September 23, 2013
Literacy Narrative: Indulging in Chicken Soup with Rice
Literacy started back when I was living in a tall skinny, sky blue house that stood in the middle of the street, like someone had plucked it from a picture and placed it there. We had just settled in, when I began to explore the rooms. In the basement, my father had a mountain of books stacked on a long, dark brown book shelf. The books were so tightly packed together, that it looked like the books were shoving against each other for more room. Most of them were Stephen King books, which had their own special shelf, so that they wouldn’t have to struggle for more space. I assumed they were my father’s favorite books, and decided if he could read these books, that looked like they were heavy enough to break my 7-year-old wrists in half, then, so could I.
I ran upstairs to get my pink, Barbie stool, so fast you would have thought a ghost was chasing me. I climbed on top of the stool and reached for a thick black book; the book’s cover felt like concrete scraping against my stubby little fingers. I scrambled into my dad’s favorite loveseat, with the velvety beige suede, in the middle of the basement. Gently opening the book, I began to try to read something that was beyond my seven-year-old comprehension. Finally after repeatedly reading the same sentence, for what felt like three hours, I decided to put the book back and read something else.
I scanned the bookshelf, like a hawk searching for a mouse in a congested forest, for something that I could get into. I wanted something to peak my interest, something not too childish, but still simple. Then, in the bottom left-hand corner of the bookshelf, a small pile of vibrantly colored books caught my eye. My immediate thought was, “These must be for me!” I sat on the floor, crisscross-applesauce style, and rummaged through all the thin books. There was Barney, the Bernstein Bears, Sesame Street, and a ton of other popular shows....
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