since I can’t tell how far away things are, I’m always extra cautious. Therewas too much traffic noise to hear her, and she started signaling to me to tell mesomething. Unable to understand what she was saying, I trusted my interpretation of herhand signals over my instincts. Thinking she was telling me to cross, I did — and steppedright in front of an oncoming car. Fortunately I escaped with only a broken ankle from theaccident.

One bright spot in my growing up years were frequent weekend family camping trips. Evenhere, however, I struggled. Because of the problems with space and depth perception, I hadtrouble with more rugged hiking trails. My parents tried to get me to be more independentand frequently refused to help me. Of course, I ended up with lots of wet feet at streamcrossings, etc.

One incident comes to mind when I was washing dishes in the stream, and started cryingthat a cup was running away from me. My mom came to see what was going on, and startedlaughing: a chipmunk had gotten underneath the metal cup and was hopping away with it.Looking back, I can laugh too!

As I became a teenager in this strange new land, my mother took pride in being different,in being an individual. Because I was not accepted by my peers, I listened to her. Shedidn’t wear makeup or stylish clothes like other women. Instead, she took pride in herSears sewing machine and the clothes she made for me and for herself.  My mom’sresistance to and ridicule of things like makeup and high heels set me apart further. Wedidn’t shave our legs or underarms; this, too, was scoffed at. As I grew older, I wasdiscouraged from wearing a bra, and told that I had too little to bother. There was astrange family pride in being different, in being Polish, but it didn’t help me to fit inat school.

The rejection by my peers, which in elementary school caused me to react and get introuble, had, by the time I reached high school, caused me to withdraw. I became a loner;I didn’t mix well with other kids. I ate lunch alone in the large cafeteria. I learned toescape into the world of books: my only friends were in those books. I would come homefrom school, do my homework and chores, and delve into a book. The characters in thosepages couldn’t ridicule me. I withdrew into their world more and more. The challenges ofmy life seemed mild compared to those of Oliver Twist or Heidi. Mild compared to thestories of Nazi Holocaust in Poland that my parents had lived through, of which I wasconstantly reminded at home.

Concluding that I wasn’t loved, appreciated, or needed, I felt hopeless and withdrew intomy own private world. Books were my way of coping with the isolation and loneliness. Thesewere my “friends”. They did not reject or taunt me. I became a loner. I coped bywithdrawing. I could generally be found down in my basement room. Even when I was withothers, I rarely entered into conversation but stayed off by myself. I learned to becomeinconspicuous and blend into the woodwork.

Ironically, this isolation helped my grades in school. I had lots of time to doschoolwork, and with my mother’s encouragement and help, I put all my time and energy intothis area. Mom helped me with math assignments that were difficult. Also at this time, Iwas weaned off the epilepsy medication, which improved my concentration in school. By highschool, the kids were less cruel, and were content to leave me to myself. The only classthat was still a torment was gym. I couldn’t  (and still can’t) interact with anymoving object or respond to the motion of another person. Needless to say, I was alwaysthe last to be called by team captains. Although I learned to swim and x-c ski, thesesports were not part of my school program. Home Ec was another class which gave metrouble. In spite of my mother’s great talents in sewing, knitting, and other home crafts,I did not inherit this ability. Even today, I still avoid ironing, mending, sewing, andsimilar tasks. Of course, I never went to any high school dances, proms, or other events.

Naturally, when I was sixteen I wanted to learn to drive, but my stepfather insisted thatI would only be a road hazard and would probably get killed. He said that, even if I tookdriver’s ed, I would not be allowed to use the family car. He convinced me that my visionwas too poor and that I would not be able to pass the eye exam Even at this young age, Irealized that I would need ten time as much practice as the others… not less. Notwishing to make a fool of myself in front of the others, I didn’t even attempt to takedriver ed. When I was in college, I got my permit, but none of my friends would take therisk of helping me, although I took lessons at the college. It wasn’t until I was in mythirties that I learned to drive by first buying my  own car and then hiring peopleto teach me.

Looking back, I realize that even my few moments of accomplishment were glossed over. Iwon a prize for an essay I wrote in sixth grade. No one came to the reading of it; we nolonger know what happened to it. In eighth grade, having spoken English for only fouryears, I was my school’s representative to the county-wide spelling bee. My father did notgo to my high school or college graduations. I didn’t even go to my high schoolgraduation. It goes without saying that I didn’t go to the proms or high school dances.

Eventually, I finished high school and escaped to college, a lonely and desperate girl.But college couldn’t solve my problems; it only multiplied them. I had never developedsocial skills and had many roommate struggles; it was difficult to get along with people.  Desperate, lonely, fearful, and guilty, I saw little purpose in life.  Oftenin those days, I thought about ending it all. Fortunately, I was timid and lacked thecourage to fulfill my plans.

