An assignment, an assignment
I was taking this subject at school (gee, how that phrase made me sound younger!), where we were assigned to narrate our journey to literacy. I thoroughly enjoyed writing my essay and thought I'd share it.
Here's hoping there might be some souls out there who'd enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed putting it into words.
Reading it twice or even thrice!
English is not my native language. We were taught to read, speak, and write it in school in tandem with our native language. It is actually a status symbol and points of pride to speak, read, and write in English. Only the rich and the well-educated speak the English language fluently. My family is neither.
My earliest memory of learning to read is in Kindergarten. I remember that day when my homeroom teacher, Mrs. D was out and our class was joined with Sir M's class. Mrs. D was a kind teacher. She's one of those portly Catholic Women's League ladies with a ready smile and always busy with church charitable activities. Sir M, on the other hand, was a tall and lanky man with curly, black hair. He was quick to yell and you can tell by the way his eyes widen and bulge out that you are in trouble and it is going to be painful. All the kids scampered out of Sir M’s way whenever he came down the hallway, lest he drag them by the ear back to their classrooms. That particular day, Sir M had us stand up in front of the class in groups of four and read out loud from the book.
“Look, Jane. Look!”
“See Spot run!”
“Look, Dick. Look!”
“See Baby walk.”
That was how my classmates chanted. I remember my face being alternately cold and hot: dread oozing out in my sweaty palms. I had to borrow a classmate's shiny, new book when it came for my group's turn to read. My group's turn to read out loud started and ended; and I never even found the right page to read from. Sir Melvin ordered the four of us to sit down and I could feel his glare boring down my head. I was sure that had I been a boy, I would have received a loud thunk in the head.
Of course, I didn't have my own copy to look over at home. My mother never thought of getting me my own copy. I never got the chance to even lay a hand on the few tattered copies lent out in school. To this day, I can still see the glossy cover and the colorful pictures in my head; I can still feel the stiff pages in my hands and smell the freshly cut paper of that borrowed book. My mother said the stupid book was ridiculously expensive but in my 6 year old mind, it was beautiful. I figured if I had the book, I need never be embarrassed or humiliated in front of the class ever again. It never entered my puny brain that I might not be able to read it. After all, it was just a matter of repeating the words after the teacher and remembering them again the next day. My classmates were able to read from it just fine, therefore I can, too. That is, given that I had the book. I guess from then on, I unconsciously equated books as life-savers. It was not a surprise, therefore, that I was never afraid of books and never considered reading a chore or a difficulty. For me, books (and by extension reading them) are opportunities for me to get out of trouble, to be admired instead of laughed at, a bridge to something better. Quite paradoxically, the experience gave me a positive initial attitude on books and reading in general.
I learned the mechanics of reading from an entirely different source: Sesame Street and its copy cat: The Electric Company. Did I say I love Bob, Maria, Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch? Watching these shows made me enjoy learning to read. Thinking back, I think I learned another skill from these shows. I learned to deduce meanings from their context. The imagery added a visual context for the words I was learning to read. Even now when I read, the words translate into three dimensional visuals in my head. Indirectly, as my reading proficiency increased through watching these TV shows, my horizons exploded. My mind can't get enough of the fact that there is a wider, better world out there beyond my little third-world backwater. And being able to read is the key to knowing about it!
I was already a voracious reader by the time I was 9 years old. I read everything I can get my hands on including school textbooks (which I read dutifully because if I don't, I'll get in trouble), encyclopedias for children, and especially comic books (which I read with much glee and enthusiasm). Nothing is off limits to me. Come to think about it, nobody really bothered to check what I was reading. I still remember perfectly that one time, when I was ten years old. There was this comic book that serializes some kind of novel and the villain mentioned a word I didn't know and couldn't deduce the meaning from the context. So comic book in hand, I looked up to my mother and asked her.
“Mom, what is a virgin? What does it mean?”
My mom's mouth opened into an “O”, her eyes narrowed into slits and I can literally see her thought processes flashing in her facial expression.
"What in the world are you reading!” she screeched out.
She then went berserk a la Molly Weasley.
“Accio comic books!”
“Accio! Accio!”
Of course, I need not tell you that the Molly Weasley part did not actually happen. I didn't need to clarify that, did I?
Simple as that, all comic books of any kind were banned in the house. I was 14 years old when I understood her hyperventilation. Ah, but by then, I was already reading Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence. My English teacher must have been mad to include that book in our reading list. Lady Chatterley’s Lover! Really, for 14 year olds? I’m sure nobody in our class got past hormone-level reading. Did I mention I never learned to judge a book by its cover (or lack of it)? Or by its subject, or by its age? Or by its thickness, or by its reputation? (Hello, Da Vinci Code!)
