Literacy Narrative

Decent Essays
Final Draft
Word Count: 777

I never understood the point of reading. My parents first introduced my siblings and I to its world at the early age of two. We were familiarized with letters, taught to link sound the visual and formed words with a stuttering start. We became accustomed to the quiet of Tuesday nights when my father would sit huddled on the sofa – my mother curled up in bed – his long nose buried in a novel, a black curtain cascading from her head to the pages, morphing into one with their respective books. As the night drew close the browns of their eyes would light up, while my mother’s red lips would quiver with excitement and my father would flash a lopsided smile. “Reading is an adventure,” they’d
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His sun kissed skin was sprinkled with grubby marks and one of his top teeth was absent as he chuckled. His black hair flopped down over his eyes as he stared intently into a book held tightly in his hands, seemingly ignoring the chaos I saw around him. The blue of the cover stood out amongst the neutral tones, and the word “infinite” stood out to me.

This moment, which is forever replayed in slow motion, is when that area of darkness began to shine.

My parents were raised in the third-world country of India, lucky to escape extreme poverty, but living in poverty nonetheless. They grew up on the principal that literacy was their only escape from the life they lived. They understood what it was to have nothing and realised that millions of other people around the world would never get the same chance to escape - like the boy with the book. This is why we were taken overseas; to be shown how lucky we are, even to have the simple things.

I’ve never looked at a book the same. I now allow myself to get lost amongst the words, the characters, the scenes; they all become real in my mind. I have a hunger for books and the stories that can remove me from my surroundings. It came to my attention much later on, that the boy on the road probably didn’t even know what he was reading – the title was English and he most likely spoke Mandarin. It was just a way to escape his
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