Learning to Write and Loving to Read
I can't honestly say that I have a lot of clear memories about writing from my elementary school days or before. I of course have lots of memories about my friends, about fun activities that we did at school, learning about new things like books, music, and each other. As far as my writing experience goes, I remember very few of the specifics, and a lot more about my experiences with reading, which I have done passionately since the day Mrs. Parr taught us all of the ins and outs of the alphabet. But for the sake of my narrative, I was sure I could dredge up some kind of recollection.
I started with a brave journey into our basement to look for some writing assignments from my elementary days. I distinctly remember that we had a huge cardboard box full of assignments, art projects and little poems I had done that my mom had saved. It was in the closet of the spare bedroom at our old house, and I would periodically go through it and laugh a little at how silly I had been when I was "young". But we moved to a new house when I was in seventh grade, and the box ended up who knows where (my mom says she doesn't even remember that this box existed).
However, braving the spiders, dust and general unpleasantness of the basement was not a complete waste. I found a huge bin of old books that somehow escaped donation during my minimalist phase.
However, braving the spiders, dust and general unpleasantness of the basement was not a complete waste. I found a huge bin of old books that somehow escaped donation during my minimalist phase.
Every one of these books is a memory for me. Most of them I can look at and remember a time when I was reading it: where I was, what I was doing and who I was with. I would spend hours up in my room, curled up on my bed, reading anything and everything that I could get my hands on. Often my Mom would pop into my room, checking to make sure I wasn't causing trouble up there. I have a lot of memories of peering at her over the top of a book, waiting for her to go back downstairs so that I could continue on my reading adventures.
Every book in this bin was important in my life, and it was with these books that I began a strong relationship with reading, writing, and the Language Arts.
Every book in this bin was important in my life, and it was with these books that I began a strong relationship with reading, writing, and the Language Arts.
The Gift of Reading
All of my life my mom and various other members of my family have made sure that I have a steady supply of books. I can't remember a time in my life when I wasn't interested in reading, or being read to.
These were two of my favorite books when I was little. Every night before I had to go to bed I would curl up with my mom and she would read to me, usually from one of these two works. I have since lost my copy of "The Velveteen Rabbit," but I still have "Goodnight Opus" on my bookshelf. If I have children of my own some day, I intend to read to them from this same copy that my mom used to read to me from. I hope it inspires them to "depart the text", as I know it did for me.
The first book that I read on my own was Dr. Seuss's "The Foot Book", and I remember that for weeks I was plaguing my family with read aloud sessions of the work. Eventually, my mom came home with a copy of "Green Eggs and Ham" and grumpily told me to try that one instead. Ever since then, books have been gifted to me for every birthday and Christmas, and they are always my favorite gifts to receive.
I remember that when I finally became good enough at reading that I could read through any children's book I wanted, I would go into my room and set up my stuffed animals like they were the students of a class. I would then set myself up in front of my class and read aloud to them from picture books, just like my teacher did at school. I have a lot of good memories about teachers reading aloud to our class, and how much i enjoyed those times. One of my best memories is having an after lunch reading circle in Mrs. Morrisee's second grade class, where we would gather around her, sitting on the floor or in the big comfy couch at the back of the room. She read a few books to us throughout the school year, but the only one that I really remember was Louis Sachar's "Holes". I think I remember it so well because I was absent on the day that she read us the end of the book, sick in bed with a cold. I was unbelievably upset about this.
I still have a love of storytelling. I like to read old legends, the kind that should be told by a gifted storyteller around a glowing fire. At holidays, I sit at the table with my family and listen to them pass stories around, laughing together. There's nothing like sharing a story that means something to you with the people who mean something to you.
I still have a love of storytelling. I like to read old legends, the kind that should be told by a gifted storyteller around a glowing fire. At holidays, I sit at the table with my family and listen to them pass stories around, laughing together. There's nothing like sharing a story that means something to you with the people who mean something to you.
Asking the Important Questions
Every Christmas during my childhood, I would write a letter to Santa and leave it alongside his milk and cookies on the mantle of the fireplace. "Santa" would answer these letters in his distinct chicken scratch handwriting, and I was always so excited to see what he had to say to me. Usually I would ask him questions like how many elves he had to make the toys, did Rudolph like apples, and what kind of cookies were his favorite? But one year I decided that I had a more important matter to discuss with him.
