Literacy Narrative

David Pollock
Nancy Lafever

WRD 103
9/15/22

The Pivotal Moments

Reading and writing are essential tools for becoming a well-read and educated individual.

A crucial step to fully realizing who you are is through written reflection, to see your own

thoughts as a tangible assortment of letters and punctuation can do wonders for yourself. I love

to read and write and always have fun when doing it, but my motivation to carry it out is

extremely neglectful. There were two pivotal moments in my academic career, once in middle

school, and the other as only a little elementary school boy.

In the sixth grade my English teacher assigned a simple project: write a narrative about

anything you wish. I do not know if it was my personal insecurities or thinking all English class

was to learn grammar and sentence structure and this assignment was a big waste of time.

Reflecting on this time I have no idea why I was so against this project, I enjoyed creating stories

with my friends, so why would I be so displeased? We were allotted three days to work on the

assignment, on the first day we were supposed to brainstorm and start writing, the second day

was to finish writing, and the third day was to edit with a partner. The only thing I did on day

one was scribble random words and symbols on a piece of paper, this was not brainstorming, it

was putting on a performance of brainstorming for my teacher. I was thinking that if it looks like

I am working and on the third day I will give a sob story, she will have to exempt me from the

project. It was a perfect crime.

However, since she was a college-educated woman, and I was a middle schooler who

thought I was the smartest person in the room it almost instantaneously blew up in my face. I

could not even make it a full day before she caught on to my con, right before class was over she

pulled me outside and said, “I can see you are having trouble with this assignment. Is there
anything I can do to help?”

The anger and humiliation I felt that my plan was foiled even before it started were
unparalleled, I immediately kicked into the sob story saying, “I just don’t think I am good
enough at this, and I shouldn’t even try because I am so bad. Please just let me do a different
assignment that will be worth my time?”

She was not having any of this she rather curtly replied, “It does not matter, write about
anything it could not matter more! If you don’t submit anything I will have no other option, but
to call your parents.” She did not have to go there, that was too far.

I muttered under my breath as I was brought back into the classroom, “Ok sure, if you
want me to write anything, I’ll write anything.” Flippantly, and fueled by anger, I wrote a
completely nonsensical story about a man having absurdist and vivid hallucinations. Ironically,
once I began to write this, I could not stop it was some of the most fun I ever had. Not even for
school, but in my entire life.

By the third day when I was supposed to be editing I was still writing up a storm, so
much so in fact, my teacher had to pull me aside again but instead of chastising me for trying to
get out of writing, she said, “I am very happy to see you’re having fun with this project, but you
need to wrap it up because we have other projects to get to.” Begrudgingly I finished the story
and received a fine grade for it. This changed the way I saw writing for school, it could be fun if
I made it.

Before this, however, I struggled with both reading and writing. I was diagnosed with
dyslexia around the age of seven or eight, my parents tested me early for my two older siblings
also had it. This made it difficult for me to get into reading, I would look at the page and forget

what letters made what sounds, if I was supposed to read left to right or right to left, it literally
was an alien language. I never read for fun like my peers, I never journaled, and if I wanted to
look something up on the computer I would have to ask my dad to type it in, or just click random
keys hoping for the computer to read my mind and show me pictures of lemurs. It never worked.

Around the second grade, I had made little to no progress in becoming literate, the books
my teachers assigned me were too hard, so I simply did not even try to read them. I would much
rather watch movies or Gilligan’s Island or flip through science books but only look at the
pictures of animals. The words seemed like filler, why would I need to understand them when I
can see a picture of an elephant is in fact an elephant, I thought that was all the information I
needed. Thankfully, my sister, Freya, could see I was struggling and needed a little push.

My sister is perhaps the most driven and put-together person I know. She excelled in
school, setting a friendly one-sided competition, whereas I throughout my academic career tried
to do just as well if not better in school. Perhaps at a young age, it would seem silly to compete
with someone eight years older than me, but I think this pushed me to try harder than others to
work at a level greater than my own. At the age of 27 has a stable relationship, a house she owns,
a dog and a cat, and has competed internationally as a coxswain for a rowing club. She has been
and will be a major inspiration in my life and I strive to be like her.

She made the adult decision to get me into reading when she was only a freshman or
sophomore in high school at the time. Not to say my parents did not try as well, they did, but
they had their hands full working and raising three kids. My sister on one cool, crisp, foggy
winter morning, said, “David, we are going to read the Harry Potter books.”

I responded rather facetiously, “But Freya I do not know how to read.” Thinking this
would stop her efforts.

She calmly said, “Well then I will just have to read it to you.” I rolled my eyes thinking
this was going to be boring, but she then said, “We can also have some tea.” I was completely
sold on this plan because when I had tea I was allowed to put as much honey in my mug as I
wanted, and I had an incredible sweet tooth.

She poured two mugs, hers with a drop of honey and mine with a big fat dollop. She
began to read the first pages of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone as I sipped my tea the
aromas of the herbs and spices filled my nostrils, but also my imagination. Like the quaint
British characters of Harry Potter, I imagined that the tea in their world must be the same as
mine. I was living the story too, I was the boy under the stairs, and this tea was my portal into a
fantasy. This immersion into the story was something I never felt before, I heard the clattering
kitchen Harry was cooking in, and the whines of his spoiled cousin. It helped that my sister gave
each character a distinct voice and cadence, so I never lost track of who was speaking. I never
knew I could feel like I was a part of a larger wonderful world. I never knew that books were a
vehicle to take you away from reality.

However, she was a busy high school student, she had slumber parties or homework or
maybe she was just getting tired of reading books to her younger brother. I had to occupy myself
when these reading and tea sessions became less and less frequent. I finally took more initiative
to read books, cereal boxes, magazines at dentist offices, my brother’s comic books, and things
of that ilk. I went from never reading to counting down the minutes of school just so I could get
home and read. I do not know if she was aware of how much of an impact this simple kind
gesture had on me, and it is no wonder she grew up to be a second-grade teacher.

I must admit that I am not a frequent reader or writer, but these two pivotal moments did
shape me however on how I operate as an academic. My sixth-grade teacher’s sage advice, “It

does not matter, write about anything it could not matter more!” still rings like a thousand church
bells whenever I have trouble starting a writing project. Whenever I get engrossed in a good
story, I always make sure to prepare a nice mug of tea, perhaps with a smaller dollop of honey
this time, feeling my eyes water as I remember the sweet memory of my sister reading to me on
the couch.