Like every other kid, I had a lot of fears when I was little. Spiders, heights, the dark- pretty much everything. But, I also had a couple fears that were not so typical, like movie theaters, Flat Stanley, and large pools of lava. My siblings would make fun of me, chasing me around the house with our well-read copy of Flat Stanley, and they would roll their eyes when I refused to go to the movie theater. Even though I’ve mostly grown out of these fears, I’ve realized that a small part of them still lives in me in a  more “adult” and real form. 

Unlike most of my phobias, such as spiders or needles, my distaste for movie theaters was more along the lines of a definitional fear, because it had a distinctive beginning. I know exactly when it began, and exactly why I was scared. The exodus was all the news reports I would see of movie theaters and shootings. Every time the lights went down, I would tense and every time a shadowy figure would walk in, late to the showing, I would immediately look to the exits. The only times I was completely 

comfortable going to the theater was when my uncle would come, because I found solace in the fact he was a cop. My parents and siblings thought that I was scared because of the movie that we were seeing or because it was dark- but it was out of fear that something would happen to us. I don’t know why I never told them why I was truly scared, and I let them believe that the loud noise scared me. The dark, movie, or sound was what made me jump- it was always the shadowy figures that would walk in and out of the theater to get refills or go to the bathroom. It’s funny to look back and say, “oh yeah, I was scared of movie theaters when I was little”, but a little part of me still is, because I will always be scared of the worst possible. It’s still a part of who I am today, and I often find myself fast-walking to my car when alone in the dark or looking over my shoulder in large crowds. 

My fears of lava and Flat Stanley are a little bit less rational, and a lot less developed. There is no clear-cut beginning or ending, making them a more traditional “childhood fear”. The Flat Stanley books didn’t scare me, but I had recurring nightmares that a burglar, flat like a piece of paper, was robbing my house. Admittedly, it is very strange. It was even strange to me when I would wake up scared, but I simply couldn’t help it. My fear of lava was also strange- I had recurring nightmares that I would be forced to jump in a pool of lava, off a diving board. I have no idea when or why these fears took root, but all I know is that they were simply frightening. My sister would laugh at me and tell me to go to sleep when I would come into her room, and eventually, I listened to her and grew out of the phase. Looking back, however, maybe these childhood fears were a part of something more, bourne out 

of more “adult” fears, such as the terror of being kidnapped or separated from my family. It’s interesting how these normal fears manifested in such weird ways when I was younger. Even though I say I’ve definitely grown out of being scared of a fictional character or a natural phenomenon that is non-existent in Illinois, the core of what I was really afraid of still remains, and I still get nervous when somebody rings the doorbell when I am home alone or when my parents don’t communicate that they are coming home late. 

I like to think that I am a lot more mature and rational than I was when I was younger, and for the most part, it’s probably true. I go to movie theaters often, and I haven’t heard about flattened robbers or pools of lava in years. However, the essence of my fears, no matter how fantastical they appeared at the time, are still a part of who I am, but they are just more refined in form. It’s funny how that works- who we are when we are young is a lot of who we are today. There must be some sort of physiological explanation, but maybe no matter how much we age and change, the pith of who we truly are is timeless. 

 

 

My very first memory of reading takes place at my family’s old dining room table. I sat at the end, my mom next to me, going over simple words and sentences from a large brown learning-to-read sack that she had checked out from the library. I was probably four at the time, whereas my older brother and sister were nine and eight, so naturally, they were laughing at my inability to read. I remember the way I would purposefully misread the sentence ‘the cow jumped over the moon’, just to hear my siblings laugh, and the way my mom would frustratedly correct me. Looking back, I realize that my most prominent reading memories, just like this one, are simultaneously family memories, displaying how the very skill of reading, an ability I often take for granted, tells a story of history and progress. 

Growing up with an English professor and published poet for a dad, I was always surrounded by books and writing. I remember countless nights where the sound of typing accompanied the sound of my tv show or the many times I would come downstairs late at night for a drink of water, only to find my dad flipping through a thick book or writing in the margins of his students’ papers. Out of my siblings, I was the only one to inherit his draw for reading, which was something I always took pride in. Until I was in eighth grade, my mom, brother, sister and I lived in Naperville while my dad worked at Hope College in Holland, Michigan. 

I was constantly missing my dad, which was why I read so much throughout elementary and middle school- to feel connected to him because I knew it was something that he loved to do. I also enjoyed reading for the stories it would tell, but I always took pride in the fact that I liked reading, just like my dad. 

Reading and writing were both skills that came relatively easy to me, but as I got older, I realized that wasn’t the case for everybody. My brother was not always a good reader or writer, and it is still something he struggles with due to his autism. Jonathan went from a boy not able to talk in full sentences until he was seven to a senior at UIUC, and his ability to write essays and comprehend books is a huge triumph, significant of his grit, determination, and hard work. Jonathan’s literacy shows progress and tells a story of success.

My journey as a reader is inexplicably connected with memories with my family, telling our narrative of history, leading to where we are today. I never saw my grandfather read a book in English- except for one time. He would always read his books in Korean, vertically skimming the pages. It blows my mind that

somebody who is so smart in their language would come across as unintelligent in another language, constantly on the receiving end of mockery and jabs. One of my most formative reading memories is slowly getting through the children’s book Pinkalicious, sounding out each unfamiliar word together. The ide a that my grandfather abandoned his native language to learn to read in an unfamiliar one reflects his lifetime of sacrifice. It is because of him, his journey to America, leaving behind a successful architectural career to run a dry-cleaning store that my brother was able to learn how to read. It was because of his sacrifice that my dad was able to go to college and become an English professor, subsequently fostering my love for reading, allowing me to write this literacy narrative. 

My beliefs towards reading and writing have been shaped by my family and their journeys. My literacy narrative is made possible and has been formed by their literacy narratives, making reading much more than words on a page, instead telling the story of history and progress.