The Story of my Love to Literacy in the English Language - Essay Example

Your Full Your Teacher’s April 23, Literacy Narrative I still remember sitting in my father’s lap as he flipped through the pages of the storybook my mother had bought me as a birthday present. It used to be my favorite time of the whole day: when my father came back from work and read to me. I do not remember how old I was, but, as I sat there in my father’s lap evening after evening, I was fascinated not only by the pictures in the book, but also those squiggly lines that were below them. When I asked him what they were, my father laughed lovingly and told me that they were the words that made up the story and that he was reading them to me. I knew right then that I just had to acquire this, as I imagined it then, magical ability to read. I could just imagine myself reading all the books lined up in my father’s shelf; I would become just as smart as my father if I learnt how to read, I reasoned. Many years have passed since, and along the way to literacy I not only got the “magical ability” to read (and write), but I also developed an affinity and love for it. In many ways, I would consider my parents to be the ones who sparked the love of reading and writing in me. Whenever there was an occasion for gift giving, my parents would always give me a book or two along with other things. They would also gift each other books all the time. Growing up, I saw my parents reading a lot of books; they would read before going to bed and would even read other passages that they had liked from the books that they were reading. I really wanted to be a part of that, and that further motivated me not only to learn to read, but also to be proficient at it so that I could share my favorite passages with my parents and other loved ones as well. I would like to point out here that I did not learn English until I was a little bit older. I actually learnt to read and write in my mother tongue first. Interested as I was in reading and writing, it came as a really big surprise for me when I was told at school that all of us would be learning a new language. I remember staring at my English alphabet book in dismay because I simply could not make out what was written. This was a completely new feeling for me. I had always been among the best readers in my class, and now, all of a sudden, I was just as illiterate in English as the rest of the students. At first, I did not know how to cope with the new language I was told to learn. I simply did not know where and how to start and was lagging behind all the students. But then, one day, my English teacher decided to take a new approach to teaching me English. She knew I loved stories; she handed me an illustrated English storybook and told me to explain to her what was happening. I was only glad to do that – it was about a little boy’s first visit to the zoo. She took back the picture book from me and then read it very slowly to me in English. Even though I could not understand it, I was intrigued by the new sounds I heard of words I did not yet know. That was the moment I decided I just had to master this new language. I simply attacked my alphabet book and did my best to learn as quickly as I could. Despite it not being my first language, and despite it not being spoken around me, I became quite adept at its usage thanks to reading English books. In middle and high school, I was singled out for my literacy skills. Once in class our teacher told us to write a book report on To Kill a Mocking Bird, and gave us two weeks to hand it in. I not only finished reading the book in 3 days, but by the end of the fifth, I had written my report thereon. However, by the end of the first week, Tom, a boy in my class, who I was not really friends with, went to the teacher and told him that he could not hand the book report within the due time because as he had trouble reading he simply could not finish the book in such short time. I remember the pride I felt when the teacher called my name and said to me, “You should help Tom. I know you must have finished your book report by now.” Tom and I sat together after school for the whole week, and I helped him with his reading. He did not manage to get a good grade, but he did give in his assignment on time. Even afterwards, we sat together many a time after school reading books and talking about them, and ended up becoming very good friends. Later on, I decided that I wanted to start writing as well. I started a journal in which I recorded the mundane and the exciting events of my life. It was difficult at first, as I found it really challenging to start the entries as I did not know where to begin. I constantly thought of how anyone who would read my journal would laugh at me. Then I came across the words of J. D. Salinger, who said that he liked and lived to write, but that he only wrote for himself and his pleasure. I had an epiphany there and then; the trick to having fun whilst writing was for me to only write for myself. The journal entries, I reasoned were private and for my perusal only, so why should I worry what anyone would think if they read it? Thereby began what I jokingly like to call my prolific writing journey. I simply wrote whatever was on my mind, even if it was about the enticing smell of pie coming from the bakery I passed that day. I did not realize it then, but my journal writing helped me cope with a lot of things in life. Whether it was when I changed houses and went to live in a completely new place, or the trouble I faced in adjusting at college, or even when my grandmother was very sick and admitted to the hospital. The fact that I kept my journal and was constantly venting through my writing really helped me cope. I remember having a fight with a close friend of mine, and it was only when I was writing about it in my journal that I realized I was at fault and should apologize to her. I did just that the next morning and we resumed our friendship and are still friends today. I will not go so far as to say that writing in the journal completely solved my problems, but that I felt much more confident about facing my problems as I frequently gained insight through the writing process. Over the years, I have accumulated a lot of memories that are intertwined with my writing as well as the books that I was reading. I have come a long way from the boy who sat in his father’s lap to listen to stories – I can not only read my own, but also write some of my own now – however, the fascination that I felt for words during those times has never left me. Each time I read or write, I feel happy and content. I consider literacy a true gift that has been bestowed on me. Read More