“Spike, right! I got it!” I yelled to my friend Joan.
Joan slammed the ball over the net. I don’t remember whether we got the point. It doesn’t matter. I remember that I was the digger, and she was the spiker. That meant I had Joan’s back if she missed, and I was responsible for digging up the spikes from the opposing team and setting them up for a spiker like Joan.
Joan and I met when we were five years old. She somehow found her way into our backyard on Harristown Road. Joan lived on Rock Road, two streets down, so she must have cut through a few backyards to find me. At first, I thought she was older. Joan was tall for her age, and I was small for my age. Hence, she grew into a spiker, and I grew into a digger—volleyball lingo. I introduced Joan to our unneutered collie, Jet, and I immediately showed Joan his “baked potatoes.” Nobody ever questioned my anatomical inaccuracies.
Joan and I were in some classes together in elementary school. I don’t remember her getting pulled out, but she told me years later about all the time she spent with the reading and, I think, speech teacher. I remember adults explaining that she was “slow.” I don’t think I ever gave it much thought. She was my friend Joan, she was nice, she was funny, and I wasn’t sure what was slow about her. I did know that school was harder, but we didn’t talk about it. Instead, we climbed trees, went to the County Park, and did whatever kids did in the ’70s.
When Joan and I were in high school, we joined volleyball and track. In volleyball, Joan was a force at the net, while I was a scrapper responsible for getting anything that went past the girls at the net and diving for the opposing team’s spikes. I would dive for the spikes and set them up for Joan.
“Spike, right! Spike, left!” I had Joan’s back.
In track, Joan threw the discus and shot put. I ran every distance, although I did not like every distance. I especially did not like the two-mile race. Nevertheless, Joan would cheer me on, yelling, “Go Big Red,” and I would try not to lose my focus and laugh as I ran nauseated at an untrained distance.
I would watch Joan throw the discus and shot put. Then, I would yell, “Joooooooan!” elongating her name; for whatever reason teenagers do the things they do.
Track was in the spring, and I remember what it felt like to be a high school senior with all the angst and excitement of moving on to the next phase of life. Joan and I would drive to Ridgewood Heights at night, drink Molson beer and look at the lights of the town. I was getting ready to go to college to major in English. Joan was thinking of taking classes at the community college.
After high school, Joan and I grew further apart. I left New Jersey immediately after college, and Joan stayed in our hometown. We would find each other over the years, reminisce, and promise to stay closer in touch. When my daughter struggled to read, Joan read about it early in our journey when I started a blog. She got in touch, and we met in Northern NJ, for lunch. Joan shared with me her struggles in school and how she always felt like she wasn’t as smart as everyone else. She was nearly frantic about my daughter. Joan told me that reading affected everything in her life, and she still felt limited.
That was the first time Joan and I had a heart-to-heart about her dyslexia. I don’t remember discussing reading with Joan when we were growing up. Instead, I remember my mother organizing a surprise birthday party for me when I turned sixteen and looking for Joan when everyone yelled, “Surprise!” I remember Joan and I watching MTV drinking those Molson beers. I remember Joan and I going to see America in concert in Passaic, NJ.
I was in line in the supermarket checking my phone when someone posted that they had heard a rumor that Joan had died. It didn’t seem possible. It must be a mistake. Joan never posts on social media, and she had just posted about our work on LinkedIn. I Googled her name and found an obituary with her photo. I never got a clear answer about what happened.
When you lose a close friend you grew up with, a piece of your childhood rips away from you. Unfortunately, nobody else shares the memories. I’ll most likely never know what happened to my friend Joan. I know that speaking up about dyslexia on social media must have taken a lot of bravery. I wish I had stayed in closer touch with Joan. I wish I had asked her more questions when we met for lunch, and she seemed distraught. I wish I had her back more over the years.
I don’t believe anyone’s life is in vain. Just like It’s a Wonderful Life, Joan affected so many people. If Joan was still here, she might be working with us to create awareness about dyslexia and supporting us with solutions to help more kids learn to read. Or, she just might be meeting me for lunch occasionally, checking on the status of my daughter. Either way, October is Dyslexia Awareness Month, and it’s when I think about my friend Joan. I miss her.