It was a cool October night, and me, my dad, and my brother all lay in the hallway in our pajamas. I was maybe three, maybe four, but my mind was too busy capturing and deciphering the different sounds my dad was directing at us to mark down the date. 

“Goodnight moon. Goodnight cow jumping over the moon.” My dad quietly said. He was trying to get us to fall asleep, but I wanted to keep hearing about this cow that could jump over the moon. How could he jump over the moon? Why did he jump over the moon? Could I jump over the moon? My little mind raced with questions about the cow and the moon. Eventually, my dad finished Goodnight Moon and tucked me in to go to bed. That night I dreamed about jumping over the moon and living in a little green room.

When I woke up the next morning, I walked right over to where Goodnight Moon was on my bookshelf. I opened it up and saw small black symbols. Those are weird drawings? I thought to myself. For the rest of the morning, I flipped every page from cover to cover and then backward. I examined every picture and tried to remember what my dad said on each page. 

“Red balloon,” I said to myself, pointing to the red balloon on the page. This is where something finally clicked. Those black squiggles were what my dad was saying. I traced my figure over the first word on that page over and over again. 

This is where my reading journey began. Relating pictures to words and just trying to understand written language. I think I remember it being hard at first, but that was almost fifteen years ago. As I grew older, I kept reading with my parents until about third grade. Most nights I would get into my parents’ bed with the book I was reading, most of the time Harry Potter, and read aloud to them. Every time I came across a word I didn’t know, I asked them what it was. This is where my parents really challenged me.

“What’s this one?” I asked.

“Sound it out.”

“Ear nest.” I said with an unsure tone.

“Not quite. See how it’s only one word?”

“Yeah.” I said while shaking my head.

“Try again.”

“Er-er-ne-ne-est-est. Ernest.” 

“Good job.” My mom said with a smile on her face. My parents always tried to have me figure out new words I came across. This period in my reading journey was what really made me enjoy reading. I would have an amazing story unfold before me, I would be able to figure out new words I could use to impress my friends and teacher, and I could read slowly unlike in school. In school, we always had a time limit on how long we could take to finish the story the teacher gave us. So, it was either skim the story and only kind of understand it or read aloud in my head and not get to the ending. In my opinion, it is better to read slower and understand the details and complexities of a story than to quickly absorb the surface-level details. I take this attitude into even my high school readings. I read as though I am reading aloud. Yes, it’s slow, but I understand the book so much better in the end. But this also changed how I saw reading. It became more of a long project than a quick time killer. It made it so that if I didn’t have an hour or more to read I wouldn’t get far enough to really enjoy reading. This mindset made it seem more like a chore than a hobby. Especially when school started assigning books. My love for reading was slowly diminished because of this. 

I learned to read as if the book was a puzzle. It was exciting when the pieces matched and the words made sense. Then school came along and slowly took that away. My enjoyment of reading has withered away as it has become an assignment rather than a hobby. Sure I still find books I love, but because of the work involved with school books my desire to read outside of the classroom has become almost nonexistent. I wish I could get back into reading through the night and not wanting to stop, but I don’t think is going to be possible until I am out of the school system, but when that day comes I am ready and looking forward to it.