For most, learning how to read was just another part of life. The majority people in our country over the age of five or six can read and write on some level. But, for some of us, there is so much more to reading than what meets the eye. My grandmother, my beloved nana, was the first person to help me on my journey in learning how to read. I have vivid memories of the two of us sitting in her library reading nursery rhymes as she began to teach me the alphabet. She tells me the story all the time about how I could never keep my b’s and d’s straight. So bug would come out dug and so on. It was a struggle some days, but eventually I was reading Humpty Dumpty with ease.
As I grew older and began school we would advance to more difficult books, and eventually we would each read our own novels while sitting in
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Even after discarding the things that set me apart, I was still made to feel as if I was an outcast.
As the years passed I began to grow tired of the face I painted on daily. I missed my round glasses and being able to hide behind a book when I felt too scared to face the world. As high school came around, life brought around a new array of challenges and emotions. I would begin to miss my escape more than ever. I missed the first thing that ever made me feel intelligent, I missed the stories of heartbreak and hope that made me feel a little less alone. So, I decided that I did not need to miss it any longer.
I unpacked my books and proudly sat in front of all those people who had discouraged me and I read. I sat and read, such a simple task, yet it was one of the most empowering things I have experienced. I began to lose myself all over again in the imaginary words laid out in front of me. I may not wear those big round glasses, but inside I am still the girl who would rather sit at home and read than anything