One of the most engaging books I had ever read was a very thick history book: Modern Times and the Living Past by Henry W. Elson. The book was my father's copy. It covered prehistoric times, ancient civilizations and up until after the First World War. Hey! Maybe when the book was published, WWI was modern? I was 12, and dead people came to life in my mind's eye. This was proof enough that with the right treatment, even the driest history became engaging. But what do I do when books simply don't engage my interest and I have to read them (with comprehension)? I read them dutifully. In this category, my textbooks on geometry and trigonometry come to mind. Dutifully I read them, all the while thinking, “Sock ‘em back to the Egyptians!” for all I care. Algebra books on the other hand were a different matter; I fell in “crush” with those equations. Hating the book never helps; it just makes reading it a chore and hence, harder. It's not the book's fault that the author failed to do it justice. My approach is to parse, and to parse, and to read more than once. After reading the last parse, I give it a pat and utter a eulogy: “I gave you my best shot!”
I am fairly convinced of one critical factor for being a successful reader: positive attitude towards reading. If one has a proper attitude towards reading, one can't help but improve one's reading level. It helps a lot especially now that I read a lot of technical articles. The right approach gets you through the driest tomes and breaks you through the layer of words to the core of the matter. It helps one see the elegance of a simply designed scientific experiment. It unearths appreciation after peeling layers of superficial meanings.
It also helped a lot that I learned to read twice in two languages: English and my native language. The process of learning to read is the same and requires the same set of skills. What I gained though, is a lot of practice. Practice necessitated a lot of skill repetition, enhancing proficiency. If the basic reading skills get ingrained early on, higher level reading such as deciphering contextual meanings and comprehending different layers of interpretation can ensue. But all of these become moot if the positive attitude towards reading isn't established early. A negative attitude towards reading is a huge stumbling block, halting all progress, all but chaining the reader to a single level of reading - superficial and perfunctory. A negative attitude towards reading precludes enjoyment and appreciation. It therefore behooves the teacher to do a very careful consideration when they come up with lists of reading materials. And that brings me back to Lady Chatterley's Lover. For the record, while I know now that there were wider issues engendered by the book, I still think that Lady Chatterley’s Lover was and is literati smut, albeit written in masterful metaphors and scorching similes. That is my opinion, so bite me. On second thought, don’t. I just might sparkle under the sun.
Did I already mention that I love to read?
Writing, on the other hand is not so familiar to me. I have no concrete recollection of how exactly I learned to write. I am not referring to the mechanics of translating the enunciated word to written symbols, but rather to the process of expressing and making oneself understood through the written medium. I’d say writing is like singing. Anybody can do it, just don’t ask how good or how bad. Writing is a skill and just like with any skill, it requires practice. And just like singing, one can be decent at it with practice. I am not really sure that practice makes perfect but I am sure it makes one better at whatever one is practicing. With creative writing at school and all the technical writing I do at work, I’d say I’ve had a lot of practice over the years. So, am I a good writer?
Yeah, remember I said, “Don’t ask.”?
Hope it brought a little smile, especially to teachers!
Here's hoping there might be some souls out there who'd enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed putting it into words.
Reading it twice or even thrice!
English is not my native language. We were taught to read, speak, and write it in school in tandem with our native language. It is actually a status symbol and points of pride to speak, read, and write in English. Only the rich and the well-educated speak the English language fluently. My family is neither.
My earliest memory of learning to read is in Kindergarten. I remember that day when my homeroom teacher, Mrs. D was out and our class was joined with Sir M's class. Mrs. D was a kind teacher. She's one of those portly Catholic Women's League ladies with a ready smile and always busy with church charitable activities. Sir M, on the other hand, was a tall and lanky man with curly, black hair. He was quick to yell and you can tell by the way his eyes widen and bulge out that you are in trouble and it is going to be painful. All the kids scampered out of Sir M’s way whenever he came down the hallway, lest he drag them by the ear back to their classrooms. That particular day, Sir M had us stand up in front of the class in groups of four and read out loud from the book.
“Look, Jane. Look!”
“See Spot run!”
“Look, Dick. Look!”
“See Baby walk.”
That was how my classmates chanted. I remember my face being alternately cold and hot: dread oozing out in my sweaty palms. I had to borrow a classmate's shiny, new book when it came for my group's turn to read. My group's turn to read out loud started and ended; and I never even found the right page to read from. Sir Melvin ordered the four of us to sit down and I could feel his glare boring down my head. I was sure that had I been a boy, I would have received a loud thunk in the head.
Of course, I didn't have my own copy to look over at home. My mother never thought of getting me my own copy. I never got the chance to even lay a hand on the few tattered copies lent out in school. To this day, I can still see the glossy cover and the colorful pictures in my head; I can still feel the stiff pages in my hands and smell the freshly cut paper of that borrowed book. My mother said the stupid book was ridiculously expensive but in my 6 year old mind, it was beautiful. I figured if I had the book, I need never be embarrassed or humiliated in front of the class ever again. It never entered my puny brain that I might not be able to read it. After all, it was just a matter of repeating the words after the teacher and remembering them again the next day. My classmates were able to read from it just fine, therefore I can, too. That is, given that I had the book. I guess from then on, I unconsciously equated books as life-savers. It was not a surprise, therefore, that I was never afraid of books and never considered reading a chore or a difficulty. For me, books (and by extension reading them) are opportunities for me to get out of trouble, to be admired instead of laughed at, a bridge to something better. Quite paradoxically, the experience gave me a positive initial attitude on books and reading in general.
