John Brennan: How one good teacher recognised my dyslexia and changed my life

I see my shortcomings in the field of literacy as an opportunity to explore these alternative ways of communicating — but I would still love to have a chat with Bill Gates about ways of improving his spell-check program!

Hotelier John Brennan has published a memoir — ‘My Name is Jhon: An Atypical Story of Success’. Picture: Barry Murphy Photography

The assistance my mother had been praying for came in the form of a new schoolteacher from West Cork.

Looking back now, I realise he and I were a bit alike — for a country boy coming to teach in such a suburban school, he, too, was a fish out of water. And perhaps that is what connected us. Whatever it was, after a couple of weeks of gentle coaxing, all of which failed, he looked me in the eye, pulled on the bit of a beard he had, and something clicked.

For the first time in my schooling — I was by this time about eight years old — a teacher really saw me. And I want to stress the importance of that word: teacher.

Finbarr O’Driscoll was a teacher as opposed to someone who simply delivered the curriculum. He was interested, committed, and clearly viewed teaching as the art of connecting with the young people who populated his classroom, as opposed to force-feeding them standardised lessons laid down by the Department of Education.

I loved him and want to stress that without his help and support, nothing that follows in this story could have happened. To put it plainly, Finbarr O’Driscoll made it possible for me to have the life I have, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

The first step to finding out how to help me learn was identifying the type of supports I needed. Finbarr instinctively knew I required assistance that was just not available in mainstream schools in the 1970s, and after much consultation with my mother, he arranged for an assessment with a specialist in Lad Lane in Dublin.

DOORS TO SUCCESS: John and Francis Brennan, owners of The Lansdowne Hotel, Kenmare. Picture: Andy Gibson

So off I went one Saturday morning, resplendent in tweed shorts, shirt, tie, sleeveless sweater and jacket, travelling on the Number 44 bus, hand in hand with my mother. I cannot remember the name of the educational psychologist who carried out my assessment, but I do recall he was American, and seemed very pleasant. His office was dominated by a fine antique desk and two matching chairs, which even as a young boy I understood were supposed to let me know this kind-faced man and I were on the same level — equals. He took out a piece of A4 paper and asked me to spell the word bed.

I remember freezing. Such a simple request. I knew it was a small, short word, one that any of my friends at school could write without a moment’s thought. I even knew it started with the letter ‘b’, but after that I was lost. I gazed at the sheet of paper, and then at the man seated across from me, expecting to see that look of vexation and disappointment I was becoming so used to.

To my surprise, it wasn’t there. Instead, I saw empathy and compassion in the American’s pale-blue eyes. He was so considerate that for the first time when faced with the reality of my learning difficulties, I didn’t feel embarrassed or intimidated. ‘Okay,’ he said, speaking in a calm and friendly voice. ‘Think about a bed for a moment. What does it look like? Well, it has a headboard at the top, a flat bit in the middle, and a kicker at the end.’ I’d never heard the term ‘kicker’ before — I later learned it’s an American word — but I knew right away what he meant.

And as he said those words, my mind conjured up first a picture of a bed, then the letters ‘b’ and ‘d’. With a little prompting, I finally put an ‘e’ in the middle, to represent that ‘flat bit’. It was simple, visual, and fun to learn. And before I left the office, I learned something else important.

I wasn’t naughty, I wasn’t stupid and I wasn’t lazy. I had a condition many successful and very intelligent people live with, it’s just not the norm but that is alright and perhaps even better. Unfortunately, it had a name most of the people it afflicts struggle to pronounce, let alone write down, but at least I knew what was up with me, and I secretly thought it sounded exotic. I bounced out the door to a nervous mother, delighted to report I had a ‘condition’ called dyslexia, but please, please don’t ask me to spell it.

My Name is Jhon: An Atypical Story of Success by John Brennan

Finbarr took special interest in me after that. I went to summer school in Bray for three weeks every summer and attended a few classes there during the winter. It was a different world and offered me a new lens through which I could see myself and how I responded to the challenges I faced every day. Most importantly though, it taught me that I was not — and am not — alone. I met lots of other young people who dealt with the exact same problems I did, and just knowing that made me feel less isolated and lonely.

It’s important to note here that, even after all this help and support from the age of seven, I am still not a reader and spelling remains a genuine effort. But very few people know, as I have developed techniques for dealing with it. There are many ways to express oneself, and I see my shortcomings in the field of literacy as an opportunity to explore these alternative ways of communicating. For example, I regularly find myself so flummoxed by a word that even Bill Gates and his wonderful spell-checking software is unable to point me in the right direction. Perhaps he isn’t the genius people think he is after all — or God forbid, has dyslexia!

When this happens, the only sensible thing to do is to change direction altogether, to pause, think about the meaning I’m trying to convey, and come up with a sentence that says the same thing in a different way. This has happened umpteen times writing this book. At this stage, I do it without even realising I’m doing it — although I would love to have a chat with Bill Gates about ways of improving his spell-check program!