Don't Call Me Stupid

By Bruce Tombs

Bruce Tombs has written passionately about the emotions felt by those adults who live with the struggle of having weak reading skills. He writes form a powerful personal perspective with a message of hope. Tombs will give you insight into the minds of those who live the literacy struggle, then break free into the world of reading.
Bill Allen, Editor of the Voyager and Retired Co-ordinator of Continuing Education

So often in our field all we hear about are stories of failure and infrequently have examples of success described. It is important to have the good news stories and I think this book represents a story which deserves broader distribution.
Graham Stewart Executive Director of The John Howard Society of Canada

A compelling story of one mans struggle to overcome adversity and his own low self-esteem, and his successful attainment of his goals due to his strong faith in his Lord.
Irene Wood, Retired District Manager of Avon and Present Volunteer Teacher for Literacy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce Tombs
• Release date: Sep 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9780968526637

Bruce Tombs

Let me ask the reader this question. What does it mean to reach full maturity? Personally, I hope I never find out the answer to this question. In my early thirties I decided the most important creed to live by is; ‘I hope that I am not the same person next year, at this time, as I am today, for if I am I must be dead, even if I still have oxygen and blood pumping through my veins. William Shakespeare once wrote “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man [woman] in his [her] time plays many parts, his [her] acts being seven ages.” Unfortunately, one of the main reason so many men and women hide behind the curtain throughout their entire life and don’t flourishing to their fullest potential is a lack of self-esteem. While there are many reasons for a lack of self-esteem, for many men and women, illiteracy is the major causation. For millions, of otherwise very intelligent men and women throughout the world, their inability to read and right has imprisoned them into a psychological chamber of horror. While ‘Don’t Call Me Stupid’ was primarily written to encourage those who do not believe they have the potential to ever read or write, I believe ‘Don’t Call Me Stupid’ offers a great deal of inspiration to anyone suffering from a lack of self-esteem. Moreover, the book will help loved ones and caregivers better able to offer support to those who are functionally illiterate. While chronologically I am in my sixties I have more vibrancy and zeal for life than I had in my thirties. I began working prior to my teens in construction, delivering milk and in sales. Later, I joined the military as a reservist. I worked for a few years in a factory, and on the in-laws dairy farm. I drove school bus and tractor trailer. But my greatest passion was and remains being on a timeless journey of spiritual development. Equally important is that of encouraging others to find their spiritual freedom and hence their fullest potential. In this way I served as a minister in a large mainline church for twenty eight years before leaving. Much to the dismay and even anger by most of my collages I refused to be imprisoned by or flaunt clerical collars or any form of robes throughout my ministry. Even though I have left the main-line religious institution my spirituality continues to grow as I dedicate myself to studying scripture, philosophy and psychology. I wrote and published the book ‘Don’t Call Me Stupid” after I graduated from university. As a young man in my twenties I was functionally illiterate, as well as, an alcoholic. Over the course of the book I try to help the reader grasp the extraordinary fear and debilitating emotions of what it is like to function in a world where you believe everyone but you can read and write; not to mention a society where it was becoming you needed a grade 13 or a B.A. just to work in a factory. I was driven to teach myself to read and write as a result of my first born child. There was no way in the world I wanted her to experience the fear that traumatized me throughout my life because of illiteracy. I wrote ‘Don’t Call Me Stupid’ after a great deal of encouragement from my professors. It was suggested I had a story to tell. A story of the struggles an illiterate man or woman must face each day of their life. A story of the challenges one must contend with in an effort to overcome illiteracy. I hoped my story will encourage others, who were illiterate to change their life. I also hope those who are related to someone who is functionally illiterate will understand the situation illiterate’s face, on a daily bases and how they can support them in the journey of their life. It is a bit of a conundrum however, as someone who is illiterate cannot read the book. While I do not know how many illiterate individuals I directly helped. When I first published this book in hardcover in 1999 the reviews by those who either lived with or knew someone who was functionally illiterate were very positive. With today’s technology, of course, someone can purchase and electronic copy and have it read to them electronically. It is for this reason I have taken the time to republish ‘Don’t Call Me Stupid’ as an E book. Moreover, as I live in a small northern community I will be offering spiritual counselling via Skype or other forms of technology. As long as I have my physical and mental faculties, I plan on learning and sharing interesting new skills and knowledge every year. For example two years ago I learned how to make sourdough bread, something I have passed onto others. This past year I have been learning more about wild mushrooms and benefits of Chaga tee. I sure hope I am not the same guy next year at this time as I am now. How about you? I hope you, my reader, enjoy this book and are as encouraged to become a player in life rather than continue to hide behind the curtain of life. As well I look forward to hearing from you.