I learned the mechanics of reading from an entirely different source: Sesame Street and its copy cat: The Electric Company. Did I say I love Bob, Maria, Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch? Watching these shows made me enjoy learning to read. Thinking back, I think I learned another skill from these shows. I learned to deduce meanings from their context. The imagery added a visual context for the words I was learning to read. Even now when I read, the words translate into three dimensional visuals in my head. Indirectly, as my reading proficiency increased through watching these TV shows, my horizons exploded. My mind can't get enough of the fact that there is a wider, better world out there beyond my little third-world backwater. And being able to read is the key to knowing about it!
I was already a voracious reader by the time I was 9 years old. I read everything I can get my hands on including school textbooks (which I read dutifully because if I don't, I'll get in trouble), encyclopedias for children, and especially comic books (which I read with much glee and enthusiasm). Nothing is off limits to me. Come to think about it, nobody really bothered to check what I was reading. I still remember perfectly that one time, when I was ten years old. There was this comic book that serializes some kind of novel and the villain mentioned a word I didn't know and couldn't deduce the meaning from the context. So comic book in hand, I looked up to my mother and asked her.
“Mom, what is a virgin? What does it mean?”
My mom's mouth opened into an “O”, her eyes narrowed into slits and I can literally see her thought processes flashing in her facial expression.
"What in the world are you reading!” she screeched out.
She then went berserk a la Molly Weasley.
“Accio comic books!”
“Accio! Accio!”
Of course, I need not tell you that the Molly Weasley part did not actually happen. I didn't need to clarify that, did I?
Simple as that, all comic books of any kind were banned in the house. I was 14 years old when I understood her hyperventilation. Ah, but by then, I was already reading Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence. My English teacher must have been mad to include that book in our reading list. Lady Chatterley’s Lover! Really, for 14 year olds? I’m sure nobody in our class got past hormone-level reading. Did I mention I never learned to judge a book by its cover (or lack of it)? Or by its subject, or by its age? Or by its thickness, or by its reputation? (Hello, Da Vinci Code!)
One of the most engaging books I had ever read was a very thick history book: Modern Times and the Living Past by Henry W. Elson. The book was my father's copy. It covered prehistoric times, ancient civilizations and up until after the First World War. Hey! Maybe when the book was published, WWI was modern? I was 12, and dead people came to life in my mind's eye. This was proof enough that with the right treatment, even the driest history became engaging. But what do I do when books simply don't engage my interest and I have to read them (with comprehension)? I read them dutifully. In this category, my textbooks on geometry and trigonometry come to mind. Dutifully I read them, all the while thinking, “Sock ‘em back to the Egyptians!” for all I care. Algebra books on the other hand were a different matter; I fell in “crush” with those equations. Hating the book never helps; it just makes reading it a chore and hence, harder. It's not the book's fault that the author failed to do it justice. My approach is to parse, and to parse, and to read more than once. After reading the last parse, I give it a pat and utter a eulogy: “I gave you my best shot!”
I am fairly convinced of one critical factor for being a successful reader: positive attitude towards reading. If one has a proper attitude towards reading, one can't help but improve one's reading level. It helps a lot especially now that I read a lot of technical articles. The right approach gets you through the driest tomes and breaks you through the layer of words to the core of the matter. It helps one see the elegance of a simply designed scientific experiment. It unearths appreciation after peeling layers of superficial meanings.
It also helped a lot that I learned to read twice in two languages: English and my native language. The process of learning to read is the same and requires the same set of skills. What I gained though, is a lot of practice. Practice necessitated a lot of skill repetition, enhancing proficiency. If the basic reading skills get ingrained early on, higher level reading such as deciphering contextual meanings and comprehending different layers of interpretation can ensue. But all of these become moot if the positive attitude towards reading isn't established early. A negative attitude towards reading is a huge stumbling block, halting all progress, all but chaining the reader to a single level of reading - superficial and perfunctory. A negative attitude towards reading precludes enjoyment and appreciation. It therefore behooves the teacher to do a very careful consideration when they come up with lists of reading materials. And that brings me back to Lady Chatterley's Lover. For the record, while I know now that there were wider issues engendered by the book, I still think that Lady Chatterley’s Lover was and is literati smut, albeit written in masterful metaphors and scorching similes. That is my opinion, so bite me. On second thought, don’t. I just might sparkle under the sun.
Did I already mention that I love to read?
Writing, on the other hand is not so familiar to me. I have no concrete recollection of how exactly I learned to write. I am not referring to the mechanics of translating the enunciated word to written symbols, but rather to the process of expressing and making oneself understood through the written medium. I’d say writing is like singing. Anybody can do it, just don’t ask how good or how bad. Writing is a skill and just like with any skill, it requires practice. And just like singing, one can be decent at it with practice. I am not really sure that practice makes perfect but I am sure it makes one better at whatever one is practicing. With creative writing at school and all the technical writing I do at work, I’d say I’ve had a lot of practice over the years. So, am I a good writer?
Yeah, remember I said, “Don’t ask.”?
Hope it brought a little smile, especially to teachers!