There Was a Time (Literacy Narrative)

John Droescher

English 11000

18 February 2015

There Was a Time

               There was a time. I’ve always wanted to start a paper with that phrase. Such a powerful phrase, “there was a time.” Reminding us that things were not always as they are and, just as importantly, things are not always as they were.

               Sorting through decades of accumulations, with the goal of downsizing to what I could fit in my SUV, I found myself standing in front of my suddenly full bookcase. Prior to this point it had been easy to tell friends, and myself, that the plan was simply to keep a handful of the more sentimental works and donate the rest. After all, few have been opened in many years. But, there was a time.

               Even with New York City’s abundance of historically beautiful public libraries, I haven’t found myself inside a non-academic library in nigh on two decades. Oh, but there was a time. I cannot remember my first book, but I do recall youthful summers spent at the library burning up my library card. Devouring classics and not-so-classics. Always reading. Constantly seeking greater knowledge and understanding of the world around me. Or spirited away on some grand adventure within the covers of whichever latest novel I found myself entangled within. Adventures and stories that I could only dream of one day experiencing for myself.

               Growing up the second child in a large family, I was often left to educate myself. From a young age I was aware that somehow I was not where I belonged. That there was a different life out there, waiting for me. Calling out to me, begging me to take my place in the sun. For nearly 20 years, however, I was unable to answer that calling. Remaining locked in a world I didn’t belong, chafing at the bit.

               Books have always been my escape. Escape seems the wrong word to use here, really. They were my refuge and they were my hope. A promise that there existed a world outside my own. A world where I belonged. Where I was the hero living the adventures, not the outcast sitting on the sidelines. And so I whiled away the hours and days and years. Losing myself in the stories, escaping my current situation into those of the protagonists and antagonists. Somehow always finding one more page to turn before falling asleep.          

               In the heady days of my youth I was unaware of the changes my love of books was effecting upon my ever-expanding world. But they paid no mind to my ignorance of this matter and continued to do as great, and not so great, works of literature are wont. Brick by brick, page by page, the way I spoke and wrote – or rather the manner in which I addressed and inscribed – developed. Years and books passed and the way I viewed the world changed. My outlook and the world’s reflection shifted, tinted, molded by all those novels and textbooks and novellas of yesteryear. I grew older and wiser, my naiveté giving way to insight into the inner workings of humanity and the world around and the wonders and joys of unadulterated science and history.

               Looking back now, of course, I see more clearly the winding path my proliferous reading habits cut on my literacy journey, providing motivation and developing abilities that have allowed me to make good my escape from the deadlands of the Midwest to downtown New York City. At the time, however, I was just a kid lost in another story. Another mystery for the Hardy Boys or Nancy Drew to solve. Another challenge for Samwise and Frodo to overcome. Another deeper part of the universe for Arthur to discover existed.

               I stood there In front of my bookcase reading the titles of each of the books. Lost in times gone by, past desires and adventures and hopes and disappointments. The same thought kept running through my mind: “there was a time.” Historical documentaries and Calvin and Hobbes side by side. Beowulf and The Odyssey. Sherlock Holmes and The Count of Monte Cristo next to Papillion and the Shogun series. Douglas Adams’ works beside them. Books on mountaineering and scuba diving alongside my well-worn Boy Scouts handbooks. Texts on computer networking and race car dynamics. A history of my life in a bookcase.

               To paraphrase Hermuth Von Multke: No battle plan survives first contact. I suppose I’ll simply have to find a place in my new apartment for all these beloved books. After all, there was a time…