"Dyslexia is a myth" is the title of Labour MP Graham Stringer's recent column for Manchester Confidential.
His argument – which you can read in full here: http://www.manchesterconfidential.com/index.asp?Sessionx=IpqiNw86JD7rIpqiNwF6IHqi&realname=Dyslexia_is_a_myth – is that dyslexia was invented to cover up poor teaching of reading and writing.
In his own words: "The reason that so many children fail to read and write is because the wrong teaching methods are used. The education establishment, rather than admit that their eclectic and incomplete methods for instruction are at fault, have invented a brain disorder called dyslexia.
"To label children as dyslexic because they're confused by poor teaching methods is wicked.
"Dyslexia is a cruel fiction, it is no more real than the 19th century scientific construction of 'the æther' to explain how light travels through a vacuum.
"The sooner it is consigned to the same dustbin of history, the better."
To back up his argument, Stringer - MP for Blackley in north Manchester – points out that other countries have literacy rates of close to 100%. If dyslexia were a genetic condition then this would not be possible.
He also argues that illiteracy is linked to crime rates – quoting that 80% of the residents of Strangeways prison are illiterate and 80% use illegal drugs. "I am not, for one minute, implying that all functionally illiterate people take illegal drugs and engage in criminal activities, but, the huge correlation between illiteracy and criminal activity is striking," he adds.
But there's a gap here. Arguing that illiteracy is the same as dyslexia, it's not. Many dyslexics can read and write – often to a high level. In fact, the best-selling novelist of all time, Agatha Christie, has been identified as dyslexic http://www.dyslexiamentor.com/famous/famousdyslexics_000.php.
What's more – Stringer uses some strange definition of literacy. "Functional literacy" is something that sounds nice – but you can't then compare it to international literacy rates ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_countries_by_literacy_rate ). The UK has 99% literacy rates using international comparisons, the same or higher than South Korea and Nicaragua – the countries he lists when "proving" dyslexia doesn't exist.
The idea that the shadowy overlords of the "educational establishment" have invented dyslexia is another argument I find intriguing.
When I was six weeks old, the doctors thought I had a brain tumour. I was given a brain scan, and while I was clear of a tumour, the doctors noted I had a funny-shaped brain. It didn't mean anything to them at the time, just something worth noting. At the age of six, after being asked to leave my junior school as they believed "he would never pass an exam", my mother had me tested for dyslexia.
My dyslexia and my funny-shaped brain were not something anyone connected until years later. I find it hard to believe the shadowy world of educators meeting to discuss my failure and blaming it on an invented disorder could quite have planned that far ahead – or faked a brain scan.
Now, I'm not saying that dyslexia is not over-diagnosed or seized-upon by parents and teachers as a reason that conveniently explains their own or their child's under-performance. Or that teaching is not often poor. But, really, what are the downsides to this "cruel fiction"?
Dyslexics, real or imagined, have trouble reading and writing. They are given help. Should we really deny help to people who have trouble reading and writing?
Personally, I never received help from the state – either in the form of financial aid or extra time in exams. I have, at times, had to work harder to get things done. But no more than someone who has no talent for art, maths or music has to work to pass those exams.
I received extra tuition in reading - not using the "synthetic phonics" system that Stringer seems to believe would help cure the nation of dyslexia, but using more old-fashioned teaching methods that are used to teach "normal" children, just with individual attention and patience on the part of the teacher. I struggled again when becoming an editor, but was given help by friends and colleagues (unaware of my dyslexia) and worked hard to overcome it.
The only "cruel fiction" I have ever found about dyslexia is that it is a disability. So my brain happens to be wired differently to "normal". The same could be said for people with aptitudes or difficulties at art, sport, music or maths.
Everyone has different natural strengths and weaknesses, claiming that one of these differences is a fiction – when there is so much information (http://ent.med.nyu.edu/conditions-we-treat/conditions/dyslexia) and scientific evidence (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/4384414.stm) to the contrary seems at best ill-informed. Perhaps poor teaching is to blame?
