It was a common occurrence. My dad would chase me around the house with a math workbook, and I would repeatedly dart away at the sight of it and hide under a table. Eventually, he would catch me and usher me to learn. I would sulk. I was not a straightforward child to teach. I would turn my nose up at things that failed to captivate my attention. It took a great deal of convincing and bribing to get me to consider doing something I did not want to do. Many assumed this was because I was unable to do it. That couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, when I was forced to, I excelled. The reality of the matter was, I just found no purpose or excitement in mundane, logical activities such as math. 

When forced to sit still in a classroom setting, my mind still continued to run. I found comfort in this fact. Despite being physically unable to leave, my mind was essentially untouchable by anyone. Often, I would completely lose track of time; I would get whisked into an intricate daydream, and before I knew it, the bell would ring, and class would be over. I was not a lazy child by any means. I would begrudgingly complete my work as fast as possible. The less time I had to spend in a painfully logical and structured frame of mind, the better. The society we live in today places a significant amount of emphasis on one’s ability to think analytically. The careers that are the most highly regarded, are the ones that are based on analytical principles. Reminders of this reality haunted me everywhere; in order to truly succeed, I needed to force myself to have a mindset that felt unnatural. I felt as if I was being forced to write with my left hand; the hand I wanted to use was my right.

It became increasingly obvious to me that my thoughts were supposed to follow a certain format. I was supposed to think in structured patterns, as opposed to in random flares. The three words “show your work” made me huff in irritation each time I saw them. I could solve the problems, yes; but the answers came to me in unorganized bursts, as opposed to in a systematic and orderly way. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t complete tasks the way that I wanted to. Why was the way that I thought, perceived as unstructured, when I was producing the same output as someone who completed the task in an “organized”  manner?

The way I thought was abstract and dreamlike. With it, came a fervent desire to avoid the real world and the rationality that came with it. However, I was repeatedly reminded that I needed to conform to the structure that was being imposed on me. The thought of it made me recoil. For a long time, I stubbornly refused to complete tasks in the way that I was expected to. I believed that if I simply avoided the constant mold that everyone was trying to place on me, I could maintain my originality while also operating within my small bubble of comfort. 

If my past self were to have a conversation with my present self, she would groan in disappointment at the way my perception of this very issue has altered over time. I still find myself sighing in annoyance when I’m bound by the prison of logic, however, I find that I’ve made a strange sort of compromise with the world around me. The ability to think the way I’m “supposed” to think has been hammered into me for a long time, and while I possess the capability to switch to that mentality more easily than when I was younger, it still feels slightly strained. 

I would not say that my thinking has conformed to the desired mold of society. I would say, however, that I’ve made my own mold for myself that coexists with that of the world around me. The present and past versions of myself may disagree about a variety of things, but every version of me can confirm that life is significantly more enjoyable when it is guided by wonder and possibility, as opposed to mundane practicality and rigid analysis. 

Growing up, I had always had an active imagination. As soon as I could formulate coherent thoughts, I would find myself creating vivid scenarios in my head and acting them out when I would play with my family and friends. As such, it’s no surprise that as soon as I learned how to read, I would bury myself in books for hours on end, completely immersing myself in the fantastic world that existed within the pages of a text. My earliest memories of reading consist of my mother reading bedtime stories to me from a large, tattered book with hundreds of short fairy tales. The book had belonged to her once upon a time, then my brother, and now it belonged to me. The voice of my poor mother would become hoarse upon reading me so many stories from that book. When she would state that my reading time was done and that it was time to go to sleep, I would whine and protest for just one more story. As I grew older, I no longer enjoyed being read to; I much preferred reading a text at my own pace, as it allowed me to take my time to visualize a written scenario. I would often find myself reading a sentence over and over again, just to make sure my mental image was an accurate reflection of the text. It was around second grade that I would find myself begging my grandmother to take me to the library to check out new books. My grandmother herself was an English teacher, and I believe a large part of my love for reading comes from her. She would never rush me or ask questions as I would carefully select which books I wanted to check out from the library that week. She would, however, often engage in mild competitions with me to see who could read more books that week, me or her. She almost always won.

As time progressed, my teachers began placing a significant emphasis on the importance of proper reading and writing. Toward the end of elementary school, I was placed into an enriched reading program that allowed me to explore my literacy in a variety of new ways. My teacher for this course, Mr. Poe, always encouraged me to write stories and to use my imagination to produce creative pieces. If not for the motivation I received from Mr. Poe, I would not have recognized that I loved writing. I loved writing stories almost as much as I loved reading them. At the time, I was still young and did not have access to a personal computer. I would bring a flash drive to school each day and utilize the school desktop computers to write my stories. When I now reread the stories that I had written as a child, I cringe at the grammatical errors and obnoxious formatting. However, I’ve never once cringed at the plotlines I had been attempting to articulate. I still enjoy writing stories and I find it satisfying to observe the subtle evolution of my writing throughout the years.

While I notice that my writing style has certainly changed a significant amount throughout the years, I find that my reading habits have remained essentially the same. As a child, I enjoyed reading books that were filled with mystery and suspense. I loved books with convoluted plot lines that would force me to put down the book for a moment to think. To this day, I still love these kinds of books. Having moved from my childhood home, my family no longer has a library membership. I now purchase my books. I fill them with my written notes and reactions at each scene, and when I have finished reading them, I line them along my bookshelf with the numerous other texts that reside there. My mother never nags me about my expenditure on books, in fact, she wholeheartedly encourages it. I’ve found that regardless of how much time passes by, I will always be enthralled by the simple activity of opening a book and immersing myself in another world.