Book preview

Don’t Call Me Stupid

Reading

It’s never too late to begin

Why you don’t and how you can

Rev. Bruce Tombs

Published by:

Bruce Tombs

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Originally published in Hardcover 1999

ISBN 0-9685266-0-8

Published in e-book 2017

ISBN 978-0-9685266-3-7

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Cover designed by: Mara Mink, South Bay Studios, Elliot Lake, Ontario Canada.

Published by Bruce Tombs at Smashwords

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Chapter one The Miracle of Birth

Chapter two - A Time of Reflection

Chapter three - Moving Forward

Chapter four - Making Decisions

Chapter five - Back To High School

Chapter six - Year One of University

Chapter seven- Full Time Academics

Chapter eight- A Whole New World

Chapter nine .Following My Path

About The Author

Acknowledgments

I have not met a man, woman, or child who has not influenced my life and therefore this book. I have been inspired, by complete strangers, who after hearing of my quest for a higher education, to write a book about my journey. Professors and friends, I have come to know over the years have all but insisted, I put into print my quest to attain a higher education. As with each of us however, there are specific individuals to whom I truly need to acknowledge by name, for their influence, emotional support and help in editing my book. If it were not for each and every one of them, the book would not only have been written but I doubt that I would have achieved my dream.

To The Reverend Lorne O’Neill and Jean O’Neill who took me under their wing in my early twenties then taught me by word and action the meaning of Christ’s love and hope, I owe more than words can convey; And later to Lorne for first editing my manuscript.

To Evelyn and John Treble who gave me and my children so much emotional support over all the years and when upon completion of my university degree insisted I attend my graduation and were there to celebrate with me, I will be forever grateful.

To Irene Wood, my surrogate grandmother, who not only offered me a great deal of emotional support and encouragement, but has also spent numerous hours editing and re-editing my final manuscript, I extend much thanks and Christ’s blessing.

Last and far form least, is my wife Audrey, who also spent hours of her time editing my manuscripts, but most importantly has continued to encourage me to pursue the writing of this book.

Introduction

At twenty four years of age I was functionally illiterate. I could not read a novel, magazine or newspaper. Anyone who is illiterate is well aware of how limited their prospects are for making any major advancements in life. So, like so many of us, I resigned myself to being happy with what I had and making the best of things. I would only be young once, so I lived for today and let tomorrow take care of itself.

I was always told that when the good Lord was handing out brains I thought He said trains and said,Ano thanks. Having always had a strong back and enjoying hard work I believed what I lacked in brains could be made up for in sheer energy and strength sure that working long enough and hard enough would make me a millionaire by age thirty. This dream is what drove me and kept my spirits alive.

By age twenty four my dream looked promising. I owned a custom built four-wheel drive truck complete with a topper. It was always ready to go. My wife Carol owned a new Ford Mustang II Gia that was loaded. We had the best of furniture -at least it was all we wanted, and the house was only three years away from being paid for. Plans were being made to invest in property as soon as the house was paid for. By remortgaging the duplex we could purchase several other pieces of property. After that the money would start to roll in. It all looked good, yet I was becoming more and more discontented with life. At twenty four I had acquired more material possessions than most of my peers, but there was something drastically missing in my life. I was completely unaware of what it was but knew something was missing. Yet, like so many individuals, I worked hard at convincing myself that things were just fine.

We humans are strange that way. There is a part of us that is suffocating, being choked off, drowning, while another part is doing its best to breathe, stay afloat and simply survive. The truth is, often we are simply too frightened to look at or deal with our situation. The dream we live in is easier to accept than reality. We have only so much strength and often we have more challenges than strength. We have only so many skills to work with, yet life continually deals out problems that we have not acquired the skills to handle. Not all of us are born to be scholars and geniuses, so we simply go through life trying to do the best we can.

Looking back, I was very lucky in many ways. Yet, luck has little to do with success, you need to take advantage of it. Things changed in my life that made me determined to take charge of the direction I would head. With the help of Jesus Christ and a growing faith that Christ would provide me with the skills and strengths I lacked, I was able to turn my life around. At twenty-four I was a young man who believed his life was a complete waste. I had little self-respect and little respect for others. Like so many illiterates, I lacked self-esteem and self-confidence. Like so many others I have since come across who are trying to run or hide from life behind a bottle, I came to recognize a horrible truth about myself; I was also an alcoholic.

