Analysis Of Buzz Lightyear : Space Ranger By Diane Muldrow

Some of the oldest and fondest memories I have from my childhood are those of my mother reading to me. Before I even began Kindergarten, I remember my mom reading stories to me from children’s books, or making up stories as she went along. I enjoyed listening to the stories and still remember some to this day. She also taught me how to write my name, count, and recite the alphabet. I loved the time I spent reading with my mom because she made it fun, so much so that I didn’t realize I was learning.

My love of reading blossomed when I was a child, because my parents showed me how wonderful reading is. There were countless nights when I remember myself as a little girl refusing to go to sleep before ‘tucking dad into bed’ by reading him a picture book. Not only did I uphold that tradition though, but my mother is a preschool teacher, so she gets really into reading out loud, and she would help me read books such as The Boxcar Children set, The Secret of NIMH and The Chronicles of Narnia weekly until I didn’t need help anymore.

My memories are blurry. They are fragments of disjointed moments, without a linear narrative. I remember reading. It was in Mrs. Davidson first grade class. My reading proficiency skills were very poor, the English language still thick and unnatural on my tongue. While some of the other students took a Gifted class, I had to take a remedial course—English Learners (EL)— just so that I could hold onto the edge. I remember reading. I had a hard copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar in my little hands, reciting only the first page of the book from memory. The classroom was dark; the stream of sunlight filtering through the windows served as our only illumination. The rest of the words on the book looked like a mess of jumbled letters. I couldn’t make out anything other than the words “the” and “and.” I remember enthusiastically pointing out my “fluency” to my teacher, seemingly applauding my menial abilities: “The catpater at droo!” (The caterpillar ate through). In the first-grade, my free time was spread sporadically between watching The Little Mermaid, catching ugly black crickets and pretending that I was Sailor Moon, guardian of the galaxy. In the first grade, I was not at all concerned with words, literacy and books. In the first grade, I did not know the power that words hold. I did not know that books would change my life.

As a young child in the years of first to second grade I quickly developed my love for reading. I was never a big fan of the outside world. I thought the world around me was boring and tearing everything/one apart, and thought the adventure inside a book was much more exciting. In my childhood home there was a large bookshelf full of different stories. Most days when getting home I would sit by the shelves in my small pink bean bag chair with numerous children books scattered around me. By endlessly trying and sometimes failing to read my children books such as, the infinite number of Dr. Seuss rhyming stories and Winnie-the-Pooh books I felt comforted by the happy feeling the characters within the stories gave me. The pictures within

When I was two, my parents relocated us to Muskogee, Oklahoma. It is from these early days that literacy took control of my life. As a younger child, I do not remember a moment when books were not a crucial part of my existence. I eagerly awaited my father’s payday every week because that meant I could go to TG&Y and purchase a new Golden Book. Two of my favorite selections over the years were Little Brown Bear and Grover Takes Care of Baby. I may not have been able to read all the words, but through the pictures and my mother’s encouragement, the stories began to take me away. I did not understand the sacrifice my parents made for this opportunity until I was grown, but as an adult, I am extremely grateful for it. Without their support and encouragement of my literacy adventure, I would not be where I am today.

Every night my mom would read me a chapter or two of a “Junie B Jones” book. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to read by myself. I enjoyed reading when I first learned how. The first series I really liked was “Diary of a Wimpy Kid”. I’ve read every single book in the series. Whenever a new book from the series would come out, i’d get it first thing the next day. I never really read that often after I finished the “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” series. Those books really entertained me and anything else I read from the point didn't sway me. In fourth grade, I had a really awesome teacher that was really hard on me, but I really believe she helped me the most. I don't remember everything we did, I really don’t remember most of the stuff we did. I just remember getting to 5th grade and writing was so easy for me. So was math, science, etc.

A skinny cat wearing a tall, long hat with a big bow tie always made me laugh and giggle as a little kid. I have fond memories of how excited I was when my mother or father would read me a Dr. Seuss book. While I was read a Dr. Seuss book, I would imagine myself as the main character and wonder if I would ever do any of the silly escapades that took place in the book or if I would ever wear the audacious outfits worn reflected in the book. As a young kid, I was constantly making messes and doing mischievous things around the house similar to those playful and teasing things told in the Dr. Seuss books. The excitement and thrill of my parents reading children stories to me with emphasis on expression of the characters truly engaged me in reading time. Reading and writing has had a major impact on me as it has helped me gain a comprehension of words, provided me the ability to visualize and imagine the story in my eyes, and has influenced my decision making.

