My dad is dyslexic and graduated from high school in the 80s in California (when they super did not have a great education system there). Because none of his teachers wanted to deal with him, he graduated functionally illiterate.
He then gathered a collection of 2,000 comic books, swallowed his pride, grabbed his mom, and taught himself how to read. Every few words or so at the beginning he would ask my grandma what something was. Over time this became every few sentences, then every few pages, then only once in a while.
My mom and I are both very linguistically intelligent. My brother could talk circles around adults when he was three years old, and I learned from him, well. I hit college reading level when I was 9 years old and that’s because I was slacking off on tests before that. All three of us are more traditionally, classically intelligent, and more traditionally educated, than he ever was.
And, he is the single most intelligent person I’ve ever met.
My father taught himself to read as an adult, because he was stubborn enough and humble enough and flexible enough to do it when everyone around him said he never would be able to and just brushed him aside. He then spent the rest of his adult life putting my mom’s needs and my brother’s and later mine ahead of his. He dropped out of post-secondary education so that my mom could get her bachelor’s degree while he worked to cover the gaps in what she could afford to support herself and my brother. He nearly always had the lower-paying job of the two. (and this is not to say my mom never made sacrifices! When he became permanently disabled and couldn’t work anymore she worked her ass off to make sure the four of us could make it.)
My dad still doesn’t pronounce words correctly all the time. There are a lot that he’s never heard out loud, only read. A running joke in my family is that when my mom called him an anachronism, he said he would be ‘the best damn achronism ever’, not realizing that he had dropped a syllable of the word. He often asks my mom or I to help him with a word he doesn’t recognize. And to this day I’m not sure he knows how to use the internet beyond getting onto the NASA website.
My dad is also the best-read person I’ve ever met. I was an English major. I’ve studied Tolkien front to back and traced his philology roots through to Beowulf and beyond. I can’t get through the first few pages of the first Dune book. It’s too thick and cerebral for me. My dad? Has read all 21 volumes. I got him new copies for Christmas a couple of years ago and he was giddy. We have a tradition, since my birthday is right before Father’s Day, of going to the book store and getting each other books as gifts. He’s the reason I love to read. He’s the one who introduced me to stories of dragons and magic and hope and true love. Hell, he’s the one who got me my first copy of the Hobbit! He’s read more classics than I have. He has more Shakespeare memorized than I do. He reads more in a day than I do most weeks.
And when he was eighteen, he could not read at all.
Something something the education system is classicist and racist and ableist, something, but lbr I just wanted to brag about my dad.