My First Memory Of Reading

The morning was foggy and I could see the front of my school through my window. It was a nice sight to see. I walked into the kitchen to make myself a bowl of cereal and there she was with her head down on the table. I could tell that she arrived a couple of hours ago because the tears hadn’t dried from her cheeks yet. I got myself ready gave her a kiss on her forehead and headed off to school. I had walked into class eager to see what my teacher Mrs. Padron had in store for today. Every single day there was something new to learn and there’s something about that infinite nature of learning that really appealed to me as a child. I cherished those 7 hours I spent in class the most I could and I dreaded the mere thought of having to go home where I would have to face the

The story of my history as a writer is a very long one. My writing has come full circle. I have changed very much throughout the years, both as I grew older and as I discovered more aspects of my own personality. The growth that I see when I look back is incredible, and it all seems to revolve around my emotions. I have always been a very emotional girl who feels things keenly. All of my truly memorable writing, looking back, has come from experiences that struck a chord with my developing self. This assignment has opened my eyes, despite my initial difficulty in writing it. When I was asked to write down my earliest memory of writing, at first I drew a blank. All of a sudden, it became very clear to me, probably because it had some

I was in high school the first time I had to write a narrative. I was a freshman. This was Ms. Bradley’s first time teaching at Union Christian Academy. On her first day, she gave us our syllabus and said, “I do not accept late work, especially on writing assignments.” We, literally, sat there stunned. My freshman class had it very easy during eighth grade year. We were not expecting this. As I looked through the syllabus, I saw that our first assignment was due in a week and it was a narrative. At this time, I did not even know what a narrative was. Ms. Bradley explained that a narrative was an account or story of events. It could be either true or false. Our narrative had to be true. It had to be a true account of something that happened to us over the summer. She wanted to gauge how are writing skills were. Our narrative had to be at least two to two and a half pages long. I chose to write my first ever narrative on my trip to Fort Worth, Texas. Once again, I was plagued with writer’s block. I had the story in my head, but everything I

Prior to my development of routine introspection and, consequently, maturation, I wrote not to encapsulate my ever-growing discomfort towards life, but rather to gain praise and acknowledgement for my efforts in writing. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I sat on the floor of my kindergarten classroom criss-cross applesauce-style as my teacher, Mrs. Glickman, asked the class to write a short story and to provide an illustration to accompany it. With smudged and disorderly speckles of graphite sprawled across my paper, I managed to write a story in my signature chicken-scratch handwriting. The story was relatively simple, about a girl who had thought she was a hideous monster until she looked into a river reflection and realized she was beautiful. I even drew (or attempted to draw) a beautiful girl for the second part of the assignment. At the next school assembly, Mrs. Glickman granted me a sky-colored paper, reading “Award of Recognition: Kiana Lucin, for her creative writing and exemplary drawing skills.” From this point on, I prided myself in writing, and excelled

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.

When given this assignment to describe what kind of writer I am, I panicked. I spent hours staring at a blank page, trying to decide whether to fabricate a story, describe my feelings of inadequacy in the area of writing or simply drop this class. The truth is my past is very blurry, I may have been an excellent writer at one time in my life, but the chances of me remembering that are very slim. So this is not so much a story from my life, it is more of the story of why I can’t remember my life.

He would come dressed like some of the characters from the novels we would read and would sing really bad if he thought he was losing our attention, he was also the first to teacher to give me my first F. “How did I fail, I’m good at this, what did I do wrong?” I thought to myself as I examined the red marks all over my paper. I assumed this was just the first class to challenge my reading and writing skills; surely, I’ll do better the next time. Although I was confident in my reading and writing capabilities, I still couldn’t show my parents this, I figured it was a freak incident and it wouldn’t happen

Sitting on a colorful blanket and listening to my mom read books from Disney was my first memory of learning how to read. She could read word by word, making those face expressions that used to make me feel excited and of course she would show off the pictures. She finished reading and then she gave me a little purple notebook, where I used to practice how to spell my name and practicing the alphabet. Those are the first memories I have about learning how to read and write.

Strangely enough, I continued to absorb all I could from my teachers. Right when I thought I had it all figured out with respect to words and spelling, Mrs. Reynolds, my second grade teacher, established my new relationship with sentences, writing, and more books. Our class room was just as amazing as the rest. There were pictures and posters all over the walls, with words I could read and new things to explore. The desks were scattered in small pods that nurtured diversity. In the back of the room there were shelves of books accompanied by squishy bean bag chairs and all things comfort. This would be the room where I wrote my first paper and read my first

One of my first literacies I learned started as a simple extracurricular activity my mother put me in to keep me out of the house and out of her hair. I started learning a literacy of dance through taking classes. At three years old I start ballet and tap combo class, from there I continued taking more classes in different styles and taking more advanced classes. By dancing for 15 years I learned and acquired extensive knowledge of the art. I started to learn and take class at Marta Jackson School of dance, I continued my training for fifteen years, until my senior year of high school. I danced on my high school dance team, at other studios, in different local productions and even in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

From the early beginning of the school year to the current day, my writing skills and knowledge have improved and broadened over time. If not drastic, the change is noticeable nevertheless. For almost an entirety of eighth grade, assignments of varying difficulty challenged me to a degree. To be frank, some seemed as though they were beyond my comprehension and ability. However, determination amalgamated with knowledge obtained in advance helped me to overcome my doubts, for I exceeded my expectations; surprisingly good grades and comments are a delight, owing to the fact of that I don’t tend to think of myself as being proficient at writing. Consequently, the assignments given to me this school year shaped me into who I am as a writer.

Prior to attending Mrs. William’s English Comp 1 class, I felt marginally confident about my writing, however, I knew I needed improvement. You visually perceive, I’ve been out of school for proximately thirty-three years and honestly, not knowing what to expect these questions arose, “Can I genuinely write”? “What type of writing will be required”? “How well will I do”? When I stepped into the classroom and gazed about the room, I felt out of my element. The students were much younger and more keenly intellective than recollections but, I was here for a reason and that was to improve my writing. During my childhood, reading was a passion of mine, reading often and reading more books than I can recollect. As I reflect, reading a great deal

All throughout my years of schooling, I’ve had just about, one paper that was about one page long, due every year. My papers never had to be more than one page in length. Therefore, I did not have to do much writing or do many essays. Surely not enough to remember any of the assignments. Writing has never been something I enjoyed doing, so I never bothered to many any memories of my writing experiences. I did not think it was necessary to remember any of them since I only had to do them to get a grade. The only writing experience I remember was the first assignment I had in this English 100 class about a writing experience. All week long, I sat there thinking about what to write about, but nothing came to mind as a topic. Then, one thing came to mind, but it was so very vague, I could not write the length that was needed for the assignment. I could only think of a few sentences to write for it. After sitting for a few moments longer, I thought, how about I write about how difficult it was for me to write this essay before it was due.

My first memory of reading or writing was being taught the alphabet at the daycare I attended in my childhood. I was in the “butterfly room” which was for children going into kindergarten the following year. I have a similar memory of my mother teaching me to write my name when I was around that same age. At some point in the years following I learned to read on my own and became more proficient in writing.