In 2022, I was invited to conduct an eye screening at a church in Kumasi. Eye screenings typically begin with a visual acuity test—asking patients to read letters or characters from a chart placed at a specific distance.

When a 10-year-old boy stepped forward, accompanied by his father, I had no idea I was about to learn important life lessons.

I pointed to the first letter on the chart: E.

The boy looked carefully and said, “Erh...” (/ɛ/)

I corrected him. “These are alphabets. Please say the letter name.”

He tried again: “Erh...”

I repeated the instruction. He gave the same answer. We went through this exchange about ten times, with the same result each time.

Growing frustrated, I moved to the next letter: F.

“ff” (/f/) the boy said.

I tried to help him understand. “This is the ABC. Please pronounce the letters properly.”

Next letter: P.

“Po...” (/p/) he responded.

Then it occurred to me—could he be reading the letters in Twi?

By now, we’d created quite a scene. A crowd had gathered around us, including kindergarten children who began to laugh. The boy’s father grew visibly furious, disappointed in his child. I’m ashamed to say that all of us—myself included—were laughing at him. We called this boy “dumb.”

Eventually, we gave up on him. I switched to a different test chart that didn’t require pronouncing letters.

———

Recently, in my clinic, I’ve had several children come in and read the alphabet chart the same way that boy did. And suddenly, I remembered him.

He wasn’t pronouncing the alphabet incorrectly. He was reading the letter sounds—the phonetic approach he’d been taught through phonics instruction. He wasn’t confused. He wasn’t struggling. He was doing exactly what he’d been taught to do, and doing it correctly.

We were wrong. He was right.

I think often now about that boy—standing in front of a crowd of adults and children, all laughing at him, his own father ashamed, being called dumb when he deserved to be praised for his knowledge. I can’t go back and apologize to him or his father. I can’t undo the humiliation he experienced that day.

But his story taught me two invaluable lessons:

First, to that young boy, wherever you are now (and to you my reader): Don’t let others make you feel wrong when you know you’re right. You knew your alphabets. You understood the task. The fact that a room full of adults and children didn’t understand your approach didn’t make you incorrect—it made us ignorant. Never let the confusion or judgment of others shake your confidence in what you know to be true. Don’t feel abnormal just because you’re doing things differently from those around you. Sometimes being “different” simply means you understand something they don’t yet.

Second, to myself and every professional: No matter your level of education or experience, continuous learning is essential. I should have known that boy was pronouncing letter sounds. I should have recognized phonetic reading when I heard it. But I didn’t, because I limited myself to what I was used to. Knowledge evolves. Methods change. New generations are taught differently than we were. The moment we think we know everything is the moment we become obstacles rather than helpers. Stay curious. Stay humble. Keep learning.

Shalom!