Showing posts with label Opinion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Opinion. Show all posts
Friday, 23 January 2009
Thursday, 4 December 2008
Double-bills Should Return to the Cinema: Discuss -- by MouthoftheMersey
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Cinemas have never been more comfortable – big seats that wouldn’t shame the first class section of a jumbo jet, air conditioning and even a holder for your packet of popcorn. So why are we only allowed to sit in such opulence for two hours or so, meaning that a night out needs a lengthy prelude or long post-cinema spell in a restaurant or pub?
Money, of course, since the reason cinemas are able to supply such comfort is the throughput of punters from mid-morning to very late, each handing over £7 or so.
But the cinema is in competition with DVDs and movies on-demand, so must always provide a premium product - there is no room for apathy.
When I first went to the cinema, it really was a night out with a second feature at 7.20pm, Pearl and Dean and Kia Ora at 9.00pm and the main feature at 9.15pm, giving just enough time for a quick drink before last orders.
And what second features they were. A Roger Moore era Bond might be supported by a Connery outing, hollowed-out volcano and all. A standard Hollywood buddy comedy starring Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor or Eddie Murphy and Nick Nolte might be supported by a film of Eddie or Richard doing stand-up – what a shock to the system that was! Or a Hollywood horror might be supported by a low budget Italian zombie fest with a visual and spoken language all of its own.
I miss those long afternoons and evenings in the dark watching two movies in the collective concentration a cinema audience provides – one so absent from the living room “Love Film” DVD evening in, before switching to Desperate Housewives. It was an education and a pleasure now gone forever.
.
Cinemas have never been more comfortable – big seats that wouldn’t shame the first class section of a jumbo jet, air conditioning and even a holder for your packet of popcorn. So why are we only allowed to sit in such opulence for two hours or so, meaning that a night out needs a lengthy prelude or long post-cinema spell in a restaurant or pub?
Money, of course, since the reason cinemas are able to supply such comfort is the throughput of punters from mid-morning to very late, each handing over £7 or so.
But the cinema is in competition with DVDs and movies on-demand, so must always provide a premium product - there is no room for apathy.
When I first went to the cinema, it really was a night out with a second feature at 7.20pm, Pearl and Dean and Kia Ora at 9.00pm and the main feature at 9.15pm, giving just enough time for a quick drink before last orders.
And what second features they were. A Roger Moore era Bond might be supported by a Connery outing, hollowed-out volcano and all. A standard Hollywood buddy comedy starring Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor or Eddie Murphy and Nick Nolte might be supported by a film of Eddie or Richard doing stand-up – what a shock to the system that was! Or a Hollywood horror might be supported by a low budget Italian zombie fest with a visual and spoken language all of its own.
I miss those long afternoons and evenings in the dark watching two movies in the collective concentration a cinema audience provides – one so absent from the living room “Love Film” DVD evening in, before switching to Desperate Housewives. It was an education and a pleasure now gone forever.
.
Saturday, 8 November 2008
Bonfire Night – Thoughts not a poem -- by Mimitig
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Remember remember
The fifth of November
Gunpowder,treason and plot.
There can be few adults aged, well, my sort of age, who don’t have childhood memories of fireworks night. We were given, or earned, some pocket money and went to the local shop to buy roman candles, Catherine wheels, jumping jacks, and asked Da to help out to get one of those big exciting-looking rockets.
With the fireworks stashed in the cellar, Mum helped make the Guy – some old stockings stuffed with newspaper for the legs, a worn out vest or jumper stuffed with an old cushion for the body, and a coal sack stuffed with straw and a face drawn in charcoal for the head.
Job done and we took the Guy out on the street to get some pennies, for a few more jumping jacks and toffee apples.
