Literacy Narrative

 

My Relationship with Reading and Writing

By Isabel Azarcon

 

I despise reading and writing. Well, maybe “despise” is the wrong word. Too strong. Dislike? Sounds flat and uninspired. See, this is one of the problems I face as a student in an English class. Everything has to mean something and I can neither understand that something nor write it into my essays.

 

I suppose the seeds of my discontent were sown in my childhood, when my father would often read to my brother and me. Like the sunset, reading time never failed to be. As a spotlight golden rays of waning sun illuminated my father and his chair, we gathered around the kitchen table to listen as he read tales such as Moby Dick or Robinson Crusoe. Every few minutes, my mind would wander elsewhere, wondering about the snacks in the pantry, the rice in its large, rectangular container. A sudden sharp question would pierce through the air, chasing away the clouds in my head- my father asking me to summarize what he had read. Of course, many times, I would be lost and he would snarl, “pay attention,” the disappointment resounding in his voice, the shame resounding in my head.

My father was the feared disciplinarian in my house. He ordered my brother and I to read thirty minutes of fiction and thirty minutes of nonfiction a day. He firmly denounced our fascination with TV programs and computer games, very much to my brother’s chagrin. I recall my ardent love of the Geronimo Stilton series, riddled with unusual fonts and vivid colors. To no surprise, when I would tell my father of the hour that I had read a Geronimo Stilton book, he would reprimand me for not reading a higher level book and not completing the thirty minutes of nonfiction book reading.

On another occasion, as a member of MENSA, I was forced by my father to memorize the poem, “No Man is an Island.” I completed the task with much satisfaction, yet I could not comprehend why that exercise was in any way significant. I mean, I extrapolated some basic meaning between the lines of the poem, but it was simply another means for academic enrichment that the household authoritarian wanted for me.

Possibly as some result of all of that academic enrichment, I had become somewhat of a decent writer by my adolescence. In fifth grade, I remember seeing my English teacher display some essay about a video on belonging for the class. Each student was handed out a copy of the same essay, which seemed strangely familiar. Once my copy was passed to me, the teacher gave me a warm smile, almost imperceptible to the other students around me. Joy emanated from my being, as to my sheer excitement, she had passed out my essay. 

Nothing could compare to that delicate, temporary feeling of pride. Fragile, like a porcelain doll. An illusion broken apart piece by piece.

 

Filled with the exhilarating rush of self-esteem, I suddenly found myself mired in the details of writing. Every paragraph, sentence, word had to be perfect- all fitting together according to my agenda. The gears and cogs of my mind would churn and churn, only to produce one single paragraph. And steam would pour out of my ears.

It was work. Just like the academic enrichment of my childhood. A means to get me to fit the cookie-cutter mold of a good student, of my parents’ expectations.

 

I soon discovered thousands of videos on Youtube and other platforms. The current from endless streams of content pulled me far from the burden that was reading and writing. During stressful times, I turned to a screen and a regular cast of characters whose sonorous voices felt so real to me. More real than a flat, white, word-speckled assigned reading packet with writing prompts ever seemed to me.

These videos and shows were like a drug, a euphoria-inducing addiction that has never ceased.

 

Still, I may choose to return to my once-held passion of reading- outside of school assignments, of course. I recognize that the desire to read and read well should be my choice, not some way to impress others. Reading is for my enjoyment, my satisfaction, and not anyone else’s. And writing is the same way. I hope to find enjoyment in crafting sentences too.

And someday my love for reading and writing shall be re-established. Resumed. Renewed? 

You get the picture.