Today, I am the happiest person I know. I could not ask for a more loving wife. While raising children always presents its challenges, I would not trade the opportunity I have had to raise my children for any other challenge in the world. It often seemed like a long journey to where I was headed and I can't list the number of times I almost gave up on myself. Yet the contentment and satisfaction of having reached my goal is worth all the effort I put into it.

The reason for writing this book is because of all the encouragement I received from so many individuals to share my journey. While my story is not unique, it offers the reader one more example of how even the most helpless looking situation can be changed. I hope my story is only one more among the many thousands that will encourage the readers to attain heights they never thought they could reach.

In an attempt to present my transformation as honestly as possible, I use the language which most represents the person I was at the time period being shared.

The Miracle of Birth

Que Sera Sera

Sometimes it only takes a single milestone in one's life to set into motion a chain of events which will affect their entire future. It was the birth of my first child that set into motion a series of circumstances that brought about changes in my life far more rewarding than I had ever dreamed. Before the birth of Melinda I had no real goals. I liked to work hard and play hard. Outside of work and play I gave little thought to my future. Que sera- sera whatever will be will be, was my motto. Yet the birth of Melinda soon led me to realize that I had to take charge of my life. For her sake I had to stop and look at where I was headed, for where I went she would be dragged along.

Now don't get me wrong, I was never one to become emotional or sentimental. In all honesty, when she was born, I did not care even to be at the hospital, let alone the delivery room. Blood and mucous and all that slimy gook had a tendency of making me ill to my stomach. Most of my life was spent avoiding anything that had to do with blood and stuff. It was only a few weeks before the day of delivery and I had already firmly announced to everyone that I had no intentions of going into the delivery room with Carol. Blood makes me ill, I confessed and unless someone thought they could change that I would be happy just to let the doctors do their job while I patiently waited in the waiting room. Sixteen years ago it would not have dawned on me, but today I realize that God works many wonders behind the scenes. Many years after the fact it is more obvious how in spite of myself, God was guiding me along.

A Change of Heart

It was a beautiful day in May and a great day for a drive to the farm for a visit with the in-laws. The sun was high in the sky. The laneway was dusty dry so I took a walk to the barn where my father-in-law was finishing up chores. Wearing a clean pair of jeans, jean-shirt, and my favourite cowboy boots that shone like diamonds, I was obviously not dressed for work, but how messed up could one get just chatting on such a cheery day? Stepping into the barn I looked around for Calvin but he was out of sight. Not aware of the storm thundering in the background I wandered past the empty stalls which were clanging in the warm summer breeze. By the time I was halfway to the back of the barn I could see Calvin struggling in one of the calving pens. He was twisting and rolling, as though his life was in danger.

Hurry! he shouted with desperation in his voice, get in here and give me a hand. Not having any idea what was wrong, I quickly ran to the back of the barn and swung over the rail into the pen. It was not Calvin's life which was at risk, it was that of a young calf and cow. This huge mother of a cow was having trouble giving birth.

Trapped in the eye of a storm of blood and slimy gook all over the place, I thought I was going to throw up. My first thought was exit, stage left. Before I could move however, Calvin commanded me to hand him some binder-twine. What was I to do? It was too late to turn away now. I hoped to escape with only holding my breath and standing as clear as possible from the mess. Not so. Quick! he said, reach into her uterus and tie one end of the binder-twine around that calf's legs. I could not believe what was being demanded of me. My stomach was shouting, get the hell out of here, but I could not run out on my father-in-law. So I reached inside the cow's uterus and hauled out the legs of the little creature. As instructed I tied the rope around its two legs. Now pay attention to the rhythm of the cow's contractions Calvin encouraged. When she pushes, you pull firmly and steadily. So heaving when she grunted, then waiting between grunts, then heaving again, it was not long before slowly and steadily there was a new- born calf lying on the fresh straw before me.

There was a mess of bile and blood all over the place including all over me. As much as I still detested all the mess around and over me, it was a rarely experienced special feeling. I felt like an important doctor who had just saved the life of a future prime minister. As good as it made me feel, however, birthing calves was not an experience to repeat ever again. Once would do me a life time. I truly hoped never to find myself caught in such a slimy mess again.

