Site search
sponsored by
News
Recently while doing some research on neurological disorders, I discovered that there is a condition called “geographical dyslexia,” also known as “directional disability.” I have suffered from this syndrome my entire life without realizing that it has a scientific name and has generated scientific study.
Those of us with this affliction can appear normal and self-assured, but are in fact lost most of the time, uncertain which way is left or right, north or south, east or west, although, thank heavens, we can, as a rule, recognize up from down.
We are hopeless at either giving or following directions. If we are distracted in any way, getting from point A to point B, even when the trip is one we’ve made countless times, can result in our arriving at a foreign destination. Any newcomer in town unlucky enough to ask us the way to the post office, may shortly find himself wandering past the city limits.
One of my brothers discovered the extent of my problem when, as an enthusiastic Boy Scout, he attempted to teach me how to tie a square knot. I can still hear him exclaiming, “My gosh! It’s just right over left and left over right.” Hah!
Sometimes on the school playground and later on in gym class, we marched to commands for right or left turns, or “about face.” I considered it a good day if I sometimes chanced to follow directions.
My misguided attempt to learn to square dance resulted in chaos and a tangle of human limbs which disabled an entire square dance group. It is amazing how much confusion is generated when “Allemande right!” and “Allemande left!” are incomprehensible to just one person.
There was also the embarrassing time when I entered my first-born child in kindergarten and the teacher said, “Your little girl is left-handed, isn’t she?” and I blurted out, “Oh my goodness, I hadn’t noticed.”
Naturally, I have developed coping strategies so as to function as competently as possible. When guests telephone to ask for directions for reaching my home (where I have lived for 30 years), I refer to a printed card on my desk with a step by step progression spelled out in bold print. I know any extemporaneous attempt of mine will result in the guests arriving half an hour late because they have had to stop at a fire station or real estate office to ask for help.
I also place this kind of printed instruction sheet in plain sight in my car if I am going any place significantly different from my usual daily rounds. If I have a passenger with me, verbal instructions are helpful only if they are offered very slowly, and with no hint of hysteria, to allow me sufficient time to look at my wedding ring and figure out a right versus a left turn.
Maps are of little help to me. After unfolding the map, it takes me a while to decide which way is right side up. Once this has been determined, locating a particular place at a coordinate such as P-15 means nothing to me. My brain cannot apply this diagrammed information to geographic reality.
Similarly, the large schematic boards erected in shopping malls to aid customers in finding their way about are confusing to me. Despite the big X that proclaims, “You Are Here,” I have been known to ask, “Now just exactly where are we?”
My profound respect for John Steinbeck deepened into outright love when he mentioned in his book, “Travels With Charley,” that he had always had problem with losing his way and had concluded that he “was born lost and had never been found.” I know the feeling!
Fortunately, my late husband had the instincts of a homing pigeon and could orient himself to an entire continent with a quick glance at a map. When he became aware of my directional disability, he remarked, “You know, we could take the same vacation every year and it would always be a new experience for you!”
However, now that I realize the scientific community is studying geographical dyslexia, I have taken heart. Since these brilliant minds have figured out how to implant a neat little pacemaker in our chests to keep our hearts ticking along nicely, it seems perfectly reasonable that a Global Positioning System could be inserted in some groove of our brain. I wonder who I should talk to about this.
Lucille Lovestedt lives in Grass Valley.
Those of us with this affliction can appear normal and self-assured, but are in fact lost most of the time, uncertain which way is left or right, north or south, east or west, although, thank heavens, we can, as a rule, recognize up from down.
We are hopeless at either giving or following directions. If we are distracted in any way, getting from point A to point B, even when the trip is one we’ve made countless times, can result in our arriving at a foreign destination. Any newcomer in town unlucky enough to ask us the way to the post office, may shortly find himself wandering past the city limits.
One of my brothers discovered the extent of my problem when, as an enthusiastic Boy Scout, he attempted to teach me how to tie a square knot. I can still hear him exclaiming, “My gosh! It’s just right over left and left over right.” Hah!
Sometimes on the school playground and later on in gym class, we marched to commands for right or left turns, or “about face.” I considered it a good day if I sometimes chanced to follow directions.
My misguided attempt to learn to square dance resulted in chaos and a tangle of human limbs which disabled an entire square dance group. It is amazing how much confusion is generated when “Allemande right!” and “Allemande left!” are incomprehensible to just one person.
There was also the embarrassing time when I entered my first-born child in kindergarten and the teacher said, “Your little girl is left-handed, isn’t she?” and I blurted out, “Oh my goodness, I hadn’t noticed.”
Naturally, I have developed coping strategies so as to function as competently as possible. When guests telephone to ask for directions for reaching my home (where I have lived for 30 years), I refer to a printed card on my desk with a step by step progression spelled out in bold print. I know any extemporaneous attempt of mine will result in the guests arriving half an hour late because they have had to stop at a fire station or real estate office to ask for help.
I also place this kind of printed instruction sheet in plain sight in my car if I am going any place significantly different from my usual daily rounds. If I have a passenger with me, verbal instructions are helpful only if they are offered very slowly, and with no hint of hysteria, to allow me sufficient time to look at my wedding ring and figure out a right versus a left turn.
Maps are of little help to me. After unfolding the map, it takes me a while to decide which way is right side up. Once this has been determined, locating a particular place at a coordinate such as P-15 means nothing to me. My brain cannot apply this diagrammed information to geographic reality.
Similarly, the large schematic boards erected in shopping malls to aid customers in finding their way about are confusing to me. Despite the big X that proclaims, “You Are Here,” I have been known to ask, “Now just exactly where are we?”
My profound respect for John Steinbeck deepened into outright love when he mentioned in his book, “Travels With Charley,” that he had always had problem with losing his way and had concluded that he “was born lost and had never been found.” I know the feeling!
Fortunately, my late husband had the instincts of a homing pigeon and could orient himself to an entire continent with a quick glance at a map. When he became aware of my directional disability, he remarked, “You know, we could take the same vacation every year and it would always be a new experience for you!”
However, now that I realize the scientific community is studying geographical dyslexia, I have taken heart. Since these brilliant minds have figured out how to implant a neat little pacemaker in our chests to keep our hearts ticking along nicely, it seems perfectly reasonable that a Global Positioning System could be inserted in some groove of our brain. I wonder who I should talk to about this.
Lucille Lovestedt lives in Grass Valley.