My earliest and most beautiful memories about reading was in my second grade when I was eight years old. I can still remember when my mother bought me a book called “Habia una vez”, the name in English is once upon a time. The book was all about awesome and amazing stories for kids. In October the twenty second, 2005, when I finally read the first story by myself, she was with an indescribable happiness in her eyes while looking at me. As a result of seeing my mom, glad of me, I decide to continue reading the book till the end of it. But, the best part is that this book is still with me. I have read all those stories more than ten times and I still since back then. Today I am twenty years old and I still, save that

Do you remember the first book you learned to read? Well, I do and it shaped me into the reader I am today. During my early years in elementary school, I began to learn about what reading was and how to read books. I always remember my kindergarten teacher reading “Love you forever” before I would go to nap time everyday. I eventually learned to read my favorite childhood book on my own. However, this was a problem when I didn't want to branch out and read books to better my reading skills. Reading and writing are such and important aspect in our lives that get abused every day. It may sound silly, but as a young child I came in contact with books that impacted me, changed me, and shaped me into the reader and writer I am today.

Every night my mom would read me a chapter or two of a “Junie B Jones” book. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to read by myself. Reading seemed like a special power people posessed when they got older, it seemed astonishing to me. The first series I really liked was “Diary of a Wimpy Kid”. I’ve read every single book in the series, whenever the next book from the series would come out, i’d get it first thing the next day. I never really read that often after I finished the “Diary of a Wimpy Kid” series. Those books really entertained me and anything else I read from the point didn't sway me. In fourth grade, I had a really awesome teacher that was really hard on me, but I really believe she helped me the most. I don't remember everything

I picked up one of the books and fell in love with all the things that it could teach me. My mother who was a special education teacher at the time had always pushed me and my siblings to read. She brought home tons of books for us to read. When I told her I found a great book on horses she was so proud, and from that moment on I have always had a love of reading. My love for reading has grown so much that I now read everything in sight, but reading wasn’t enough for me as it turned out. From all the great books I read I started to come up with ideas about new exciting books people could write, that I could write. So during my eight grade year my burning desire to write a book compelled me to finally do so. I used three notebooks and a ton of lead and wrote my story. When I was finished, I typed it up on my computer and printed it out to show everyone I knew. When people saw that I wrote a book they were proud of me and this pride made me want to continue, but sadly school activities took up all my time and I was unable to finish my second book. My story of how I learned how to love to read and write isn’t quite like Sherman Alexie’s superman moment but it is

My father left at the age of three leaving me in the capable hands of my mother. This is where my life began. I don’t reminisce my father, the only memory I have of both my parents was relationship of abuse. My mother worked effortlessly making life survivable. Growing up in Greenwich, Connecticut wasn’t easy. I was girdled by opulent people and didn’t have the same opportunities as my peers around me did. As grew up, my only escape from reality has always been reading. Books have shaped my life inexplicable. I’ve traveled and experienced life through a vast variety of characters. From reading The Giving Tree by Shel Sliverstien to How to Kill a Mocking Bird By Harper Lee and developing the knowledge to read classical literacy like Emily Bronte

She was always reading, but I rarely showed interest in books; however, one day when I was around nine, she handed me a book and told me that she thought I would enjoy it. I struggled through it with some assistance from her with words I did not recognize, but I managed to get all the way through it. Upon finishing the book, I returned it and asked for another, this continued for years. I learned to read in the right time in my life. My older brother died when I was ten and books became my escape form the pain. During the hours that I read I was with Peter in Neverland, I explored with a family named Tuck that could not die, and I traveled to a magical place called Narnia a few times. These stories helped me as tension in my family grew over the years; I knew that I could always find safety in a book. In some ways, the characters of these beloved stories became part of my family. Even as an adult when life became almost unbearable, I would found a few minutes and

The hand me down recliner in our seemingly empty living room had become my favorite place to be in the world. I became extremely comfortable with the idea of being read to. Although my brother tried his hand at reading, I was firm on being the one to listen. The idea of hearing the story read aloud and creating something in my head to go along with the reader’s words was appealing to me. At this point, my mother was no longer the one pushing for story-time, I had taken on that role. I remember the house being filled with children’s books and more were constantly coming in. Friends and family would come by simply to drop off overstuffed cardboard boxes full of books

Hello, my name is Annabel, and today, I will reveal 3 books that have shaped me throughout my childhood. Popular fiction: Out of my Mind, Classical: Little Kiwi Lost his Mum and canonical: Dr.Seuss. For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved books. The way the pages glide along your hands, the tense climaxes, the happy endings, the tear jerkers. All of it. But most of all, I can remember the memories. I can remember times when I would read until the early hours of the morning, unaware of the time passing by. And then you finish the book. The words and sentences have closed. The characters, fell deep into the unconscious abyss known as sleep. Never knowing when they would be awoken, never knowing if they would be able to play their stories again.