One night at a dorm party, I met Vin. Later, he introduced me to his friends. They werefriendly and reached out to me. They didn’t ridicule me, or put me down, or reject me;they seemed to accepted me.  They were born again Christians. I latched on, eatingmeals with them
and participating in some of their activities.

I was Jewish; Jews weren’t supposed to believe in Jesus. What would my folks say? Yet Ireally had no Jewish identity; we had never gone to the synagogue or even celebrated theholidays. I knew nothing about being Jewish, except that Jesus wasn’t a part of it. Vinsaid that this
Jesus and his followers were all Jews. It was confusing.

Finally I gathered my courage and made plans to end it all. It would sure make thingssimpler; the world would just go on without me. That day, however, Vin came by and invitedme to go to a movie with the group. I thought, well, why not. My plans could wait.

The things I heard in the group made me think. Again, I was confronted with this Jesus whochanged lives. Could he change mine? Was there hope for me? I thought about my life, mypast, my future. Through the confusion, a glimmer of hope broke into my hopelessexistence. I talked with Vin, we prayed, and I asked Jesus to take control of my messed uplife.

After that, I made friends with others in the group. I no longer wanted to die; I had hopethat my life could change, that things could get better. I had purpose. I had friends. Ihad new life in Christ. I was happy.

But my problems didn’t stop. I wanted to work with children, and had chosen an earlychildhood program at a junior college. I breezed through the academic subjects with aminimum of effort, but barely pulled C’s in courses like “Observation ofChildren”. During my last semester, I got an “F” in my student teachingexperience. 

Uncertain of the direction of my life, I quit school. But trying to find a job was nopicnic. Unable to live home because of problems with dad, I lived with other gals fromchurch. I had few job skills and no street smarts at all. I remember one job I got,packing potato chips on
an assembly line. I only lasted a couple hours, and they sent me home. Other workexperiences were not much better. I tried many office and clerical jobs, but during thosethree years, I was unemployed more than I was employed.

One office job which was a particular disaster was where I had several bosses. They allgave me assignments, and I never knew which were to be done first. I had no guidance inprioritizing and was always behind. At another temp job, I worked as a customer servicerep on the phone.
The management wanted us to do phone soliciting when the phones were quiet, but most of usresisted because it was not in the job description. We were seated at desks in a big openroom. There was a lot of banter and playing; they would toss paper airplanes and otherthings around the room. While this was going on and we were waiting for phones to ring, Iwould most often have my nose in a book. Whenever the supervisor walked in, the otherswould stop their games — but I would be caught reading. I didn’t last too long at thatjob, although I was probably a more conscientious employee than the rest.

One hot summer day, walking through the city searching for work, I was hitchhiking on TealAve. I was depressed. I didn’t care what happened to me. I figured life couldn’t get muchworse. Was it worth going on? In this mental state, I dared to hitch hike because I didn’tcare if
someone raped or mugged me. I felt I would be better off dead.

A guy in a suit and tie picked me up. We got to talking; he ended up taking me to arestaurant, and then home. As our friendship progressed, the lease ran out on my studioapartment and I moved in with Bob.  But the world didn’t have much help to offer inthe areas of self-esteem
where many of my problems were rooted. My life was going nowhere except downhill. Thethoughts of suicide returned. Bob and I had little in common and eventually the excitementand “love” wore off. Since I still had no job, I was totally dependent on Bob.The house was run down and in a bad section of town. One day, as I looked on thesesurroundings, the ugliness and filth around me began to reach my hardened heart.  Irealized that my own heart had become just as dirty. I cried out to God and asked for Hisforgiveness.

I didn’t say anything to Bob about this. The next day, I went out as usual to look forwork. I found a job as a live-in baby-sitter and moved out. I broke off our relationshipand the following Sunday, returned to church.

About a year later, I met Sam at the church I was then a part of. Our relationshipdeveloped and we grew closer together; we were even discussing marriage. Things were goinggreat; I was happy and really “in love.” Then, just before Christmas, he brokeoff our relationship.

Once again unemployed and shattered by this latest rejection, I decided to return tocollege. I had become very closed inside myself; I rarely spoke to anyone. A friend toldme later that I rarely made eye contact with anyone during conversation. I had many deephurts, and was not
about to open myself up for fresh wounds. Although I had now been a Christian for aboutsix years, I still had no answers on how to deal with life.

The brethren in Oswego were a very loving group, and slowly their love began to pierce myhard shell. One family with whom I spend a great deal of time told me later that, whenthey were beginning to know me, to get me to say anything was like pulling teeth. I grewto trust them and soon was spending a lot of time at their home. It was here that I firstlearned to ride a bike — practicing with their daughters, who were then learning.However, I still feel shaky and uncomfortable on a bike and haven’t tried to ride onesince.

