Eng 110
1-29-14
Literacy Narrative
I was in eighth grade when it all started. It started with the little things: quotes, poems, and conversations via text message. My dad begged me to give it a shot but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I had no interest in reading at all. My friends had even started to poke at withnovels and series they liked; it was still a ‘no’ from me. I couldn’t sit still for more than tenminutes, never mind trying to invest myself in pages filled with words written in black ink. Icouldn’t focus on what was being said, described, or illustrated in the words on these pages.What got me started was a guy who wasn’t in my league academically. He had started this series that my best friend had begged me to try. He would read it at every break, nose buried in his book as he walked into class totally lost in the story being told. It made me wonder “how can he do it and I cannot?” How can he develop such a passion for the words written in black ink on thepages of a four-hundred something book and I could not? I could not let this continue! I listened to my dad, my friends, and the jealousy and competitiveness running through my veins and Itook a chance. I opened the book I just bought and fell in love.
Ever since I can remember I hated to read and write. I am not sure if it was because my mom made me write and read every summer, or because I always got into trouble because I had a bad grade on my report card because of my horrid handwriting. Whatever it was, my taste for all things readable or writeable had been dulled, damaged and left me with a complete and total lack of desire. I always have ideas running through my head that would look great on paper, that is if Icould write it correctly. Reading was always just something that my teachers and mother made me do. I hated it. It was always so boring to me that even a minute of reading seemed like an eternity. All I wanted to do was go play a pick-up game of baseball with all the neighborhood boys out it in the street. For years reading and writing was difficult for me for to say the least.My struggle with writing is a continuing thing, but it only took the right book to spark in me a love for reading. That is a moment I remember will not easily forget.
My dad wanted me to read a series that his work buddies had liked. He wanted us to read it together because that is how my dad works. He is a brute of a man. Not very tall but wide and strong. His brain works and thinks faster than any one on this planet. He can read a four-hundred something book in a day. He can block out his nine children running around the house to enjoy the crisp pages of his favorite book. I’m not exactly sure if he even has a favorite book, he has read more than I can count. He told me that if we read this series together by the end ofChristmas break that he would take me and only me to every book themed movie that came out. Of course I told him I would try but I never intended to actually do it. My dad bought a copy for us to share and I carried it around like I was reading it, which I wasn’t. One day in class I wasdigging through my pink and black checkered backpack looking for a homework assignment that was due at the beginning of class. I emptied my backpack onto the black science table. I finally found my assignment and looked up to see a shocked Victoria Rose Thomas.
‘Tori’ was one of the two best friends that I had. Actually they were the only friends I had. She and I were the same height we both had long curly dark brown hair. She wore a black tee with faded dark blue jeans with fake back pockets. Her shoes were the black and white DC shoes which were identical to my white and blue DC’s. She wore her headphones wrapped around her neck like a necklace and music was filling the air as she stared at me with her wide almost black eyes. In her hand was the book my dad had bought for us to read together. “What is this?” she asked in a skeptical tone. I just smiled and told her the story about me and my dad’sconversation earlier that morning. She thought it was a great idea and pressured me to do it. “Look! Joey is reading it too.” she told me after I told her I wasn’t going to do it. I looked over and there he was holding this book in one of his massive hands as he turned page after page trulyengrossed in the story behind the cover of the paperback.
I thought to myself, “You have got to be kidding me.” This guy, who doesn’t care abouthis school work and only focuses on the parties going on every Friday night in our little town, was reading this book. He was a jock and so was I, but he was focused on all the wrong things. He was 6’0, 180 pounds who was the same age as me. Same birthday and everything, in fact he was thirty minutes older than I was. He was a football player. He looked like he could break the spine of that book if he wanted to. How could the party animal and non-homework doer read this book and love it? How could he read the little words written on a manila colored page and not get bored? He would read it every chance he could and not feel ashamed or even care about what was going on around him. I even caught him reading it right before football practice started. How is it possible that he could read it and I couldn’t? So as competitive as I am I wasn’t going to stand for this. I was going to read it, cover to cover, no matter how long it took.
Fridays were half school days at our school so we got out at 12:00 pm and my parents were leaving me to babysit the family while they went grocery shopping at the nearest Wal-Mart,which was on hour and thirty minutes away. Being the oldest of nine I lead my siblings as we fearlessly cleaned the house then I promptly sent the kids outside to play. I turned on some music, got myself a blanket and headed over to my favorite couch. It was banana leather colored, just like my glove, and it had the softest corner spot which was perfect for the task I was about to undertake. I got comfortable and looked at the cover of the book my dad bought and opened it. I read the quote on the third page in the book and from that point on I was hooked. Hook, Line, and Sinker. I read until I finished the book. I finished it that night at around eleven. I read in every position possible sitting, laying, walking, jumping and hanging upside down from the couch. I read every word written in black ink in that four-hundred something page book, and I loved it. I loved every character, every plot twist, and every bit of the cheesy unrealistic love story of Twilight. I couldn’t put the book down.
The next morning I told my dad that I read and finished this book. He just stared at me with a smile on his face as he said “Well! You will just have to wait for the rest of the series to come on Christmas morning.” That was a week away! If you have ever felt the anxiety of waiting for the next chapter, book, episode, movie or whatever than you know what I went through that finals week I could barely concentrate, thank goodness for the “ice running throughmy veins” trick I had taught myself for practices and games I was able to block everything out during my exams. Finally, the week ended and Christmas was here. I couldn’t sleep on Christmas Eve, which isn’t something that has happened to me since I was eight years old,waiting for Santa to bring presents and joy to my family. There I was, so excited for those books to be mine that I couldn’t sleep. Me! The one who couldn’t stand to read was excited for books. Who would’ve thought? The morning came and I read every book -- there were three left in the series--in three days. Then I read them all again. Ever since then I have read countless novels, stories, and series. I devour books like crazy, especially the free ones from the Kindle Store. I have bought so many books that I had to leave them all at home when I came out to collegebecause I couldn’t decide on which to bring. I have some signed by the author and somehighlighted with my favorite parts. Each book is water stained and crumpled from reading outside in the rain. I blare my music and block out the world only to entire a new one. I enter the world of the story. I see every character in vivid detail. I feel, smell, hear, taste, see, and understand every situation and surrounding environments. I have learned to use what I feel whenI write. I want my reader to experience what I have.
I used to hate to read and write; now I don’t. I hated having to sit in one spot and read silly words written in black ink on manila colored pages of any book, especially four-hundred something paged books, now I don’t. Now, I love to read and feel what the authors have felt, see what they saw, and so forth. I love the accomplishment of reading those massive books no one thought I could finish. I love holding the whole new world the book holds, in the tiny palm of my hand. I thank my dad, my friends and that random football player who convinced me to start. I thank my competitive nature and determined mind that helped me discover a true and honest love that will never turn its back on me. So I took that chance. Opened the book my dad just bought. And I fell in love.
**Good Job Daughter**
oh I loved this great job cassie
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