Living in a Fairytale
My mother would read to me every single night. She would never forget. She would come into my room after telling me to get into bed and lay beside me to read. It was comforting to me to have her read me a story before bedtime. She would read me silly stories from Dr. Seuss and of course every little girl’s favorites, magical princess tales. I would fall asleep to these stories of love and dream about being in my own fairytale with my prince Charming. Then again, I was only five. Sometimes when my mother would read to me I would focus deeply on the photos in the book and think about my own story from them and pretend they were saying something else. I probably did this when Cinderella’s evil step-mom locked her in the attic when all Cinderella wanted to do was go to the ball, or when Snow White was about to eat the apple from the mean old witch. When I was focusing on the photos the prince would say to me “Skylah, would you do the honor of marrying me?” My mom was a teacher so she could easily tell when I wasn’t paying attention and would ask me to tell her what the page was about, of course I could not. I couldn’t help but think about the flowery details and a beautiful happy ending.
My first grade teacher who worked really hard on teaching me how to read continued my love for a good book. When I think of Mrs. Simmons all I can think about is her gentle words and that leopard chair. The woman absolutely loved leopard, every single day she would come in with an accessory of leopard no matter what. All the students would sit criss cross applesauce on a rug with colorful squares, we would each have a square, and she would read us a book. She would effortlessly keep my attention with her silvery voice. When I started off, I really loved to read, I was so eager to pick up a book. I liked to challenge myself with new books and different genres like many of my classmates although I always gravitated toward the princess stories. I read to anyone who would allow me. I started off with Dr. Seuss then advanced to Judy bloom, which was a little less of a small chapter book. By fourth grade I was absolutely obsessed with the mystery series of the magic tree house. I was ready for middle school and the challenging reads that awaited me.
Middle school was overwhelming for me. All I could think about is how many new friends I would meet considering all the elementary students were being put together in one place. I was excited and nervous, but I probably wasn’t the only one. “Is it cool to really like to read like I do?” I thought to myself. I was sure at least one of my new friends would like to read as much as I did. I had a cousin in eighth grade and I also wanted to fit in with her and her friends. I still did really like to read, I just did it a lot less. As the time went on my love for reading slowly dimmed. I had books assigned to me, but I never had time to read a book of choice. Seventh grade really ruined it for me with a vile English teacher named Mrs. Thiboutot. She had a fiery red bowl cut and a pointy nose. I would cringe when I heard her boisterous heels clicking toward me. The room was set up in four squares of five and she would walk throughout the whole class for the hour long period, looking into our souls, or so it seemed, as she would talk about old literature and her own life. She would always talk about her cats and the car she drove, a vintage spider, whatever that was. I thought she was mean and she forced several books about the holocaust on a group of eleven to twelve year olds to try and comprehend on our own. All I wanted to do is read a story of love, or something with a small conflict and a magical ending, instead we read stories of lives of children and adults being ruined. I specifically remember reading “The Boy in the Striped Pajamas” then afterward watching the movie in class. I cried in class, along with a few other kids, girls and boys during the movie. When I went to tell my mom about what happened she said “well sweetheart, that’s life, and this kind of stuff happens, it is important to learn”. The books were sad and heartbreaking and so was the fact that I started to hate reading. The experience with Mrs. Thiboutot made me think back to all the wonderful books I used to read and miss it all. I missed reading. I missed the happy endings. Maybe I wouldn’t have hated those books so much if I had a more nurturing teacher who talked us all through it.
I realize now that although everyone loves a good ending with closure, it was important that I was exposed to some of the harsh realities of life. I was pushed out of my comfort zone in grade seven but it was essential to my future with books, I just wish it was done in a more gentle way. If they didn’t do that in middle school though, I would probably have had a harder time in high school with some of the “harsh reality” type books we read. I still love a good happy, silly, fun book, when I have the time, but it’s still necessary to know what has happened in the past such as the holocaust and 9/11. It’s all relevant and important to know. It is crucial to be pushed out of your comfort zone in all aspects in life, and although it’s hard, I appreciate where I am, and I have all those teachers and my mother to thank for that.
