Narrative Essay Example: The Journey to Literacy

Whoever said “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me” must not have known the power that a singular word can have. Words can be formidable and daunting, and gentle and soothing, and so much more. For me, words were the perfect way for me to explore myself and the world around me, whether it was reading a book or writing out how I felt. The problem was that I had no idea how to foster those literacy skills. There’s been many times in my life where I felt like giving up, especially in my academic life. But after many struggles, notable triumphs, and unforgettable mentors, I am proud to say with full confidence that I am a literary scholar.

Being homeschool for the first few years of my life gave me a unique perspective on reading and writing than if I had gone to a preschool or kindergarten in a public school. Not just because of the social aspect, but also because of how I would’ve been taught and how I would’ve learned in public school. Since my brother was a grade above me, my mom taught him the kindergarten curriculum first. I was allowed to play around the house on my own. But life gets dull when your only playmate and friend gets pulled into class. Back then, I always wanted to do whatever my older brother was doing, so I discarded the opportunity to have fun by myself to hover outside the doorway of the rec room and listen to my mom teach the alphabet, phonics, and the like. I envied that my brother was starting his education and I wasn’t; I felt like I was left in the dark while he was invited on some kind of journey to pursue a treasure. I didn’t like being left behind, so I grabbed my brother’s Leapfrog Phonics Writing Desk and sat down to learn my first word: “cat.” It was more difficult than I thought it would be, especially without the aid of a teacher. I hadn’t even fully grasped the concept of the alphabet, yet I was trying to teach myself three-letter words. I was forbidden from entering the classroom/rec room whenever my mom was teaching, so I didn’t go asking her for help. “Self-sufficiency is enough for me,”  I thought as I fought back tears of frustration and embarrassment while trying to make sense of how the cutting sound of /c/ blended into the short /a/, the short /a/ into the cymbal-like sound of the /t/. I traced and retraced the letters over and over again with my little stubby fingers. “C-A-T, C-A-T, C-A-T.” I sounded it out religiously. I was able to learn that word and a couple others in one sitting, but it felt like an eternity had passed before I was able to move on from my first word. Perhaps that’s the reason why this moment is so memorable. I could never forget how I learned my first word.

And although my earliest memory of reading may have been born of vexation, the memories that followed suit were not. My joy of reading was quickly formed ever since my dad started reading Bible stories and children’s books to me. My dad has a silver tongue when it comes to storytelling and can make any dull scenario fascinating. He would read in dramatic voices and add in sound effects to hold his kids’ attention. I don’t remember a time when my brother or I got bored or distracted while he was reading; that’s how captivated we were. In a way, we saw the heroes from the stories in our dad. It was fun to listen, but in those moments I practiced reading, too. I emulated the sounds that came out of my dad’s mouth and figured out which sounds matched the words on the page. Eventually, I was able to read along somewhat and generally understand what was going on without having to rely on my dad’s voice. This was my first learning environment that I could genuinely feel comfortable and secure in. My dad might not know it, but he was my first ever literacy sponsor.

I can’t think of a more clear example of my dad being my first teacher than when I learned one of my favorite Bible verses of all time: “For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’” A keychain with this verse, Jeremiah 29:11, was given to me as a gift from my parents’ mission coworkers. I was grateful to receive something, but I couldn’t really enjoy having something that I could hardly read. So when my dad came home that particular afternoon, he was the first person I ran to for help. I asked him, “Daddy, what does this say?” and he practiced each and every word with me, encouraging me to try reciting the verse on my own. In his entertaining, over-exuberant voice that he only reserves for storytelling, he showed me how words and sounds would change when certain letters were removed. By then, I was no longer self-conscious of my shortcomings as a young reader. I was just laughing, happy from learning something new.

In third grade, my family and I moved from Hanford, California to Clovis, California. The new school that I started going to was much larger and well-funded compared to the one where I spent my first year in public school. It was a huge adjustment for me, but Mrs. Bustos, my third grade teacher, helped me get comfortable in school with something that I was already familiar with: books. She read Esperanza Rising to us and gave us incentives to read. Because of her, my love for reading grew in a way that I had never imagined before. In Mrs. Bustos’ class, the subject that I truly excelled in was language arts. I first learned about rhetorical devices from my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Kalashian. I absorbed all this new knowledge like a sponge and applied it to all the short stories and essays that I wrote. But, I was extremely quick to judge myself. I compared myself to others and what they wrote to criticize my own work. In hindsight, it was as if I was better at critiquing more than I was at writing. How I felt about my writings was used as a measurement of my worth as a human being. No teacher ever gave me bad comments regarding my writing; I actually got good grades in elementary school. But I still thought my work was terrible and that everyone was better than me which made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. The person I ultimately listened to was myself. I strived for perfection more than I strived for growth as a writer. To compensate for what I felt, I kept writing. I scribbled poems, fictional stories, and personal narratives until I got calluses on my hands. “If I do this,” I thought, “I’ll be able to look back on what I wrote and feel better about myself.”

But by the time I got to high school, I still didn’t consider myself a good writer. To make matters worse, my health wasn’t in great condition in freshman year. It took a long time for everyone, including myself, to figure out what was going on. During that time, I lost all motivation to do my assignments; I procrastinated on anything and everything. My perfectionistic habits were starting to reveal themselves again. There would still be times when I tried to catch up, but then I would think to myself, “This is hopeless. I’m never going to catch up. If it can’t be perfect, it’ll be nothing.” But just before 9th grade ended, Mr. Frantzich, my Honors English 9 teacher for second semester, did his best to step in and help. I resisted at first; I was too prideful and stubborn. Although I never told him (or any of my other teachers) what was going on with me, he still helped me by being a consistent, calm supporter. Though I didn’t turn in much towards the end of the year, everything I got back had comments about helpful criticisms and my well-written sentences in the margins. He even pointed out the strengths I had as a writer, something that my one-track, perfectionistic mind used to overlook. There was never busy work in his class. Everything we did was meant to improve our literacy skills. In hindsight, Mr. Frantzich was the best English teacher I had in high school. I became thoughtful about how I wrote instead of just scribbling words on a page. I considered the meaning of what I read and changed my attitude towards writing. I still remember the comment he left at the top of the page on the first essay I wrote for his English 10 class: “Good thoughts! Keep working hard!” By the time I left high school, I grew so much more as a writer than I ever had before. 

Looking back on all of these literacy experiences, I realized something that stands out the most: My perfectionism mentally gets the best of me, ever since I started to learn how to read and write. Over time, I had forgotten how important it was to ask for help if I needed it. Now, I still need to remind myself that there is nothing wrong with asking for help and that it’s alright to have people by my side when I’m struggling. I’m still in the process of shedding perfectionism, and in replacement of that, I’m trying to cultivate a determination to grow. Done is better than perfect, and there is no failure except in no longer trying.

I had gone from wrestling with a three-letter word to writing a five-page paper without much difficulty. If that’s not growth, then I don’t know what is. I finally found the treasure I had been pursuing since I was four years old: the joy of learning. I want to continue to learn and continue to grow. I couldn’t stop even if I tried, because there is never an attainable perfection. And that is perfectly okay.