I teach. I never make students read aloud in class. I never will. The first day sophomores pull out their lit book, I tell them the following story:

When I was in seventh grade, a teacher made each student in the class read a paragraph aloud from a SRA reading. He instructed that each time a reader made a mistake, we should raise our hands. I started twitching.  I sat petrified as student after student, row after row read.  The class did well. Few hands went up. Then it was my turn. I hadn't read more than three words before two students' hands flew up. Before the end of my paragraph, every hand in the class was held high. My face got hotter and hotter. I was so embarrassed, I sat by myself at lunch that day. 

I tell my students I don't blame Mr. King. He was a likable teacher, who always wore turtle neck sweaters and dressed more like a beatnik. Most likely, he was just doing what a teachers' manual instructed. People then didn't know about learning disorders. Mr. King sure didn't.

It's then that I tell my class that I'm dyslexic.

I explain to them that in the 1970s few people knew about dyslexia. Even when people were diagnosed, doctors didn't understand it. When my brother was in second grade, our family physician sent him to an eye doctor to get glasses. 

Two years later, my parents wondered why my brother still couldn't read.  We know now that glasses don't correct dyslexia.

I tell my class, my dyslexia isn't as serious, but I still practice reading aloud. I explain, that's why I add words that aren't there or skip others. I let them politely pass, and if they are required to read in my class, I give them time to prepare.

That's when something magical happens. The chemistry changes in the classroom. Their teacher is human. Their teacher cares. After that everyone is a bit kinder and thoughtful.

Empathy is the best teacher. I teach sophomore English, AP Literature and high school journalism. I love reading. No one should taught to hate it.