9/9/2023
Blog 1: Literary Narrative
It was the middle of summer, and although I cannot remember what year exactly, I vividly
remember the slightly torn-up copy of Geronimo Stilton that accompanied me in the backyard.
Typically, I would read alone, but this time it was different. My uncle from China was over and I
jumped at the opportunity to showcase my abilities. Since I only ever saw him periodically, living
on opposite ends of the world, I felt the pressure to perform. I flew through the first couple of
pages effortlessly, impressing myself with my own speed – a key evaluation for smartness in my
mind back then. However, when I finished, he unexpectedly asked me what it was about.
Evidently caught off guard, I furiously flipped through pages looking for my answer. It did not
come. The whole time I had been “reading” for the sake of reading aloud, but never took the
time or thought to comprehend what I was reading.
Throughout my years in kindergarten and early elementary school, I began to read more;
oftentimes at the “suggestion” of my parents which felt more like a command. As I slowly grew
out of picture books and comics, I was met with books which contained a sea of words, which
on the surface showed no sign of a great adventure as promised. Unsurprisingly, I drowned. I
was often told by parents and teachers that I would jump across lines or reread the same line
without noticing and lacked comprehension abilities as reflected in the classroom and
standardized test scores. As a child, it was evidently demoralizing. I could never feel the same
magic in reading as I could in sports or the imaginary scenarios created with friends. Reading
increasingly felt like a chore, a punishment to counterbalance the fun of sports, friends, and TV.
Before heading off to play soccer with friends or swim in the summer, I was confronted with the
question “have you read your 20 pages?” If the answer was no, being most of the time, my
chances of doing whatever I wanted were slim. Reading created a set of boundaries and
unspoken requirements that for long held influence over my life.
Undoubtedly, reading and writing is an integral skill to keep up academically and in life; this I
never doubted. However, growing up with a forced relationship with reading, I never truly
applied myself during our elementary school reading logs or middle school seminars. Naturally, I
fell behind. I tried justifying my shortcomings with the fact that I had never been taught to read
the right way, but truthfully all it was, was a lazy excuse for my ignorance. It was never the issue
with adults or classmates around me, frankly I just always felt I had something better to do, the
fact that I was bad at reading did not help either.
Others around me always say, “I used to love to read”. In my mind I can only attribute such a fall
off to the work of our school system. It is not saying our system is wrong, but just set up for
failure. As soon as performance metrics such as grades are instituted, it throws off the fragile
balance between a choice and job to read.
In hindsight, I found my struggles as a child, not to be a skill issue, but rather a twisted
underlying motive behind reading that I had developed. Though I have gotten better at reading
and writing, I still rarely feel that I read for fun or just for the sake of reading. I feel required to
find an application in what I am reading, with the underlying motivation being my practical
benefit. When I read or write for school, I don’t feel accomplished, but rather relieved – not in a
relaxing way. It creates this strained yet dependent relationship with reading that dates back to
me as a child.