Danielle
Zickl
Composition
Theory
Mary Lourdes
Silva
9/23/14
Literacy Narrative
A lot of kids don’t really like
reading because they associate it with being forced to read books for school
that they never would have chosen on their own, but I caught the reading bug in
kindergarten—long before that was an issue.
The New York Public Library was
easily my favorite place as a child (other than ballet class). Here, I’d wander
the children’s section for what seemed like hours, handing my mom or dad every
book I picked out so I wouldn’t have to hold them all. At the tender age of six
I got my first library card with a signature that was close to illegible (when
I got older I just had to get a new one because I couldn’t stand how sloppily
written my name was), but what mattered most was that it was my own; it was a
portal to a different world. When I’d finish raiding the children’s section,
we’d go to the adult section so my parents could browse around. I remember
being in awe of how long these books were compared to my books and couldn’t
wait until I could read them all. But the one thing I didn’t like about the
adult section was how quiet it was. In the children’s section, there’d be
parents reading to their kids on the various couches that were around, or kids
just being loud and obnoxious because they’re little and that’s what they do. But
none of that happened in the adult section. It was just grown-ups picking up a
book, quickly scanning its contents, and either putting it back on the shelf or
holding on to it while they repeated the cycle, and all of this was done for
the most part silently.
Spending time at the library with my
parents gave me a chance to bond with them. Many parents could have easily left
their child’s school in charge of their reading if they were too busy to do it
themselves, but since I’m an only child, it was pretty easy for parents to make
time for my literacy. My mom worked part time as a pre-school teacher and was
always home when I was to take me to the library if I wanted to go, and even
though my dad worked a full time job and wasn’t home as much as my mom was, he
would never say no to a trip to the library. Though my dad never liked school
and didn’t continue on to college, he’s an avid reader. He just enjoys reading
for fun as opposed to being forced to read for educational purposes, and I
think he wanted to impart that habit on me early — way before forced reading
had a chance to ruin my love of it.
I went to the same school from
kindergarten to eighth grade. It was kind of a pilot school because it tested new
types of learning methods out on its students. For example, we had mixed
classes of first and second graders, and third and fourth graders. The idea was
that the older kids could help the younger kids out. The school also provided
us laptops from fifth through eighth grade to see how the use of technology
could help us learn. No other schools on Staten Island were doing these types
of things at the time, which is why it was exclusive; the school held a lottery
to get in. In other words, most children go to schools they’re zoned for (which
are presumably close to where they live), but the school I went to didn’t abide
by zoning laws. Anyone whose parents entered them into the lottery and ended up
getting in could go to this school, no matter where on Staten Island they
lived. So every morning for eight years, my mom drove me a half hour there and
every afternoon she drove me a half hour back home all in the name of a good
education.
My grandma got me my first journal
when I was in third grade. I’m not really sure why she got it, but maybe because
it was my favorite color she knew I’d like it. It was purple and sparkly and
you could only open it with the key that it came with and I guarded that key
with my life. I scribbled down my thoughts on my classmates, my friends, my
family, my animals and anything else my little eight-year-old mind could think
of until I ran out of pages. Though I’ve never been one to religiously keep a
journal (I’ve had a few since third grade), this was my first brush with
writing just for myself as opposed to writing for academic reasons, and I liked
it.
In fifth grade, it was evident that
I was ahead of my peers in the reading department. All the books in Mrs. Held’s
classroom had colored stickers on them and we could only read books of the
color we were assigned based on our reading level. I remember being able to
read books of a higher level than most of my class and I totally loved the fact
that I was reading books that no one else was; it made me feel special. Two
books I read then that stick out in my mind are The Giver by Lois Lowry and The
House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros.
A year later, in sixth grade, we had
to write a book about ourselves. I remember including information about my dog,
my hobbies (ballet and ice skating), and my friends. I found this assignment to
be a lot of fun and even bound it together with ribbon instead of just stapling
it. Ms. Roman thought I did a good job on it and showed the class my work
(along with a few other students’ work). During this time, I was practically
failing math and this book kind of let me know that I was good at something.
