Literacy Narrative

I was reading books before I learned how to read. At least, I thought I knew how to read at the time- in reality, I’d just memorized all of the words to the Winnie The Pooh picture books and their corresponding pages. This was thanks to my parents for accepting my persistent requests to have them read out loud to me. When people came over, they’d be shocked to see a 3 or 4-year-old “reading” books. Of course, my parents would explain that it was just a facade, I was pointing to the words I was saying out loud only because I’d memorized their placement on the pages.

A more significant set of literacy-related memories was during my elementary school years. When I think of those years, I relive the nights I would sneak books and a flashlight into my bed, hiding them in my pillowcase to avoid getting caught. This was the time that my love for reading persisted beyond what was needed for school, which wasn’t much, anyway. I remember indulging in the storylines of chapter book series like Magic Tree House when I was younger, eventually working my way up to Percy Jackson and Harry Potter by 4th or 5th grade. While I enjoyed individual books, they could not compare to a series or saga. These kinds of books gave me what I yearned for: a chance to experience existing in a fantastical world. By the middle to end of the series, the characters and settings were incredibly familiar; reading was a chance to visit another home.

One person who encouraged me and only increased my already present love for reading was my 3rd-5th grade PI Language Arts teacher. A part of the class that was significant to me was when we would have weekly one on one discussions about the books we were currently reading. Discussions like these were very open and I could talk about what was intriguing to me. Although I was guided by my teachers’ questions, she wouldn’t act as if she were interrogating me. She would engage with me about the book and I remember her seeming genuinely interested in my opinions. At the time, it felt like chatting with a friend, which is uncommon for a teacher to do with a child. I knew this at the time, and I greatly appreciate her effort to encourage reading. At one point, she even lent me a copy of Boy, which was a partial autobiography of Roald Dahl because she knew I was a big fan of his stories. This small gesture was something that made me happy in 5th grade and still sticks with me now.

As I look at my bookshelf, it seems almost metaphorical, the way that my long time favourites are sitting at the top of it, as well as on my bedside table, where they are easily accessible. It’s always been a struggle for me to deviate from familiarity, whether it’s with the media or anything else in life. However, when I do read new content, it will mostly consist of books recommended to me by friends or family. In the past, hearing their perspectives and discussing the stories made the experience extremely enriching. I mean, it is pretty wholesome to passionately discuss a 700-page heart-wrenching novel with your best friend. As the years have passed, I’ve realized that the purpose of reading has changed for me. Although escaping through the means of reading a book is still enjoyable, I now feel that there is a great value in connecting with others through stories. I am sure that my purpose for reading will change in the future, but I am perfectly fine with that as long as reading is a part of my life.

<3 Ayesha Khan

9.7.21