The First Sentence (Literacy Narrative)
I never wanted to read. In fact, if it had been my decision as a toddler, I would have stayed mute and illiterate my entire life. Reading was not something that came naturally to me. I definitely wasn’t a prodigy. If anything, I was late in a race that nobody ever told me about. The race to success started in Pre-K, and I didn’t know if I’d ever even make it past the starting line. I didn’t understand why learning basic skills required so much extra work. For a long time it seemed like the extra work didn’t make a difference. It wasn’t until I read a sentence out loud from a book for the first time, that I actually noted the difference that my hard work made.
On the first day of Pre-K at Villa Augustina, I didn’t know how to write or spell my own name. Villa Augustina was an old, small, Catholic school in New Hampshire with large brick buildings separated by grade level. The smaller setting was less overwhelming. Yet for one of the first times in my young life, I wanted to be anyone or anywhere else in the universe. I felt the pressure to rise ahead in the race. As every other kid wrote their names on their name tag, my desk was noticeably bare. I had been to daycares before, but none of them had ever asked me to write my own name. I wanted to hide, go into the bathroom and wait until the end of the day. Or just go home, away from the feeling of inadequacy. When the teacher and her assistant came over to check on everyone, they immediately singled me out. The teacher was young, but still older than the assistant. I remember the assistant more vividly because of her distinct behavior and appearance. She was tall, with multiple tattoos and piercings, and would scoff and roll her eyes any time a kid tried to ask her for help. The teacher asked if I could write my name, and I shook my head. She asked if I could spell my name out for her to write down, and I shook my head ‘no’ again. The teacher was surprised and annoyed enough to ask, “How do you not know how to spell your own name?” The statement was a slap in the face. A moment of lucidity that pulled my focus out of the childhood innocence and patience that I just needed time to adjust before I would be back on track with every other kid. The sudden pressure to be better was devastating, and I wanted to be alone. I said nothing, like I always did at that age. I wanted to explain myself, but even I didn’t know why I couldn’t do something so basic. I wanted to disappear, to become as small as I felt when the teacher was frustrated with me. I wanted to get better, so that I wouldn’t be so disappointing. Although she pointed out the issue, I didn’t blame my teacher. I blamed myself, I focused on the true issue. I knew I had inadequacies, and I knew they were skill-based. Skills could be improved, couldn’t they?
It was hard to not feel like I was falling behind when all of the other kids in my class could already read and write their names, whereas I could only stare dumbly at the shapes and vaguely respond to sounds. I was sent home for the following months with workbooks and extra work. Every time I got a new workbook I was embarrassed, it was only Pre-K and I already the class idiot. I didn’t understand why there was so much extra work just for me to be at the average level. All I knew is that I didn’t want to keep disappointing adults in my life, and that I would do anything to fix my deficiencies in skill. I would have extra hours every day dedicated to reading, writing, and math (my mother is an engineer after all). There were flashcards, hours with a speech therapist, and pages upon pages of dotted lines spelling out my name. I had to catch up, I needed to move past the pity and the disbelief. Past the people asking “How do you not know how to spell your own name?”
I didn’t see progress for a long time. I could tell that my family and teachers were getting frustrated, and I was as well. It was all so confusing, and I couldn’t even communicate why. Luckily, not long from that point, there was a change. I was sitting next to my mother on her bed. Her arms were around both my sister and I as she read to us. It was the warmth of a hug without the uncomfortable pressure. My mother herself is a traditional Italian, with dark hair and eyes and a strong tan that never burned. She had a Long Island accent, despite living in New Hampshire for several years by that point. My sister would occasionally cut in to read a few sentences, the book being much easier than her own advanced novels. She never looked like I did. In fact, there was very little that we had in common. My sister was born with extremely pale skin that burned very easily, and light eyes that eventually settled in hazel. People at that time thought that my mother was her nanny when they would go out together. When I was born, people did not assume the same. I have always been a spitting image of my mother’s parents. She says that my “dark, beady eyes” could have only come from my grandfather himself.
My mother eventually came to the middle of the book, and asked me to read. “Just one sentence. Just try one sentence,” she said. Strangely enough, I wasn’t nervous at that point. I just looked at the page, and tried to put the words from my head out loud. It sounded strange, as it always did when I spoke. But, my mother was still excited. She kept praising my attempts, even if my sister made faces at my pronunciations. It was very sudden, but I suddenly understood the drive behind hard work. The outcome after so many months of work being laid out right in front of me. I had a chance of success, even if it was just the success of making other people happy.
After that first sentence, it was easier to get the words out in the open. It was not impossible to get words from my brain out to the open world. I had read an entire sentence out loud, so I knew I could string together a few words to my classmates. Although it was a terrifying time in my life, a period of ostracism based on my lack of abilities. I learned how to put in hard work, which is something that I have kept with me my entire life. Even when I was the biggest moron in a class, I was able to see the proof that it didn’t matter. Other people weren’t willing to put in as much work, and that is what crafted my abilities. Not any natural intelligence, or any abilities to pick up skills faster than others. Just my work, my dedication, and my perseverance. After that first sentence, I could see the progress in my ability to communicate. After that first sentence, I knew I was able to communicate. After that first sentence, anything was possible.