I was in eighth grade when I finally
got a television in my room. Until then, I had nothing to do in there but read
and I think that was the point of me not being allowed to have a TV in there in
the first place. They didn’t want to run the risk of me being holed up in my
room 24/7 and never coming out. But I was allowed to watch TV in the living
room whenever I wanted because it was a social thing. In order to watch TV I’d
have to come downstairs to where my parents usually were. When I got the TV, I
did read a little less at first because I was so thrilled to be able to watch
TV anytime I wanted instead of having to wait for a time when my parents
weren’t watching their shows, but after a while there were times where I simply
didn’t feel like watching TV, so I’d go back to my books. I think this
solidified the fact that books were an important part of my life and nothing
was going to really change that, even though they were scared that a TV would.
Ninth grade was the year that I
discovered just how much I really liked to write. At the time, I was big into
the show Gilmore Girls and one of the
characters, Rory, wanted to be a journalist. When I found out that journalism
was one of the electives my high school offered, I jumped at the opportunity to
take it. I loved journalism because it gave me a sense that what I was writing
really mattered (not to mention, I felt pretty official getting to interview
people). This class had me constantly writing and I enjoyed every minute of it.
Though I sometimes found it difficult to piece together a story, I welcomed the
challenge (unlike the challenge of math, which was unbearable). The same year
was also my mom’s first parent-teacher conference at the high school and that
day, she asked me how to get to all of the classrooms. It was my first instinct
to write a detailed list of steps that took up about three sheets of computer
paper. For whatever reason my mom told my journalism teacher, Mrs. Baron, about
what I had done and Mrs. Baron told her that she remembered doing the same kind
of thing when she was younger. My mom took it as a sign that I was meant to
write. I can see how many parents might take their child’s desire to be a
writer and immediately worry that they won’t be able to find a job (or at least
a high-paying one) and beg them to find something else. But if parents give
their child the freedom to choose their own path, it makes for a much happier
child. What’s worse than living an unhappy life and resenting your parents? Or
vice versa, what’s worse than having your child resent you for the rest of
their lives because you were too controlling back when they were younger? It’s
just better to just support anything and everything your child wants to do,
unless they want to become a serial killer or something, in which case I’d say
get help immediately!
It was a continuing trend all
throughout middle school and high school that I was good at English and
history, but not so great at science and embarrassingly terrible at math. It
was only natural for me to want to pursue the things I was good at, so even
though I think of my ninth grade journalism class as kind of a turning point
for me, my academic record showed that I was bound for this path anyway.
I never liked poetry until I really
got into Stevie Nicks. I’d always enjoyed her music since I grew up listening
to classic rock, but I really became obsessed with her during my freshman year
of college. Until then, poetry had never done anything for me. Why was William
Carlos Williams’ eight-line poem about a wheelbarrow so important? Why was I
being forced to read poems from the 1800s that were so outdated and hard to
understand? I hadn’t realized that songs were poems until I watched countless
interviews where she talked about how all of her songs started out as written
poems; she never added a melody until it was time for the band to record.
Stevie’s words just hit me in a way that I had never experienced before; unlike
“The Red Wheelbarrow,” or any other poems I read in high school, I could actually
relate to what she was writing about (“never have I been a blue calm sea, I
have always been a storm”).
Looking back, my sponsors exhibit
the type of life I had. I grew up in an upper-middle class household and had
many opportunities that I now realize not everyone had. The kids I went to
school with were very similar to me for the most part, so it never occurred to
me that my socio-economic status played a large role in my literacy. The fact
that I’m even writing this narrative as a student of Ithaca College is a
reflection this; not everyone is able to go to college to pursue what they are
interested in. Reading and writing have always been a big part of my life and I
now realize that I’m not the only one responsible for that.
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