My parents had always told me that Santa was one of God's angels, and that he could send messages back to heaven. Earlier that year, my Uncle Brian had passed away very suddenly of a heart attack. I knew that losing his brother had really upset my Dad, and I was sure that if Santa could just check on my Uncle Brian and make sure that he was OK, my Dad would feel better. I had never experienced another family member's death, so in my mind my Uncle was up in heaven all by himself and I worried that he was lonely.
Santa assured me that Uncle Brian was not lonely in heaven, and reminded me that he could play with Jasmin, our family dog who had died a couple of years previously. He was happy there, and we should not be sad for him.
I look back on this letter and think about what a testament it is to how important my Dad has always been in my life. I know that I was checking up on Uncle Brian because I wanted to report back to my Dad, to reassure him that everything was, and would be, alright. I asked Santa if I could ever be too old to ask for something, and he reassured me I could not, but I don't think any material gift I could receive would be better than this memory of my father responding to my concern for him and his brother.
My parents had always told me that Santa was one of God's angels, and that he could send messages back to heaven. Earlier that year, my Uncle Brian had passed away very suddenly of a heart attack. I knew that losing his brother had really upset my Dad, and I was sure that if Santa could just check on my Uncle Brian and make sure that he was OK, my Dad would feel better. I had never experienced another family member's death, so in my mind my Uncle was up in heaven all by himself and I worried that he was lonely.
Santa assured me that Uncle Brian was not lonely in heaven, and reminded me that he could play with Jasmin, our family dog who had died a couple of years previously. He was happy there, and we should not be sad for him.
I look back on this letter and think about what a testament it is to how important my Dad has always been in my life. I know that I was checking up on Uncle Brian because I wanted to report back to my Dad, to reassure him that everything was, and would be, alright. I asked Santa if I could ever be too old to ask for something, and he reassured me I could not, but I don't think any material gift I could receive would be better than this memory of my father responding to my concern for him and his brother.
Dear Diary...
There was a time in my life when I kept a diary, and actually I had two at a time, because my Grandma bought me one, forgot she bought it for me, and then gave me another one for my birthday. At one point I also had the ultimate 90s girl essential, the Password Journal. Unfortunately, none of these survived the great junk purge of my minimalist phase, which I mention further up the page. That's OK though, because I never really wrote in them, and most of them just talked about watching Wishbone and how much I love zebras.
I know it's supposed to be a healthy activity, but I have just never felt the drive to maintain a diary. I think that, for me, a diary is a little too private. If you know me, that probably sounds really strange, because I'm generally a pretty quiet person and you would think that if I had something to say I might enjoy getting it out in a diary and calling it a day. But what most people don't realize about me is that I'm really good at thinking clearly and containing my thoughts and feelings about people in public ( I think it's just awkward when people can't control their animosities toward each other in public), but when I get home I just want to let it out and get some reaction from people about the things I am feeling. When I feel strongly enough about something in my life to be writing it down, I want to write it in a place where others can see and react to it, not just pen it into a journal and be done. I work through my problems by running them by the people I trust and getting their reactions and opinions, and I thrive off of these interactions to keep me sane. I'm blessed to have a mom who is very tolerant and understanding of my little outbursts. She actually bought me a journal that is formatted exclusively for the purpose of complaining about people. I've used it a couple of times, but it's just not the same as talking to someone and hearing feedback.
Yeah, I really just feel that if I'm going to be bothered to write about my life and my feelings, then I want to write to be heard, a theme that I think becomes evident throughout this literacy narrative. I've considered keeping an online journal where I can really get my thoughts out there to people and maybe get some feedback. Maybe on Tumblr, where it is blissfully easy to be anonymous. It would probably max out at about two followers, but I would love the crap out of those two people. And it would just feel more purposeful. A private journal, to me, is just too contained to help anything. It's writing that runs itself in circles and ends up back at the same problems.
Yeah, I really just feel that if I'm going to be bothered to write about my life and my feelings, then I want to write to be heard, a theme that I think becomes evident throughout this literacy narrative. I've considered keeping an online journal where I can really get my thoughts out there to people and maybe get some feedback. Maybe on Tumblr, where it is blissfully easy to be anonymous. It would probably max out at about two followers, but I would love the crap out of those two people. And it would just feel more purposeful. A private journal, to me, is just too contained to help anything. It's writing that runs itself in circles and ends up back at the same problems.