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.
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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.