Background: My name is Qianqian Wang, an international student from China, having been in U.S.A for studying since June. After three-month practice, I began to write my first essay, recording how I learn to read and write and my love for them.
When I was at poppy patch, my aunt gave me a series of animal stories as a birthday gift. Simple enough, I suppose. I cannot recall its particular cover, nor can I remember the plot. I cannot recite its facetious words, nor the means by which I obtained the storybook. What I can remember is this: I was a four-year old Chinese girl, living with my parents in dormitory building. I am the only child of my family, so my parents extremely dote on me. Whatever I need, my parents will always try to satisfy my desire, though they are only the ordinary workers at the power plants.
My mother, whose major in junior college was English, was a vivid reader of Chinese literature, liked essay, novel, four masterpieces of China and anything else she could find. I did not know when and where she bought these thick books. Since I was self-sensible, they were arranged tidily on the shelves according to the description. Sometimes, on the weekend, my mother would sit near the window with a glass of green tea, enjoying the comfortable afternoon sunlight and reading some proses written by Ailing Zhang who was one of the most famous writers in China. Maybe under the influence of my mother, I grew a love for reading. I could vaguely remember the image when I first picked up my mother’s books before I could read. The words on the paper were thickly dotted, just like the foreign wordage. But even so, I could still remember clearly my feelings when I first open my storybooks. It was a new world of beauty opened itself in front of me that was one of my most unforgettable moments I can hardly put it into words.
Although I was unable to understand the content of these stories, I was still attracted by its rich...