fr Real Narrative

Truth 1
I hate this class. Quite frankly, I only enrolled considering it's a requirement for graduation. The funny part is that my feelings towards the course didn't derive from any extraneous reasons besides the fact that I simply don't like reading or writing. What's even funnier is that 7th grade Kiara embodied the complete opposite of the Kiara writing this literacy narrative. As a 12-year-old, I found myself infatuated with everything about reading and writing. There’d be nights where I would lose sleep, and get in trouble for staying up too late with my head in a book unable to put it down, knowing I'd regret it in the morning. Simultaneously, I excelled in all of my writing classes, by virtue that with every paper I wrote I found myself engulfed in the prompt and able to express myself freely through writing. Sadly that's not the case anymore, but in order for you to truly understand my anecdote, we might as well start from the beginning.
"Kiara dear, how are you coming along with your reading for this week?" Said Mrs. Pippen, my 2nd-grade teacher.
"Awesome, never better!" I said barely moving my eyes away from the book at the time I was reading, ​Flipped b​ y Wendelin Van Draanen. Mrs. Pippen understood my attentiveness was diverted elsewhere and didn't take offense to me continuing to read. Instead, she smiled and seemingly walked back to her desk filled with knick-knacks gifted from students and endless amounts of office supplies.


Truth 2
I paid no attention to it since I was focused on the love story in the palms of my hands. It wasn't until I got home that I realized she had slipped a piece of paper inside my backpack. Confused, I slowly inched the paper out of my front pocket and it entailed the name of a book she recommended for me to check out after completing my current reading.
That was the start of it all. She had noticed my love for reading, and took the initiative to help further it and encouraged me to read new texts. Mrs. Pippen played a huge role in my academic life, she opened my eyes to the world of literature and would always encourage my abilities as a writer. Not only would she help me figure out new books to read, but she would also converse with me whilst I read about the plot and she allowed me to be able to further talk about the story with someone who had read it. Furthermore, I admired her love for reading since I saw it translate into who she was as a person. She was kind to everyone she spoke to, and always looked for the reasoning behind actions deeper than the surface.
Not long after, I moved throughout primary education and never lost my admiration for reading and writing. Elementary school, in all honesty, was great. A big reason for it being great was the Scholastic Bookfair.


Truth 3
The crisp smell of newly unboxed books staggering on what I viewed to be an endless gallery of texts just begging for me to read them made me all the more enticed by their narrative. Not to mention Accelerated Reader and the ice-cream party incentive my school provided in collaboration to encourage students to read more books. This made me associate reading with positive recollections. Resultantly, I spent most of my time in the library; So much time that I could be able to pinpoint the musty, paper induced aroma of one from a mile away. My typical after school routine consisted of me getting off on a bus stop closer to the library than my home, and arriving in a shorter ETA than predicted on navigation apps due to me walking with an overjoyed pep in my step. I sat at the same table that had a finger’s width sharpie mark scribbled on the table, unable to be washed off. It was my assigned seat, and rarely did anyone ever try to sit in it. Day by day I read. Day by day I wrote.
It was in that spot at the library where I truly lost myself in literature. Although, I was flexible. This act of intense reading and writing was recognized at almost any place there was a reasonable noise level and by anyone who took the time to pay attention. Whether it be the joyful, middle-aged Librarians who worked at my school or the bitter-stricken, stale faced clerks of the Downers Grove Public Library, they all knew my name and would frequently set aside novels that they thought would catch my interest. Furthermore, they typically always did, and so I was grateful. I remember them introducing me to some of my life-long favorite authors such as John Green, Katie Alender, Jenny Han,


Truth 4
and Rainbow Rowell. Their impact led to me being able to easily lose myself in a book, and not think twice about the time I spent doing it.
“Kiara Terry, How many times do I have to tell you to go to bed?” Says my obviously agitated mother. I quickly turn off my reading light and respond with silence, careful not to move, hoping she would believe that her eyes had fooled her and that I was asleep under my blankets. However, I quickly realized my attempt at tricking my mother had failed when I heard footsteps coming towards my bed soon to unveil me awake and certainly reading when I was supposed to be sleeping.
“I’m sorry Mom... But please just let me finish this chapter! I have two and a half more pages and I promise I’ll go to bed. Please, please, please!” I say holding my hands to my chest in a praying motion to show her my sincerity.
“Ugh fine, but I'm serious you need to get some rest. You have to be up early for school, and looking at a bright light in a dark space isn’t good for your eyes.” Says my mother.
“She’s not wrong!” Yells my sister faintly from the hallway, who is nearly blind and has a strong prescription in her glasses.


