This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,63
time Priya’s advice ever chafes me, really. Because it’s like she doesn’t even know who I am, to think that there’s ever a moment in my life when I’m not bummed out over one thing or another, or stressed in some way.
This Is My Brain on Delayed Gratification
WILL
“Dude, you’re hanging out with the wrong Wu,” Tim said the first time I begged off Xbox night because I was helping Alan study for a quiz.
Tutoring Jocelyn’s brother is exhausting sometimes. The first time it was easy. There weren’t any stakes—I was just helping a friend out—but now that I know what is riding on it, well, that is a whole new level of urgency. For Alan to get a B, he has to average at least 85 percent on all his tests, which means he can only afford to get about three questions wrong on every twenty-question exam.
The first time we did a practice quiz, Alan got three problems wrong just because he didn’t actually read the questions all the way through. Another two were calculation errors—his writing was such chicken scratch he got the columns messed up when he did his division. Only twice did he actually not understand the math, which was both awesome and nerve-racking. I can teach concepts, and even the general test-taking strategies that I learned from the SAT tutor my mom set me up with, like circling the verbs in word problems and taking the time to read every question twice. But half the time Alan’s biggest obstacle to doing well just seems to be his own brain, which has the focus of a plastic bag blowing in the wind.
“Does Alan have an IEP?” I ask Jocelyn after Alan gets a 70 percent on our second practice test. She gives me a blank look. “You know, an Individualized Education Program, for kids who have learning differences.”
“Well, no,” she says. “He’s not, like, dyslexic or anything.”
“Do you know if he’s ever been tested?”
Jocelyn screws up her face and shakes her head. “I remember this time when he was in third grade, my parents got mad after a teacher conference because his teacher recommended that he see a psychologist. Dad was so pissed that he wrote the principal.”
“So they never diagnosed anything?” I ask.
“No, my parents just yelled at Alan and took away some privileges and eventually he got his grades up. That’s kind of their MO.” She chews her lip. “My dad went off about how Chinese people didn’t have dyslexia and how ADHD was something made up by pharmaceutical companies to sell drugs.”
I grimace. It doesn’t sound too different from stuff my mom has said about anxiety. I know about IEPs because Javier has one that lets him take tests in a separate, quiet room without bright signs or any noisy vents. All in all, it’s the closest thing to a sensory deprivation chamber you can get in a high school. It was a simple fix, but he went from Cs and Ds to As and Bs when they started making accommodations for him.
When I tell Jocelyn as much, she shrugs. “I mean, that sounds good. I think my dad just thought it meant he’d get an asterisk on his diploma or something. He went off on this big rant about how administrators just want an excuse so they can do better in the rankings. Typical Dad conspiracy theories.” There’s a resignation to her tone, a sense that she sees a problem but doesn’t know what to do about it, that makes me suddenly very sad. For her and for her dad, but mostly for Alan.
“Do you think he’d reconsider if I told him that it’d help Alan’s grades?”
“If you want to fall on that sword, be my guest.”
I start off by writing an e-mail to Alan’s summer school teacher, introducing myself as Alan’s tutor and sending her the results of an online ADHD screening tool that I had Alan take. I tell her that I know that it is the summer session, and there is no time to institute a formal IEP, but ask if there is any way to consider even the smallest accommodations, like allowing him a fidget device, moving him to a corner seat, or giving him noise-canceling headphones for tests. I give her Mr. Wu’s e-mail address for if she has any questions, because I’m just a tutor, and she probably can’t institute any changes without Alan’s dad’s permission. What I’m hoping, though, is that when Mr. Wu sees the