Fast forward to the fifth grade, when I still had not been
diagnosed properly.
Because I was so slow on the staircase, it had been decided that I wouldn't participate in fire drills; I would sit in the office instead.
Looking back, I can see that this was a bad arrangement. Some adult should have assisted me during fire drills. Assisted kindly, and patiently.
One day the fire drill bell rang, and while everyone else went outside, I went to the office, as usual.
Suddenly, a woman who worked in the office came in and said, as if she thought I was just a troublesome brat,
"We don't have time for your nonsense right now."
And she dragged me out of the office and down the stairs.
The speed, the being dragged down the steps, was very upsetting, and I started to cry.
And then I was outside, and still crying.
And then my first grade teacher, who was standing there with her class, scolded me.
"Shame on you, Rochelle! You're acting like a baby! These little first graders are behaving better than you!"
You don't DO that to a child who is frightened, upset, and crying, especially one who had practically idolized you.
This was nothing less than a betrayal.
