Reading and Writing: A Complicated Relationship - by Jonas Goes

How would I describe my relationship with reading and writing? That is a complicated question, and to begin to answer it, I first need to tell you a bit about my background. I grew up in the small town of Storrs, Connecticut as the child of two Brazilian immigrants. My father worked as a professor at the local university (UCONN), and my mother stayed home to take care of me. Since she was my only caretaker, I grew up speaking and hearing only Portuguese for the first few years of my life. My first real exposure to English came when I was enrolled in a preschool program at my local Montessori School at the age of four. There, I was able to learn the English language relatively quickly through immersion; however, this natural language ability did not translate to the written word, and when we were learning our letters the following year in kindergarten, it was clear that I was falling behind my peers. To remedy this problem, I had to take informal supplementary classes during lunch up through the fourth grade. These additional classes, and the insights I gained during them, led me to develop two very different relationships with reading and writing, respectively, a relationship that somehow regards reading as a source of inspiration and fulfillment, yet sees writing as a source of pain and frustration. However, a series of recent realizations has caused me to reevaluate my experiences with writing and see it in a new, positive light.

To further explain how my mindset has changed, I first need to better explain my relationship to reading to better express why it has had a lasting, positive expression. In the beginning, I had a lot of difficulties learning how to read, and by the first grade, I was taking supplementary classes and was given additional work to do at home. These supplemental classes were not provided by the regular school staff; instead, they were held during part of recess by the mother of one of my classmates, who worked part-time as a substitute teacher in the district. Furthermore, these additional classes were held in the school's supply room, a small space filled with standing projectors and TVs-on-Wheels, which created a sense of isolation in the experience. So, twice a week, while my classmates were playing in the jungle gym, I would spend my time at a tiny desk reviewing vocab words from that day's class. If I couldn't learn them in that time, they would be assigned as additional homework. This process was lengthy and brutal. I have distinct memories of sitting at the dinner table crying because it was late, and my mother was still quizzing me with flashcards of the different words I had to be able to read for class. However, the hard work paid off, and by the second grade, I was reading at the same level as my classmates and no longer had to have reading lessons. I saw this additional social time as a reward for my hard work, and I relished the extra time I could spend with my friends during recess. Still, an even better prize was that through being forced to learn how to read, I had also discovered a "loophole" in the school system, one that expanded my relationship with reading and solidified it as a consistent source of pleasure in my life. 

That loophole, of course, was that if you kept quiet and gave off the illusion of productivity by reading, teachers would never really question what you were reading. So, while many of my peers would horse around during class to avoid schoolwork, I would go on epic adventures with the various characters in the fantasy books I took everywhere. And, since I was not being disruptive, my teachers, for the most part, would let me read as much as I wanted to. So, from the moment of that realization to the end of my high school career, I always had a book on me and would devour them as if my life depended on them. This love of books was expanded on my twelfth birthday when my parents got me a Kindle. So instead of having just one book on me, I would always carry a veritable library in my pocket. Meaning that whenever I was bored or overwhelmed, I could slip away into whatever fantasy world I wanted to. This escapism became my primary form of entertainment for most of my childhood and is still one of my favorite pastimes. 

Additionally, this voracious reading had the unintended consequence of teaching me vocabulary and reading comprehension, and in high school, I started reading a lot more nonfiction which allowed me to learn a lot about other cultures and helped me see more of the world outside of my small town of 5000 people. I firmly believe that this intense relationship with reading was critical to my academic success up to college, and I don't think I would be where I am today if that relationship had not been cultivated at an early age. So, despite a rough start, I was able to overcome the challenges of learning how to read and have been able to find joy and satisfaction through reading.

Conversely, and because of just two slight differences in the process, I developed a strikingly different relationship with writing from the one I have with reading. Similarly to when I was learning how to read, I had supplementary spelling lessons during recess twice a week and extra spelling homework to do with my mom at home; however, in this case, there were two key differences: first, I was older when I started to learn how to spell, and second, I just could not wrap my head around spelling no matter how hard I tried. The first difference affected me socially because when I started spelling classes in the third grade, my classmates were older and meaner. So, from then through the fourth grade, I became one of two kids who missed lunch to take "special" classes and ended up feeling isolated because of that label. This feeling diminished as I got older and the supplementary classes were behind me. However, subconsciously, I still had a strong negative connotation associated with writing that followed me throughout the rest of my school years.

The second major issue I had when learning how to write was the flat-out difficulty I had with learning how to spell. I would make silly mistakes like adding an "e" to the end of words, swapping vowels in the middle of words, and using the wrong letter out of "p, d, b, and q." In the end, I never actually learned how to spell before I stopped getting the supplementary lessons when I moved to middle school in the fifth grade. Luckily, soon thereafter, the school got new computers, and we were expected to type everything we turned in, and since there was autocorrect, I was able to get by without knowing how to spell for the rest of my school years. Unfortunately, even though I managed good grades in my English classes thanks to autocorrect, the frustration and anger I developed in response to my early difficulties with spelling never faded, resulting in feelings of dread whenever I was assigned a writing assignment. 

I still experience this dread when faced with an assignment, but thanks to some recent experiences, my views on writing have started to change. The first step in this process happened in high school when I decided to branch out from my beloved fantasy and science fiction into other genres of literature. Before then, I had exclusively read books for escapism and was always amazed by the abilities of authors to create these amazingly complicated worlds that dealt with some interesting philosophical issues, and I subconsciously associated being a "writer" with developing these epic stories. When I finally branched out into other genres, I understood that fantasy and science fiction is but a tiny section of literature. By only reading these two genres, I had deceived myself into believing that all authors were crazy creative powerhouses who built entire galaxies from the ground up. This assertion is simply not true, and as I began to diversify the genres I read, I was amazed by what I saw. 

I first started with different genres under the fictional umbrella, like historical fiction and magical realism, before moving on to dramatic nonfiction. These books blew my mind. One particular moment that really opened my eyes was when I was reading Lost City of the Monkey God by Douglas Preston, which is a nonfiction book about an expedition to Honduras that took place in 2012, and I realized that I was on the edge of my seat waiting to find out what was next. Just like when I read fantasy! It opened my eyes to the realization that, no, you did not have to be able to come up with entire galaxies to be an author; all you really need is a story to tell. 

It was not until much later, during a conversation with a friend about the social media platform Reddit, that I finally applied my new understanding of authors to myself. I was explaining that I appreciated that Reddit still allows the user to remain anonymous on their site because I was uncomfortable with the lack of privacy on other social media platforms. When my friend brought up the point that this anonymity was also the reason that the most radical people chose Reddit to voice their opinions. It protected them from repercussions in their real lives. This simple concept that anonymity encouraged people to express their views allowed me to finally understand the second aspect of writing- that people write because they have a reason to. This realization of what a writer truly was- someone with something to say and someone to say it made me realize that I had been a "writer" for a long time. Once I had adopted this mindset, it was not long until I realized that the only real difference between my arguments on Reddit and someone's argument in an opinion piece to be published in a newspaper is that the author of a published article has the confidence to put their name on their ideas and that I could take active steps to build that confidence. 

Which brings me back to the original question: how would I describe my relationship with reading and writing? If you had asked me that question a few years ago, I would have probably described it as joyous yet painful, liberating yet suffocating, and most of all, confusing. However, thanks to my new mindset, I can honestly say my relationship is a hopeful one. Hopeful because by enrolling in this class, I have decided to actively attempt to become a better writer. Optimistic because I finally understand why people write- because they have something to say and someone they want to say it to. And I have a lot to say.