Each fall, my church had an annual retreat at Beaver Camp. This year, the speaker wasSylvia, and her topic was “Accepted in the Beloved,” taken from Ephesians 1:6& Ezekiel 16:2-16. Her words seemed to bypass my mind and pierce through to mytroubled heart, as if she was speaking only to me.

Proof of the emotional healing came about a week later, at a going away party for Mike andTerri, who had worked with the Oswego church for the past four years. Part way through theevening, I realized that I was actually mingling, talking to people, and enjoying it! Inthe past, I
would have sat in a corner, afraid to talk to people, feeling miserable, like an outsiderlooking in. I would watch the others, but would have been unable to enter into the fun andfestivities. Now, it was different: I was no longer on the outside; I was able toparticipate.  Jesus had really set me free!

Still, I had to continue to walk in this freedom. It would be easy to fall back into myold behavior patterns. Somehow, however, it was now easier to interact with others… tospeak up in classes… to do many things that I couldn’t do before. I was more confident,less withdrawn,
more outgoing. Even my family noticed the positive changes in me.

I now had a circle of friends (most of whom I’m still in touch with fifteen years aftergraduation). However, the employment scene has been a continual struggle for me, as hasthe mysterious world of men.

One of my more positive temp jobs during my three years as a college dropout was workingin a library. The quiet environment had relatively few distractions, making it easy toconcentrate. Most of my tasks were focused, where I could concentrate on one thing at atime. Since I had
a great love for books and had spent a great deal of time in libraries, I felt comfortablein this environment. And perhaps best of all, accuracy was more important than speed, andthere was no time pressure.

When I returned to school at Oswego, I sought out work as a library page for my workstudy, and this, too, was a fairly positive experience.  When, at the end of thatyear, I again found myself struggling with entry level employment, I decided to go on tograd school and get my
master’s in library science.

Librarian jobs are primarily filled through Civil Service, and this, too, proved to be anadvantage. My first professional position was at  Adirondack Correctional Facility, amedium security prison for 600 men. I did have some problems here; I had to call onAffirmative Action and the Union several times in order to keep my job. At this point myNLD was not diagnosed and I was not considered as having any kind of disability.

After five years I got tired of the struggle, and decided it was time to move on. Therewas an opportunity to go to Yugoslavia to work for a church-sponsored seminary there. Ijumped at the opportunity.

I thought in Europe I would fit in a bit better, but it was not to be.  I had goodrelationships with the seminary students, but didn’t feel that most of the other Americansaccepted me. One particular gal, who came as a summer intern from Gordon College, wrote inher journal about
me that “there is something wrong with her… she talks slow, she moves slow, shedoes everything slow… I wonder if she’s retarded.” Of course I was not supposed toread this (or perhaps I was; it was left open on the desk for me to glance at). At thispoint, thought I knew
that I was “weird and different” and was aware of my early struggles, epilepsy,and school history, I had still never heard of NLD. Some of the other Americans simplyshunned me.

I stayed in Europe for four years, coming home during the summers. I worked in Poland fora while and then in Slovakia. The job in Slovakia was terrible. John, a former colleaguefrom Yugoslavia who had started up his own network of schools, was a definite Type Acholeric, had huge expectations, and felt I was lazy and uncooperative.  Decidingthat I would be a career missionary, the next step was to go to a Bible school affiliatedwith the mission board I was then under. But, going back to dorm life with much youngergirls proved to be a disaster. Again, I felt weird and rejected, and, although now in mymid thirties, I found myself reacting in much the same way I had when I was ten!

At this point I gave up church and missionary life and attempted to get back into thelibrary world. But I’d been gone over five years, and much had changed. Again, I had tostart at the bottom and it was not easy to get a job. Again, I worked at several temp(office) jobs, with
a lot of unemployment in between. My first try at a library job failed; it was a librarydirector position, where they wanted a clone of the former director — which I was not. Irealize now that, due to my inability to read non-verbals, I was unaware of how bad thesituation
had gotten. I lasted less than three months, and ended up pretty depressed as a result.

After this experience I began considering alternate careers, and went for careercounseling. When I explained that I “might” have a “slight”disability, they suggested I contact VESID (a NY state agency; Vocational and EducationalServices for Individuals with Disabilities).  Upon hearing my tale of woe, thecaseworker at VESID ordered a psychological evaluation and, eventually, after a year ofprodding on my part, a neuropshych. The tests showed a 34 point discrepancy between VIQand PIQ. At this time I was 42.