Adrienne Watson - Literary Narrative

Adrienne Watson

ENG 11000

Professor Moore

18 February 2015

                                                               Forge Ahead

           When I was a child, my parents would read to me from any book they had at the time. Whether it was a children’s storybook or a Forbes magazine, I would sit in their laps as they read aloud. When I got older, my mother bought a game for me called Memory. The objective of the game was to turn the cards face down and try to match the ones with the same picture. My mother changed the game. Whenever I flipped a card over, if the next card didn’t match I had to try to form a sentence with the two images. After my brother was born my parents did not have the time to sit and read with me. Whenever we would go driving I would stare out the window and point out the names of stores and street signs. My mother would say a store name and I had to try to find it before we drove past it. My father bought me a video game for the computer. Jumpstart had many different levels from pre-kindergarten to sixth grade. It consisted of several educational games with a cast of animal characters that would sing and dance as you learned.

      By fourth grade I was already bringing books to read during lunch. I was shy and would read rather than talk to my classmates. They were more concerned with NSYNC and Backstreet Boys. I liked music just fine but the musician’s physical appearance and personal life did not interest me. My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Foster, had several encyclopedias and a world atlas in the classroom that she would let me read during recess. When the teachers brought all the classes outside for recess, I would stay near the teachers. I would find a little corner, far away from the kids playing with balls, where I could read. As soon as I read those first few words, everything else just faded away. Mrs. Foster had to touch my shoulder for me to notice recess was over.

      In eighth grade, my school introduced an hour of mandatory reading time. Only a few of my classmates actually brought books to read. The few times I looked away from my own readings, I would see some students half-heartedly read their textbooks. Others had a book open in front of them, with their heads on their desks, trying to give the appearance of reading but actually taking a nap. Unfortunately this was at a time when the Twilight craze was high. The few students that did bring books were reading that series. I thought that was really boring. I thought of reading as an escape. I cannot recall the purpose for starting this mandatory reading time, but I would have thought the students would have used the time to read something unrelated to school. Reading a textbook aimlessly seemed really tedious. I did not understand why most of my classmates did not enjoy reading like I did.

      I loved getting picked on to read in front of class. Whenever my teacher was looking for volunteers to read, my hand would be the first one up. Writing was different. I hated writing in those penmanship workbooks. Some of my teachers would make me rewrite entire essays. Not because I used poor grammar or incorrect spelling but because my writing was too sloppy. When writing on the blackboard my writing was either too small or sloppy and the other students couldn’t read it. It was even more embarrassing when the teacher got annoyed always telling me to rewrite something. They would send someone else to rewrite it. I also detested whenever we would have group projects. The teacher would make us edit each other’s papers and my partners always complained that they could not read my handwriting.

    Through high school, my handwriting improved and I loved writing essays discussing the works of literature we read in class. These assignments were easy for me. I knew exactly what to say and how I wanted to say it. But when my teachers assigned papers asking me to recount a childhood experience, I was at a loss. I detested assignments like that.  I am a very private person. I do not feel comfortable discussing my private life with anyone. It was hard for me to try to commit something to paper. My teachers gave me different criticisms. My essays were too “impersonal”, lacking depth and feeling. I just wanted to get a grade. Often times I would try to make something up. I would later pay for this when my teacher would make me read my paper to the class. My papers were not personal or funny; they strictly factual and would read as a dull monotone. My sophomore English teacher, Ms. Magnolia, in particular, would tell me that when you are trying to tell a story you need to be engaging. On all my papers, big, red letters would pop out at me, “Be more engaging! Show more feeling!” It was disheartening at best, but mostly, it was just really annoying.

     Whenever I would ask for advice on how to make my essays more “engaging”, Ms. Magnolia would tell me I should use more colorful language, make the reader feel like they are in the moment with you.  What does that mean? How do I do that? Should I use more adjectives? Why do I have to dedicate an entire paragraph in my paper about my first trip to the dentist to describe the people in the waiting room? I did not understand why I had to describe every speck of dirt or explain how every little thing made me “feel”. I can look at a person or a plant in my dentist’s office and not “feel” anything. That does not make my writing apathetic, does it?

       The fact that Ms. Magnolia thought my writing sub-par was incredibly disheartening and infuriating. English and Social studies were always my best classes. My writing was more than good enough for my history classes. On standardized tests, my performance in reading comprehension was always spectacular. I would always score within the ninetieth percentile, beating everyone in the class. I would also get high marks on the writing portions of the tests. Mathematics was usually where I struggled, scoring within the fortieth and sometimes fiftieth percentiles.

        I was never in danger of failing Ms. Magnolia’s class; I had a solid ninety average. But the big, red letters on every paper she returned to me were beyond frustrating. I am grateful that she tried to help me improve my writing; it was not her fault that I just did not understand the purpose of it all. Not even my AP English teacher, Mr. Nardone, was so critical of my writing style. I am ashamed to admit that I never had to work hard in school. I did just enough and but still seemed to excel. Today, I am trying to do better for myself. I have never considered myself a perfectionist or even remotely an overachiever, but I do wish I could have developed my writing more. I wish I could go back and take another semester with Ms. Magnolia; sign up for her Creative Writing class instead of AP English. I still love to read although I have less free time for it nowadays. But I am mostly concerned with further developing my writing. I do not think that you can ever really perfect a skill; there is always something new to learn and apply to your current skills. I want to constantly grow and improve as a writer.