By the time you read this, I'm already in college.

I spent countless nights in high school jamming "important" historical dates into my head, practicing algebraic equations for physics, and writing my college applications. In the time that it took me to write this, I have been accepted into my dream school, read everything ever written by Plato and Machiavelli, and began my sophomore year. So that 50% you gave me because "I wasn't holding my pencil correctly," didn't slow me down that much.

The part that you didn't see was how English wasn't my native language. You didn't see how the letters danced on the page, and how I didn't understand why each letter made three different sounds. You didn't see the countless hours I spent with my speech and language therapist learning the shape of the words, or the time my parents put in to make me feel confident about that spelling. You didn't get that I was left-handed, and that was why I didn't hold my pencil the way you wanted it.

I went into that, and many other tests, confident that I knew all the words on that week's list. I knew the spelling, definition, part of speech, and could use it in a sentence. I was ready. I was nervous too. Because I knew that you had a rule: less than 70% and our parents had to sign the test. I was too good of a kid to ever fake a signature like most of the class did. If I brought home another bad test, Mom and Dad would be really mad.

I still brought home that 50%. Why? Well, my words were spelled right, and I got my bonus points (which probably is what gave me the 50%). What happened? My pencil wasn't in the right position. Little third through fifth grade me had to go home in tears and fear of what my parents would think. Because my words were right, I just didn't know how to tell my parents that my teacher took points off because I held my pencil incorrectly.

No, this open letter to you isn't about that. It's more of a commentary on the education system. Because, and this might come as a shock to everyone, we aren't all the same. Being left-handed, my writing was always more separated from the page than everyone else's because of the binding. I had to ask people to cut my paper because the "righty" scissors hurt my hand, and I took my tests on my lap because there were no left-handed desks. My being left-handed caused more problems than it ever should have—it should never have been a problem to begin with.

But that's not all. It would have taken all my teacher five extra minutes to realize that I was dyslexic.

Instead of being frustrated with me, all they had to do was hear me read and they would have noticed it. Instead of assuming that I was dumb or slow and placing me in the slower classes, they just had to teach me slightly differently, just like my kindergarten teacher did. Everyone was so focused on everyone learning the same way that they ignored the fact that everyone is unique. Each child is as individual as their handwriting. And it's not that my writing wasn't neat. Most of us can't read the Mother's Day card we wrote in third grade today, that's why it's called third-grade scrawl. I can.

So, actually, this is more of a PSA to anyone who deals with kids.

Everyone is different, and you have to know how each kid works in order to get through to them. Guess what? Those spelling tests were not the last tests I ever failed, but they sure as hell didn't stop me.