Truth 5
“Okay, thank you!” I say quickly continuing reading where I left off in my book, oblivious to everything that had been said besides permission to keep reading. My mother scoffs and discreetly smiles as she walks away from her bookworm of a daughter and off to bed.
My mother tells me all the time that there'd be many nights where she would walk past my bedroom door and hear the faint rumbling sound of papers turning against the weight of the comforter I had pulled over me. She'd always debate whether or not to yell at me to go to bed, or just let me be since it is hard to be mad at your daughter for simply being addicted to reading. Most times she let me be, but at other times I heard her two cents about the importance of sleep and how it is not to be compromised by ink on paper. Nevertheless the enthusiasm I had about reading translated into my writing. This is to be expected since I was able to convey the styles of writing I read through fictional texts into my assignments for school. For me it was fun, I didn't view it as a task or a chore. I felt that literature was my ideal means of self-exploration and I loved it. However, this all changed about 2 seconds into high school.
Maybe it was puberty and the fact that I simply grew out-grew the person I once was. Maybe it was the fact that I became more serious about volleyball, and I felt as though there weren't enough hours in a day to excel in both aspects of my life.


Truth 6
Maybe I stopped loving reading and writing for a lot of reasons, but I'm almost positive it's because the standard public education system sorta sucks. I noticed that as soon as I entered the realm of high-school, the motive behind literacy shifted. It was no longer about exploration, and writing to be individualistic, I found it to be constraining and suffocating the way teachers expected us to conform to a certain means of writing.
I tried my hardest not to lose my passion for something that had been such a significant part of my childhood; but in all honesty, it didn't take me long to realize that the majority of my teachers just wanted me to fulfill the bullet points in their rubrics, nothing more, nothing less. So that's what I did. I wrote exactly what I knew my teachers wanted to hear, and I phrased it in a way that deemed worthy of "exceeding expectations." Reading for fun slowly but surely became foreign to me. It has gotten to the point where if I even try to read paragraphs in books required of me through school I immediately get a foul taste in my mouth, my stomach faintly turns, and my palms get sweaty with anxiety admitting the fact that I'm dreading to do what I once used to love. I genuinely don't remember the last time I picked up a book for purposes other than writing an essay. It's sad when you think about it, so I try not to do so. Therefore, when prompted with the question of how has reading and writing impacted my life, it saddens me to say that I for one, am not sure if that impact was a positive one.


Truth 7
Yes, it was something that meant a lot to me, although conclusively I found it to slip through the cracks of reality and turn into something I desire no recollection over. All at the expense of the public education system. When I think of high school my mind automatically refers to the sound of bells ringing periodically, and teachers crushing the minds of young authors nationwide through their words of discouragement. I understand this may not be the case for everyone, but for me it is concrete.
Nowadays, critics love a good happily ever after. Rotten tomatoes will testify that most audiences appreciate a happy ending for the protagonist in almost any story. Therefore, I am here to tell you that I understand. I understand that this is somewhat of a pessimistic way to view a course that in the long-run will be of use to me. I understand that perspective is influential in how one perceives a situation. This I understand. Therefore, believe it or not, I am excited to continue in this class. Dare I say it, I view this as a challenge, a way for me to overcome the notion that society has placed in my mind about the limits of literature. 7th grade-year-old me would not envision herself falling out of love with her passion for reading and writing, never finding her way back. There have been a variety of things to offset this fascination, and out of affinity to my younger self, I am going to acknowledge and try my hardest to surmount the obstacles placed between me and literacy. Whether it be setting aside a particular time to go to the library and browse through aisles of fiction books, or throwing caution to the wind and writing with the same childlike-mentality I once had before being exposed to higher-level standards of education.


Truth 8
I refuse to let questionable teachers rob me of a love I once had. Maybe I should do it for Mrs. Pippen, and her hope that what she taught me would resonate with me far into adulthood, or maybe for my past-self who was able to find herself through words and formation. No matter the reason, I will surely do it for the future of those after me who say they hate this class.