Too bad we have so little control over fate! The following Sunday my wife and I were out for a drive. I had joined Big Brothers and we were taking my little brother and our German Shepherd for a ride in the country. Again it was a bright beautiful day. We had come across a meadow alongside the road. It was a restful place so we thought we would stop for lunch. While Carol and I set up for a picnic, Mike took the dog for a run through the woods. Both boy and dog were as frisky as spring puppies. The trees were rustling in the warm breeze. The sound of barking and laughing echoed through the meadow as the two ran frantically between the tall trees. Suddenly the sound of barking and laughing was interrupted with the screeching of car tires. Low and behold, in the excitement of spring, the poor dog ran into the road and was struck in the head by a car. It was a hit-and-run episode which left our dog laying in convulsions.

I had never been near Grand Bend before so I had no idea where to get help. Fortunately, there was a C.B. radio in the truck so we managed to make contact with a local veterinary who gave me directions to his clinic. The vet was waiting for me when we arrived at the clinic. One quick look at the dog's head and he ordered me to scrub up. I have to operate he said and we haven't time to call for a nurse. I do not believe God had any part in striking down an innocent dog. I do believe however, that God's hand was involved in the nurse not being unavailable. How could this be? I hate blood.What had to be done had to be done, so once again I found myself wrist-deep in blood and gook. I watched as the blood dripped from the dog's skull and heard the crunching sound of chipped bone the vet removed from the dog's skull. To my surprise I managed, once again, to do what had to be done without getting sick, a little weak at the knees, but not sick. The operation was a success and it was rewarding to know that when the chips are down I could come through.

The day arrived for Carol to head for the hospital. Our first child was demanding her freedom. I was in the hospital room standing beside Carol when the nurse asked, will you be coming into the delivery room with your wife?? No, I said, I do not like blood and that gook and stuff. I had to leave the room for a few minutes while the doctor and nurse checked Carol's dilation. When the nurse and doctor were finished I was invited to go back in and see my wife. Still three feet away from Carol, she looked up at me, opened her mouth and let out a spray of vomit that covered me from head to toe. What the hell! I thought. If the events over the past couple of weeks and all this have not made me sick nothing will. Asking the nurse where to clean up and get a fresh gown, I decided I might just as well go into the delivery room with my wife.

Fear Distrust and Helplessness

Once in the delivery room it was not the thought of blood that bothered me. It was extremely intimidating to be among all the professional workers around me. I had no idea what to expect and no idea what was expected of me. Professionals always gave me a feeling of inadequacy. I did not trust them. I did not trust them mostly because they had a knowledge and understanding of things I could not comprehend. When among educated people I felt as though they could see straight through me. It was as though they had stamped a sign on my forehead that said, You are illiterate, you are not as good as I am. Keeping my guard up, no one had better try and make me look stupid, or else!

After walking into the delivery room I was angered by the way they had Carol strapped onto a table. It was the most degrading position to see my wife in. It reminded me of some medieval torture chamber. Angered at myself and my inability to do anything about the situation, I felt helpless because I had no idea what to do about or with my feelings. There were no doctors around but it seemed that half the interns, mostly male, had come in to take a view of my wife's crotch. It felt that both of us were on display for the entertainment of others. Who gave these people the right to invade our privacy like this? Reaching the point where I was ready to deck the next guy who came in for his cheap thrill the staff must have read my mind for no more interns entered the room.

Birth-Pains and Rejection

Carol was in extreme pain. It had been a long labour for her. The anaesthetist had given her some pain killer but it did not seem to take effect. I went to Carol to offer some comfort, but as so often happens to people in pain or fear, she took her anger out on the one she loved. She screamed and cursed at me and I took her rejection quite personally. I just wanted to get out of that room and probably would have but I didn’t want everyone to think of me as a coward. There was more tension in the delivery room. The staff were showing signs of agitation. The air was growing thick with tension and uneasiness as the nurses began to inquire where the doctor was. The time for him to be present had reached its critical point. The intern whispered to one of the nurses that he was not allowed to do anything without the doctor being present.

Finally, the tension eased with the arrival of the doctor, and the delivery got underway. Carol still did not want anything to do with me. Whether this is why one of the nurses encouraged me to move to the foot of the delivery table or not I do not know. I did know I did not really want to go down and watch the blood and the gook involved in the delivery. It felt much safer up near my wife's head. Adhering to her instructions however, I reluctantly sauntered to the foot of the bed and watched the procedure. The doctor was giving instructions to an intern who did not seem to know what he was doing. I wanted to order the guy out of there but felt too insecure to make such a demand. The nurses were giving instructions to my wife on how to breathe and when to push and when to relax. It was obvious that things were not going well. The anxiety on the faces of the nurses was obvious as they listened to the doctor and the intern conversing with one another.