Home and time to build the bonfire. My dad was a master of the fire, and he built it so carefully – a pyramid of wood on which to perch the Guy.
At the very end of the garden, the fire was skilfully lit. It smouldered slowly, started to take hold, and Da began to light the first fireworks.
Roman candles started the display, glorious colours cascading into the grass. Then there were the fountains – two, three feet of magic. A short break then for us to light our sparklers (while Da attended to the bonfire and made sure that the Guy was sitting nicely, ready for the finale), and we waved them round. Writing our names in the sky. Screaming with laughter as the cold sparks fell on our woollen mittens.
Then came the Catherine wheels. The day before Da put up wooden sticks so he could nail the fireworks safely. Blue, green, bright white colours swirled in front of us. We ate our toffee apples and clapped with soft gloved hands.
Waiting for the big moment, the moment when the Guy would go up in big flames, the moment when the rockets would be launched, we had the jumping jacks. All round the garden, under the bushes, under the laburnum tree, they leapt and banged and we screamed in surprise.
Then the denouement, the moment we’d been waiting for. Six milk bottles standing in a line. Each rocket waiting, two small, three medium and one great big one. The anticipation was intense.
Da lit the first two. Little whooshes. Just went over the garage roof, but green and red sparks. We went – wooh.
Next three – wow – over the wall, into Keble College gardens, and they weren’t just green and red, they were blue and white and very bright. We cheered, loudly.
Then we waited, literally with bated breath for the big one. The last three had been spectacular.
So two small girls, watch, mittened hands clasped, as Da approaches The Big One. The fuse is lit, suddenly a jumping jack we thought finished, leaps out from the undergrowth. The girls shriek, and miss the moment of launch. But a moment later the rocket starts to earn its money. First a whistle in the star night sky. A silence. Then a burst of golden showers, then green, then red. This rocket has cleared the walls, the nearest buildings and is blossoming in the velvet darkness of a November sky.
With a final burst of lemon-coloured tiny stars, the rocket dies. We don’t know where it fell, and we don’t care. The bonfire starts to die down. Watching the fireworks, we have missed the burning of the Guy. Da attends to the fire, making it safe, then hugs us, closely, says – was that fun? We hug him closely. It’s been the best, we say.
Mum’s back in the kitchen, looking after the pets and making sure there’s hot soup and baked potatoes for us all.
Now I’m the grown-up. And I hate the fireworks. All I care about now is making sure my cats are safe when the bangs start. Perhaps if I had children I would be less harsh. But when we were young, we didn’t tie jumping jacks to cats' tails or throw bangers at strangers in the street. We had a family thing, in our walled garden.
This year, however, I am moved with other thoughts. It is of course, coincidence that the US election has fallen at this time of year. It is coincidence that the BBC are doing a big historic series.
But you know, what is a coincidence? Someone else’s chance, or one of Humphrey Lyttleton’s Pot Noodles of Fate?
At the very moment that Barack Obama seems to usher the world into a new era, so we are reminded of the wish for ethnic cleansing that was the Gunpowder Plot. Fawkes and his co-conspirators were very clear on that. They didn’t just want to blow up parliament. They wanted London and England to be rid of all Scots.
And that is perhaps why Bonfire night is still remembered. Across these lands of Albion and Alba. Across the religions, because some burn the Guy because of Catholics, others because of politics.
Wouldn’t it be a great thing now, this year, if we stopped all that rubbish, and celebrated November the fifth for Obama’s victory. For a new era, and a more tolerant era for our generation and for those who come.
Remember remember
The fifth of November
The day we came of age
.
Remember remember
The fifth of November
Gunpowder,treason and plot.
There can be few adults aged, well, my sort of age, who don’t have childhood memories of fireworks night. We were given, or earned, some pocket money and went to the local shop to buy roman candles, Catherine wheels, jumping jacks, and asked Da to help out to get one of those big exciting-looking rockets.
