The Magic of Literacy

As a child, I did not actually want to learn how to read. My mother was responsible for this attitude of mine. She read to me all the time: before bed, on rainy days, when I fell sick. She made the story leap off the page, weaving words into tapestries. I feared that if I learned to read for myself, she would stop, and the magical threads would unravel. Thus, I refused education on the matter. Well, I refused until Kindergarten, when my teacher told me I was going to have to learn eventually.

Reluctantly, I submitted. Alphabets were taught, phonics books given, handwriting worksheets deposited on desks. I was bad ... at all of them. I always forgot to sing “F” in the ABC’s. The phonics books were boring, printed in black and white. Do not even get me started on the handwriting. In my house, I was dubbed “Backwards Jackson”, because I could never arrange anything in its proper order. My shoes were rarely on the right feet; how did anyone expect me to remember the difference between “q” and “p”? I struggled through the lessons. My horrible teacher got frustrated with me. I still did not want to read, and now I did not know if I would ever be able to.

Early that spring, however, something changed. My family took a trip to Disney World, where dreams come true. My mother, in her infinite wisdom, carried a copy of Because of Winn Dixie throughout the entire trip. She read on the plane, in the hotel, and standing in lines. Whenever she read, people listened. They craned their necks from wherever they sat or stood. They cared not which part of the story they were hearing, which page we were on. The words were universal. They stopped children from crying, parents from arguing. Jennifer Baroun wielded more magic than Wizard Mickey Mouse, and, for the first time, I wanted to read.

When we returned home, I gathered my phonics books and made myself read the dullgray scale pages. I spent hours on our living room couch, the simple little pamphlets crowding at my feet. I grew ever more adept. I wrote my name at every opportunity. My mother and I took turns reading my story book pages. I loved the words, the pictures they created. There was something competitive in my passion as well. I did not get placed in advanced reading in first grade, and the injustice frustrated me. I had worked so hard! My determination did not flag, however. I switched schools before second grade. At my new institution they had contests to see who could read the most. Most people did not care, except for myself and another girl. I read more than her, but she read longer books. My reading game needed improvement. Ironically, this attitude of mine reflected Malcolm X’s during his prison experience. “There was a sizeable number of well read inmates, especially the popular debaters. Some were said by many to be walking encyclopedias. They were almost celebrities. No university would ask to devour literature as I did when this new world opened to me, of being able to read and understand.” (pg.109).

So I started reading the Nancy Drew series. Oh, how mature I felt, clutching my detective novels. The suspense: robberies, kidnappings, and convertibles, oh my! Between those, I scanned the Scholastic catalogues. Receiving a fresh stack of books, still wrapped in plastic from shipping, felt like nothing else. I still remember tearing off the packaging of whichever I planned to read at that exact moment, and then depositing the others carefully into my backpack. My love of pristine spines on well organized bookshelves began at an early age, and I was obsessed with keeping them in mint condition. And I certainly thought nothing could ever be more enthralling than the adventures of Nancy Drew!

At least, until I read the Harry Potter series. I began just before Christmas of fourth grade, and finished shortly after New Year. Then I read them again. Those novels were meant to be read until they fell apart, loved until the spines dissolved and the pages turned yellow. I had never read a real “fantasy” book before, and now that I had, I wanted more. Some say thatfantasy provides escape from the real world, but that has never been my experience. To me, fantasy novels brought magic into real life.

As I grew, so did my obsession. Fifth grade was the year of historical fiction. Sixth grade, I took a liking to poetry. My habits mirrored Sherman Alexie’s father, who “was an avid reader of westerns, spy thrillers, murder mysteries, gangster epics, basketball player biographies and anything else he could find. He bought his books by the pound at Dutch's Pawn Shop, Goodwill, Salvation Army and Value Village. When he had extra money, he bought new novels at supermarkets, convenience stores and hospital gift shops.”(Los Angeles Times) My piggy bank starved, my allowance rarely ever reaching his belly. Church bazaars and yard sales bled me dry, my crumpled bills exchanged for fabulously frayed pages.

My middle school literature teacher, Mrs. Snyder, also supplied me with her own recommended books. One summer she gave me a whole stack, which I happily finished. Not only did she support my reading habits, she supported my budding desire to write.

The end of seventh grade brought an announcement. The next year we would author a short story. While others groaned with dread, I began to buzz, a brainstorm looming on the horizon. I began my first draft in late July. I worked on edits until November, until the night before the assignment’s due date.

When the papers were graded and passed back, I realized that I had earned a ninety nine percent, the highest grade in the class. Of course, the one missing point irks me to this day. I forgot some quotation marks, apparently.

That short story won me a first place trophy in our Diocesan writing competition. It also spurred within me a great desire to weave stories together, to string tapestries of words like my mother. She, along with my teachers, fostered my dream and forged my abilities. I would love to be an author, to build my own worlds. I would also love to pursue about a dozen other careers. I am here at Seton to explore these choices, to blaze my own trail. My Literacy Narrative provides direction and guidance for me on this quest.

Works Cited

Alexie, Sherman, “Superman and Me: The Joy of Reading and Writing.” Los Angeles Times, 19 April 1998. Web. 1 September 2018. http://articles.latimes.com/1998/apr/19/books/bk-42979.

Malcolm X. "Learning to Read." Writing About Writing: A College Reader. 3rd ed., edited by Elizabeth Wardle and Doug Downs, Bedford/St. Martin's, 2017. pp. 106-115.