When the forceps were brought out I swore to myself that if something should happen to my child I would personally get even with the ones responsible. Believing the many horror stories about the use of forceps; doctors who crushed babies' skulls causing all kinds of brain damage, left me feeling quite anxious. All is well that ends well. After much confusion and fuss a small bloody, slimy, little child appeared into the world. The tension in the room seemed to evaporate like water spilled in a hot skillet. It was obvious by the expression on the nurses’ and doctor's faces that the delivery was a complete success; the baby was fine.

Flash-Back

A wipe of the nostrils, mouth and a snip of the umbilical cord came next. Then the traditional slap on the behind and a loud cry came from our precious little girl. I was overwhelmed with pride, felling as though my chest would explode. I felt like a silly school boy, sure that my smile would crack my face into pieces. Then Melinda was wiped off and wrapped in a small blanket and brought to her mother who instantly checked to see if all her fingers and toes were normal. (Her father and been born with his three middle fingers missing and a deformed arm.) As the baby lay safely snuggled up in her mother's arms, still whimpering from the doctor's slap on the behind, I wondered if it is truly necessary to slap a baby's behind like that. Aware that the slap was supposedly to stimulate the new-born's breathing, I questioned if causing such pain and trauma to a child so early in life is the most appropriate way to stimulate breathing.

ondering this question of spanking, my mind flashed back to when I was a youth. Fear and rage overwhelmed me as I recalled the several beatings my half-sister, Corrine, received as an infant. Night after night my bedroom became a chamber of horror. Just a couple of weeks old, Corrine slept in her crib at the far end of my bedroom. At ten years of age I could not understand why she would wake up screaming in the early hours of the morning. Night after night this little child would wake up screaming from the gas trapped in her little belly. Unable to call for help or understand her pain she would wail and wail as she called for relief in her own way, relief and comfort she never received.

Then, I would hear my mother’s feet land heavily on her bedroom floor before stomping angrily towards our bedroom. Rose's cursing echoed down the hallway ahead of her. God-damn kid, God-damn kid, I work all day, I do not need this nonsense. Like a horrendous nightmare my mother thundered into the bedroom and bolted for the crib to snatch up Corrine as a dog would grab a rag doll between its teeth and shake it until the stuffing scatters all over the floor. Shaking and shaking the infant child, she continually screamed at the baby to shut up and go to sleep. I was sure my mother would shake my little sister until she ripped to pieces. But Corrine did not break apart. Terrorized by the trauma the child would only cry that much louder for help; help that was answered only through a lightning bolt series of smacks and swats to her bottom.

Night after night the storms thundered into the life of both myself and my little sister. Each night the storm came I began to feel more and more like a snivelling little coward. At the first signs of Corrine waking, I desperately wanted to get up and go over to the crib and try and comfort her before she woke our mother. But not understanding at the time what the problem was, I did not know how to help my infant sister. So paralyzed by fear all I ever did was lie there. Fear of what, I am not sure. Fear I would be beaten too? Or fear that Corrine would be killed? It was so long ago, I do not know what caused my fear. All I recall today is the fear and pain of watching that child so mistreated at such a young age.

Standing in the delivery room watching my own child, I was no longer ten years of age and no longer a coward. I would take any means necessary to guard my child from physical abuse and be especially watchful of my own mother.

A Time of Reflection

Sleepless Nights

The behaviour we learn at a young age, can, and often does affect who we are and how we act long after we are adults. Because of my mother's physical abuse and constant criticism of her children I learned to fear and avoid adults, especially adults with a high degree of education. As a child frightened to death, I would hide under the safety of covers in a bed only to grow to believe I was on my own in this world. Learning however, that if I were to become a good father my protective guard would need to be lowered. It would be important to develop a sense of trust and accept the guidance of others.

Babies have two natural instincts. One is to eat; the other is to excrement. The latter of the two, Melinda had down pat. The first became an increasing problem. With each feeding it became more and more difficult to get Melinda to nurse for any length of time. When her internal dinner bell aroused her, she would nurse like it was her very last feeding, but before receiving her fill, she would develop a pain in her stomach and begin to cry. As a young man, I erroneously assumed that raising children was as natural as watching the sun rise. However, I quickly learned caring for the needs of an infant is not instinctive. The painful cry of my little girl, complete with tears and desperate gasps for oxygen was not just a cry for attention. Hers was a desperate cry which awoke in me memories of the horror chambers; I called a bedroom as a youth.