With the fireworks stashed in the cellar, Mum helped make the Guy – some old stockings stuffed with newspaper for the legs, a worn out vest or jumper stuffed with an old cushion for the body, and a coal sack stuffed with straw and a face drawn in charcoal for the head.
Job done and we took the Guy out on the street to get some pennies, for a few more jumping jacks and toffee apples.
Home and time to build the bonfire. My dad was a master of the fire, and he built it so carefully – a pyramid of wood on which to perch the Guy.
At the very end of the garden, the fire was skilfully lit. It smouldered slowly, started to take hold, and Da began to light the first fireworks.
Roman candles started the display, glorious colours cascading into the grass. Then there were the fountains – two, three feet of magic. A short break then for us to light our sparklers (while Da attended to the bonfire and made sure that the Guy was sitting nicely, ready for the finale), and we waved them round. Writing our names in the sky. Screaming with laughter as the cold sparks fell on our woollen mittens.
Then came the Catherine wheels. The day before Da put up wooden sticks so he could nail the fireworks safely. Blue, green, bright white colours swirled in front of us. We ate our toffee apples and clapped with soft gloved hands.
Waiting for the big moment, the moment when the Guy would go up in big flames, the moment when the rockets would be launched, we had the jumping jacks. All round the garden, under the bushes, under the laburnum tree, they leapt and banged and we screamed in surprise.
Then the denouement, the moment we’d been waiting for. Six milk bottles standing in a line. Each rocket waiting, two small, three medium and one great big one. The anticipation was intense.
Da lit the first two. Little whooshes. Just went over the garage roof, but green and red sparks. We went – wooh.
Next three – wow – over the wall, into Keble College gardens, and they weren’t just green and red, they were blue and white and very bright. We cheered, loudly.
Then we waited, literally with bated breath for the big one. The last three had been spectacular.
So two small girls, watch, mittened hands clasped, as Da approaches The Big One. The fuse is lit, suddenly a jumping jack we thought finished, leaps out from the undergrowth. The girls shriek, and miss the moment of launch. But a moment later the rocket starts to earn its money. First a whistle in the star night sky. A silence. Then a burst of golden showers, then green, then red. This rocket has cleared the walls, the nearest buildings and is blossoming in the velvet darkness of a November sky.
With a final burst of lemon-coloured tiny stars, the rocket dies. We don’t know where it fell, and we don’t care. The bonfire starts to die down. Watching the fireworks, we have missed the burning of the Guy. Da attends to the fire, making it safe, then hugs us, closely, says – was that fun? We hug him closely. It’s been the best, we say.
Mum’s back in the kitchen, looking after the pets and making sure there’s hot soup and baked potatoes for us all.
Now I’m the grown-up. And I hate the fireworks. All I care about now is making sure my cats are safe when the bangs start. Perhaps if I had children I would be less harsh. But when we were young, we didn’t tie jumping jacks to cats' tails or throw bangers at strangers in the street. We had a family thing, in our walled garden.
This year, however, I am moved with other thoughts. It is of course, coincidence that the US election has fallen at this time of year. It is coincidence that the BBC are doing a big historic series.
But you know, what is a coincidence? Someone else’s chance, or one of Humphrey Lyttleton’s Pot Noodles of Fate?
At the very moment that Barack Obama seems to usher the world into a new era, so we are reminded of the wish for ethnic cleansing that was the Gunpowder Plot. Fawkes and his co-conspirators were very clear on that. They didn’t just want to blow up parliament. They wanted London and England to be rid of all Scots.
And that is perhaps why Bonfire night is still remembered. Across these lands of Albion and Alba. Across the religions, because some burn the Guy because of Catholics, others because of politics.
Wouldn’t it be a great thing now, this year, if we stopped all that rubbish, and celebrated November the fifth for Obama’s victory. For a new era, and a more tolerant era for our generation and for those who come.
Remember remember
The fifth of November
The day we came of age
.
