Every nauseatingly cringey phase of my life has contributed to building who I am now. 

Yes, even the 8-year-old who screamed and giggled when the Ninjago theme song played.

Yes, even the girl with the anime fan page on Instagram.

Yes, even the 2020 discord-attached wannabe animator trying to mimic her YouTube idols.

Little 8-year-old me who was obsessed with Ninjago was just the beginning. From there, she developed an obsession with cartoons and animation (as any little kid would). I discovered my passion for drawing and creating in the 2-d space with paper and pencil. I absolutely fell in love with it.But I got tired of waiting for Thursdays 5-6 pm central time. I took this newfound love and used it to create my own characters in Ninjago. I designed new outfits, wrote new storylines, and created copious amounts of severely embarrassing comic strips. I flip back on these sketchbooks with barely distinguishable characters with a mix of wild discomfort and gentle nostalgia. But they remind me where my creative roots stemmed from. 

As I grew older, I was exposed to even more media. This meant more cartoons. I became obsessed with anime (I did not enjoy writing that admission), and this obsession led to an entire Instagram account dedicated to my favorite character (who I will never disclose). As much as I want to bury and trample this part of my adolescent experience, reflection allows me to see what I took away from my awkward fangirl behavior. This account led me to find other accounts, people that I would soon become good friends with. 

I was a 6th grader disguised as a 16-year-old in a group chat of individuals from 11-18. Hindsight, that was mad sketchy. As I’m reflecting and writing about it I’m realizing how lucky I am to have met people who were genuinely good. The internet is self-aware. Everyone knows there are creeps and sketchy people, but once true connections are established, we always look out for each other. Growing up with half of my social life on the internet led me to exposure to mature issues rather quickly. The exposure to these issues-  spectating as others ranted and gave advice- provided me with experience second-hand. I began recognizing these universal struggles, and I learned how to cope with them despite not having yet experienced them personally.  

Most recently, as the pandemic hit full swing and our school went online, so did a lot of my social life. I became re-obsessed with YouTube. So much so, that as I watched a YouTube channel crash and burn with the drama of the internet, I scrambled with the rest of the viewer base to fill the content gap. I turned to Reddit to stay caught up with the drama (yikes I don’t want to talk about Reddit’s reputation). When I saw a “casting call” to create content in an online group, I pounced. 

I found myself thrust into a group of animators and editors from New York to Thailand as we shared awkward conversations over tinny Discord calls and bonded over laggy game servers. Eventually, we all became really good friends, and we started working to put out content. At some point, the original leader of the project left, and I became the new manager. Although it didn’t feel like it at the moment, through this experience, I learned how to lead others. I learned how to organize deadlines, how communicate through conflict, and plan events. 

As easy as it can be to dismiss online friendships, the ability to connect and listen to the stories of the people who share the same (potentially silly seeming) passions as me has allowed me to gain a wider view of the world. Playing Valorant at 4 am with virtual strangers in Belgium, Colorado, and California, may not have benefitted my Honors Biology grade, but the stories told and advice shared in these calls are ones that I will likely hold onto for many years to come. 

All of these versions of me have built onto the other. I cringe and cover my eyes looking back at the past versions of me, but I love each one of them for the skills and experiences that they’ve given me. 

My earliest reading memories are scattered fragments of a disassembled puzzle. Writing this narrative kind of feels like shaking the box as more puzzle pieces tumble into view for me to put together.
~

I used to think that the Berenstain Bears Series was printed from the printer sitting out of my reach in my dad’s office. Almost every night, before tucking my brother and me away to bed, he would pull out a new installment of the series from a box out of my reach. My whole family would crawl into my parent’s bed to read about the adventures of a family of bears, vaguely reflecting our own. I viewed new books as treats, and I rapidly ate through them. Literally. There is a Peter Rabbit book sitting in the box in the corner of my room with a missing chunk. And to be honest, I can’t quite tell if that tear is truly the work of my 4-year-old mouth or if my mom planted that memory in my head. My earliest memories of reading are deeply interwoven with my family. My parents encouraged me to read as much as I could, and I often tried to read books to my little brother. My reading history did not consist of my parents forcing me to read more, or using books as a punishment. After reflecting, I’m realizing that the intentionally pleasant memories associated with reading were the baseline of my growing love of literature. A piece of my literary love life was put into the puzzle.

As I matured, so did the level of books my parents wanted me to read. In 3rd grade, my dad encouraged me to read Lord of the Flies. Along with the book, my dad gave me a pocket Webster’s Dictionary. It had a neon pink cover, so I loved it. I remember my dad quizzing 

me on what the word “coarse” meant in the book. Upon being unable to describe it, I used the dictionary for the first time, reciting my A-B-C’s as I searched for the word. I was fascinated by the way that this little book contained so much new knowledge.

 Eager to get ahead and live up to my “gifted child” stereotype endowed to me by my teachers, I began scouring the dictionary, trying to gain as much verbal background as I could. My love of words and the ability to concisely verbalize my thoughts and feelings was founded. Another piece was added to my literary journey puzzle.

Of course, I was not the only reader I knew. As reading became more and more popular among my peers, we began sharing book recommendations. From the bandwagon, I picked up books like Harry Potter and Percy Jackson. I tore through them. I started using books as a form of escapism. I found myself giggling at inked words on a paper page. I watched my teardrops leave wrinkly stains in library books. Completely investing myself in the stories written by others opened my eyes to a broader variety of people in the world. Though fictional, reading from the perspectives of these characters allowed me to practice empathy, developing my inclination to understand others. Yet another piece of my puzzle was put together.

Most recently, I discovered my love for reading as a vehicle for learning more about the world around me. In quarantine I figured, if I loved connecting and empathizing with people and characters, why not learn more about the science of how the mind worked? And so, I picked up my first fully voluntary nonfiction book, The Happiness Hypothesis. I was enamored with how much I learned, and I was pleasantly surprised to find how much I loved learning in this way. My past experiences with nonfiction were excerpts of droning scientific or historical papers, textbooks, and biographies (I did not yet have an appreciation for these works, and to be quite honest, I still find myself struggling to get through some assigned pieces). Admittedly, my love for nonfiction was also encouraged by my AP Biology textbook, but that feels kind of embarrassing to think about. Reading restored my love for learning after an especially demotivating year of e-school. My most recent puzzle piece fit into place.

My literary puzzle is definitely still missing pieces. But as I continue to learn and read, I will continue to piece together the picture of my growth with literature.