John Lazenby grew up with dyslexia in an unforgiving 1960s school system that did not understand the condition. His new book reflects on his struggles and triumphs, shaped by the teacher who changed his life when she diagnosed him, seeing within him the signs that everyone else had missed. NHOJ also follows his years of self-discovery, which culminated in the late-life diagnosis of a second neurodiversity – ADHD.
Here, Lazenby reflects on his story, society’s progress in understanding neurodiversity and the lessons he’s learned along the way.
Tell us about the title of your book, NHOJ?
I started with the working title Will He Ever Learn?, which had been an apt question for most of my life. I knew at some stage I’d change it, though. Ideally, I wanted a title that was instantly identifiable with my dyslexic self. It wasn’t until I tore up my original opening chapter and started again – I was struggling to put myself at the forefront of the book – that the title came to me, and everything fell into place. NHOJ was a nod to my younger self: the seven-year-old boy who could write only one word, his name spelled backwards.
What inspired you to finally tell your story? Was there a particular moment or event that made you feel ready to write NHOJ?
The genesis was a series of talks I found myself giving in New Zealand after moving there in 2015. I was working on a writing project with a businesswoman when I dropped my childhood dyslexia into the conversation, surprising myself in the process. She was interested to know more and, before I knew it, suggested I become a guest speaker at her Rotary club. Having spent most of my working life as a journalist attempting to keep my dyslexia hidden, it was the last thing I wanted to do. I’m glad she persuaded me, though, because I was totally unprepared for the positive reception I received. I think the seven-year-old in me still expected everyone to laugh. Instead, I was amazed by the number of people who wanted to share their own journeys with neurodiversity or their struggles in the classroom. It turned into an uplifting and unifying experience.
How did revisiting your childhood, especially your struggles with dyslexia and the boarding school environment of the 1960s, shape your perspective as you wrote the book?
For the first time, I was able to feel compassion for my younger self – something I’d never experienced before or even considered a possibility. I realised I’d buried so much of my early life experience, particularly my inability to meet expectations academically and the regular beatings I received which invariably tried to set that straight. Also, there was a deep understanding that it was the system (most teachers expected every pupil to be the same and had no idea, or inclination, how to teach someone like me) that was at fault, not the kids within it.
How do you feel about modern understandings of ADHD and dyslexia compared to the 1960s? How would your journey be different if you had grown up today?
Undoubtedly there have been huge strides made, both in the understanding and acceptance of neurodiversity and the empathetic language surrounding it. That doesn’t mean everything in the garden is rosy. Waiting lists worldwide for an adult ADHD diagnosis are horrendously long (three to four years in some cases in the UK), while many dyslexics still fly under the radar into adulthood. But having said that, I would have given anything for the array of dyslexic and ADHD role models out there today when I was a fledgling journalist. The word ‘neurodiverse’ hadn’t even been coined then, and for nearly all my life, I thought I was my neurodiversity.
You mention a life-changing teacher who finally understood you. Can you share more about that person and how their intervention transformed your life?
Dorothy Shepherd – Miss Shepherd to me – specialised in childhood dyslexia, a rarity among teachers in the 1960s, and was therefore able to diagnose me when everyone else had missed the obvious signs. She remained the only teacher throughout my entire education who recognised that I was dyslexic – to everyone else, I was anything from a hopeless case to a troublemaker. The diagnosis alone was life changing, but her influence went so much further than that. She taught me there was nothing to fear about being different and positively reframed my vivid imagination as a powerful tool. Miss Shepherd was a pioneer, way ahead of her time in the language she used and the teaching methods she adopted. Meeting her, in an era when teaching practices could be unspeakably bleak and illiteracy was seen as a character defect, was nothing short of miraculous.
How did your understanding of neurodiversity evolve as you wrote NHOJ, especially with the discovery of your second neurodiversity? Did it reshape how you viewed your own journey?
Part of me had been dreading revisiting the past, but I was surprised at how helpful it was to write about my experiences, almost having to take on the position of an observer. That, and the amount of research involved, gifted me a much wider perspective. I could see that I’m old friends with dyslexia, even though it can still surprise me, but that I’m only just getting acquainted with ADHD and that’s OK. I did my best with what I knew at the time but can look forward now to finally travelling with a road map. It’s a relief to have an instruction manual after so long.
If someone made NHOJ into a movie, who would you want to play you as a child and as an adult?
I think I’d have to pick Bill Nighy as the adult NHOJ – if for no other reason than his ability to convey a perfect look of utter bewilderment. As for a child actor, all I’d say is that he’d have to have either dyslexia or ADHD or, preferably, both.
NHOJ: A Memoir That Started Backwards is out on 13 February.
Catch up with some of our other authors here: