Author: Eddie Cheng (Page 5 of 6)

Read My Life 

I’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 “friends”. But the motivation for this was never quite right. I succeeded because I felt that if I didn’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 could’ve used to watch an entire two episodes of Spongebob. This all changed around first grade when my class was introduced to reading levels. 

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 Life 

I’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 “friends”. But the motivation for this was never quite right. I succeeded because I felt that if I didn’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 could’ve used to watch an entire two episodes of Spongebob. This all changed around first grade when my class was introduced to reading levels. 

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 wasn’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. 

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. 

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 Annie’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 can’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. 

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. 

So am I grateful for my childhood? I’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 wasn’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. 

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. 

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 Annie’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 can’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. 

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. 

So am I grateful for my childhood? I’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.