Read My LifeĀ 

 

Iā€™ve never been incredibly proud of my childhood. When I was younger, I deceived myself into believing it was ideal. However, as I grow I wonder if my expectations were altered by the romanticized standards set by the media. Ultimately my childhood was a successful one, I did very well in school, I hung around a decent number of ā€œfriendsā€. But the motivation for this was never quite right. I succeeded because I felt that if I didnā€™t achieve these basic goals I would be punished, either by my parents, my teachers, or the world around me. My successes were based upon fear. And so too was my initial introduction to literature. I never cared much about reading as a child, for me, it was just a boring waste of a half-hour I couldā€™ve used to watch an entire two episodes of Spongebob. This all changed around first grade when my class was introduced to reading levels.Ā 

Essentially, every student was assigned a level for their strength in reading, according to the alphabet. With A being a complete novice, and Z being the ultimate goal. Upon hearing this, I paid little attention. Who cares? I thought,

Read My LifeĀ 

Ā 

Iā€™ve never been incredibly proud of my childhood. When I was younger, I deceived myself into believing it was ideal. However, as I grow I wonder if my expectations were altered by the romanticized standards set by the media. Ultimately my childhood was a successful one, I did very well in school, I hung around a decent number of ā€œfriendsā€. But the motivation for this was never quite right. I succeeded because I felt that if I didnā€™t achieve these basic goals I would be punished, either by my parents, my teachers, or the world around me. My successes were based upon fear. And so too was my initial introduction to literature. I never cared much about reading as a child, for me, it was just a boring waste of a half-hour I couldā€™ve used to watch an entire two episodes of Spongebob. This all changed around first grade when my class was introduced to reading levels.Ā 

Essentially, every student was assigned a level for their strength in reading, according to the alphabet. With A being a complete novice, and Z being the ultimate goal. Upon hearing this, I paid little attention. Who cares? I thought it’s just a stupid scale. I took my test that year and moved swiftly into level C. I felt pretty good about myself that day at lunch, so I told one of my friends. The entire table then proceeded to tell me they were on levels M, N, and O. Suddenly I felt displaced. I felt as though I no longer belonged because I wasnā€™t as smart as my friends. I had secretly always worried about this but had absolutely no barometer for measurement. Now that I had the ability to track this statistically though, I felt as though I had to prove myself.Ā 

I spent the entire next school year reading as many books as I could find and working on my comprehension. I practically trained for next year’s running record. The training, as it would turn out, paid off. I moved up to a level N and was ecstatic. I had finally proved to myself that I was indeed fit to be around my friends and to be a part of the class. The problem, of course, was that all my friends had gone up to levels R and S. So did I learn my lesson? Nope. I spent the entire year training once more, I read chapter books and picture books and anything I could get my hands on. Except for this time…. this time something new happened.Ā 

I found myself weirdly engrossed in the books I was reading. The characters in the books understood me far more than any of my friends. Jack and Annieā€™s magic tree house seemed far more appealing than my stuffy room in my parent’s house. Suddenly I had a license to dream. Reading gave me the opportunity to see a new world. A world where I accomplished not for the sake of others but for my own satisfaction. As if to prove the point, I canā€™t even remember my score on the reading exam the next year. I wanted to read and understand these stories for my own sake, for my own fun, not to match other people.Ā 

As I grew older, I began to live out some dreams. I remember reading about New York City as a kid and dreaming of visiting the Empire State Building or Rockefeller Center. It was a world that seemed so far away when in reality it was merely a few hours. In my sophomore year of high school, a few of my friends and I took a trip. It was nothing like the books had promised. It was just as exciting, just as grand and just as new, but in a new way, in a unique way to me specifically that no character could tell me about. So, in order to share my story of the events, I wrote my story down. It was here that I grew into becoming a writer, someone who was passionate about my experiences and my dreams.Ā 

So am I grateful for my childhood? Iā€™m not sure. But I learned valuable lessons along the way, mostly through the lenses of reading and writing. I taught myself how to read the stories of others and feel from their feelings, experience from their experiences. I enjoyed it so much that it motivated me to share my experiences and stories with others. Because one day, I will not have these memories, and stories are where they shall go when they are forgotten. All in all, my origins of literature were deep, misty, but overall successful.

just a stupid scale. I took my test that year and moved swiftly into level C. I felt pretty good about myself that day at lunch, so I told one of my friends. The entire table then proceeded to tell me they were on levels M, N, and O. Suddenly I felt displaced. I felt as though I no longer belonged because I wasnā€™t as smart as my friends. I had secretly always worried about this but had absolutely no barometer for measurement. Now that I had the ability to track this statistically though, I felt as though I had to prove myself.Ā 

I spent the entire next school year reading as many books as I could find and working on my comprehension. I practically trained for next year’s running record. The training, as it would turn out, paid off. I moved up to a level N and was ecstatic. I had finally proved to myself that I was indeed fit to be around my friends and to be a part of the class. The problem, of course, was that all my friends had gone up to levels R and S. So did I learn my lesson? Nope. I spent the entire year training once more, I read chapter books and picture books and anything I could get my hands on. Except for this time…. this time something new happened.Ā 

I found myself weirdly engrossed in the books I was reading. The characters in the books understood me far more than any of my friends. Jack and Annieā€™s magic tree house seemed far more appealing than my stuffy room in my parent’s house. Suddenly I had a license to dream. Reading gave me the opportunity to see a new world. A world where I accomplished not for the sake of others but for my own satisfaction. As if to prove the point, I canā€™t even remember my score on the reading exam the next year. I wanted to read and understand these stories for my own sake, for my own fun, not to match other people.Ā 

As I grew older, I began to live out some dreams. I remember reading about New York City as a kid and dreaming of visiting the Empire State Building or Rockefeller Center. It was a world that seemed so far away when in reality it was merely a few hours. In my sophomore year of high school, a few of my friends and I took a trip. It was nothing like the books had promised. It was just as exciting, just as grand and just as new, but in a new way, in a unique way to me specifically that no character could tell me about. So, in order to share my story of the events, I wrote my story down. It was here that I grew into becoming a writer, someone who was passionate about my experiences and my dreams.Ā 

So am I grateful for my childhood? Iā€™m not sure. But I learned valuable lessons along the way, mostly through the lenses of reading and writing. I taught myself how to read the stories of others and feel from their feelings, experience from their experiences. I enjoyed it so much that it motivated me to share my experiences and stories with others. Because one day, I will not have these memories, and stories are where they shall go when they are forgotten. All in all, my origins of literature were deep, misty, but overall successful.