Personal Narrative: Learning To Read And Write

Books were like a chore to me. I preferred to be outside playing with my friends, then cooped inside the house reading a book

In all honesty, I don't remember a lot about becoming literate. I didn't have a special moment or time when I knew that reading or writing going to take me somewhere. According to my mom she started to read to me when I was one, so there wasn't anything that could've excelled me much farther before going into kindergarten. One of the requirements in elementary school was to read every night which I believe was an important factor of me improving my literacy. Reading and writing used to me excite me because I would immerse myself into a book or write a whole new universe on a page. I made reading and writing something personal to me. I now realize that every book and every piece of writing can be worthwhile in one way or another.

Let me tell you how I became the reader and writer I am today. The early memories I have of reading are back in preschool and early elementary. I used to love to read and especially with my mom at home! Every night, we would end our day with a couple chapters in a book. She would read some to me then I would read some to her. She would usually end up reading most of it. At the end of every book I would ask her if I could read the last paragraph. There was just something I loved about getting the last words in. I had to read it absolutely perfectly and wouldn’t be satisfied if I messed up. If I did I would reread it until I nailed it. Every year that MOE had the book fair it always got me excited. It was one of my favorite days by far. I remember

I went to a relatively large public school and getting a high score amongst the entire 8th grade class truly felt like an accomplishment. Writing gave me an indescribable sense of fulfillment and I aspired to become an author, journalist, writer, or anything in that essence. However, once I reached high school by some means it all changed. I began drifting away from my once exceptionally hopeful dreams. The wrong crowd became my crowd and school just didn’t seem as significant anymore. Though, in spite of everything, I continued to write poems about my life and things I had witnessed, as well as things I felt strongly about. In addition, I also tried to keep up with writing in my journals. But one day, I put the pen down and never picked it back up again. Now, at 29 years old, I constantly wonder what could have been if I had never discontinued writing. It’s been over a decade since I’ve actually written for pure personal gratification like I used to. Although I sometimes enjoy writing assignments I am given in college, the flow and creativity that was once so easily attainable does not come as naturally to me any

I was sitting at my desk my in the second grade class. It was a regular day just like any other day. With the regular teacher, the regular lessons, the regular student, and the regular words the students said. They would never talk about what the teacher wanted us to talk about but what second grader does? They would talk about movies they watched recently and music they were into that day. But what happened when they learned that I watched a different movie? What happened when I didn't like the music they did? What happened when I had my own ideas and didn't blindly follow whatever they thought was cool like a trained puppy? I was stupid. I was dumb. I couldn't function like a normal person. I would never be important. No one would ever like

I’ve been reading as long as I can remember. The person who taught me how to read was my mother, I remember her making sure I knew how to read and write my name before I started preschool. After that point, I would read anything I could get my hands on that was my level. I also wrote, but not as much as I read. Magazines, the backs of cereal boxes, even the little books my mom would buy me. I remember my mom telling me “stop writing in your books, you’ll ruin them,” after that, I made sure to keep a pencil and paper with me in case I felt like I wanted to write.

My first thought about writing is dreadful, writing does not come natural for me is hard to focus on a main theme and then tried to expand on it. So for me writing would be the sooner I can finish the faster I can get it over with. However writing has also improved many of my lacking skills. I learn how to shape the body for writing, creating an outline and different ways on brainstorming. I still need a lot of help improving or developing writing skills. Also taking a few of writing classes has even improved any basic writing work I do, I improve my resume, referral letters also I can say that my communication has improved.

I have been reading and writing for as long as I can remember. I always enjoyed reading and writing stories, even when I wasn’t in school. While reading had never been much of a struggle, I always had a hard time writing my thoughts down on paper the way that I wanted. The earliest recollections I have of myself learning to read is when I was about five years old. My mother wasn’t there when I started to learn how to read. She was deployed in Iraq at the time and I would read to her over the phone every time I got the chance. Another memory I have of my road to literacy is when I was in the first grade. Once or twice a week, we would take out our writing notebooks and write about whatever we wanted. I would usually write about what I did

I am finding that I have more skill at writing than I had realized. Considering I have always felt that I am terrible at portraying myself and what is in my head, this has come as quite the pleasing surprise. Maybe it is the fact that this is my third attempt at Composition, maybe it’s just growth in general. Either way I am adapting and seeing the possibilities of what my skills may become.

My sisters and I were huddled around our father, impatiently waiting for the resolution of the previous night's cliffhanger. It was a cold winter night, and we were beginning our nightly tradition of reading a chapter of our favorite book series, The Hardy Boys. The dog was snoring lightly in the corner, the grandfather clock signaled the beginning of a new hour, and our mother was in the rocking chair, rocking gently, just as curious as we were. My father scratched his beard and then began to weave a story of mystery and wonder. As the words surged forth from his mouth, satisfying our curiosity, I was left wondering if I’d ever be able to discover these adventures by myself. This would be the first step to literacy.

I began to write narratives in the ninth grade. I was reading a lot more about the experiences of others, and felt that I should write more about what I care about most. I began writing letters to my parents on their birthdays each year, something I still do today.

Ever since I was in ninth grade, I leaned towards writing subjects naturally. They always appealed to me because it was a medium to express thought and feeling. Most importantly, writing classes would allow you to tell a story, which for me, is the funnest. No matter what the medium may be, stories are always something appealing to me. In ninth grade, I knew no one but at least people had a story to tell. They were one of the most appealing stories I had heard. One classmate explained how she had to overcome autism and often times, she was looked down on. Another classmate told us how he had to live with an alcoholic father who is in prison for murder. No matter what the story may be, I am always entertained and no matter what, I always get something out of them.

My interest in reading and writing has been shifting over the years. I remember when I was a child, my little brother Ron and I stayed overnight with Grandma many times which located two hours away from where we live. All along the way, as my dad drove us to Grandma’s house, Ron and I bounced up and down on the back seat of the car and sang “Let’s go to Grandma’s house! Let’s go to Grandma’s house!”. My grandma had a very interesting personality. She had an old book from which she picked the stories, and every time she was home she could take us both to bed and narrate to us fascinating stories until we fell asleep. I could find myself creating imaginary scenes of the stories she told

We live in a world where it is expected that a woman is an independent being outside of her man. While I mostly agree with that, it doesn’t mean I’m going to give him up to finish up my schooling.

It was always there, in the back of my head. I knew, but I never really thought much about it. Plus, at that point, I never knew so many people would have such strong opinions on the way you live your life, which made it a little easier to keep it in the back of my head. Then, one night, during Survivor, two guys kissed. I had no problem with it, but my parents both responded, in unison, “Eww!” That's when it all began. My little adventure in closet cleaning.