Afanador 1 Mary Afanador Professor Brand ENG 101H 88340 September 21, 2013 Writing Project 2 Word Count:

980 In Childhood We Trust As I soaked in every last word my mother recited to me, I began slipping into stagnation. I realized an incredible longing building inside me, bubbling with anticipation. I ached to know how she could entrance someone with a gift that I was so unfamiliar with. The ability to read plagued my thoughts night after night, book after book, until I couldnt stand one more day without it. I lay in my mothers lap, breathing in her long exhausting day. I listened to the sound of pages scraping against her fingertips. The traces of lemon soap and sharp perfume brought tears to my eyes. I stared at her lips as the world around me began to slowly fade away. Her calm, soothing voice brought security like a warm blanket enveloping me, ready to send me off into oblivion. Not long after she had closed the entrance to my imagination, I begged her to teach me this inviting ritual that intrigued me so. A smile grew across her face and lit up the dull room we sat in. She was a proud mother in that moment and was eager to teach her youngest daughter something she valued so much. As I grew older and entered into pre-school, every night I read to my mother instead of her to me. She would giggle just as I did when I read about poor Brer Rabbit getting All Stuck Up in an exaggerated southern accent. There was terror and panic in her face when I read about

Afanador 2 the decrepit witch Bony-Legs who lived in a house that stood on chicken feet. I had received a new feeling of accomplishment and soaked it in like a sponge for the time being. More curiosities came to me with writing as time passed. I was again mesmerized by the swirled ink drenched on sheets of paper. I arrogantly pretended to know how to write by dragging a pencil across countless slips of paper that formed squiggles and nonsense. However, I knew my mother would come to my aid once again if I begged her for assistance. She placed my insignificant hand into hers, holding a pencil much too large for me. With her cold, clammy hand wrapped in mine, she guided it along the paper slowly writing out my name. I knew it was because I sounded out each letter just as I did when I read my stories. My name is very long. I thought to myself. After that moment I scribbled my name on everything from walls to doors. Of course I would get in trouble for defacing the house, but I was exploding with eagerness to have learned yet another life-changing ability. As I obsessed over perfecting the curves of each letter, my knowledge was growing whether I was aware or not. Inevitably, time passed and grades flew by. In 3rd and 4th grade, my writing had blossomed as my reading interest had faded like the flame on a candle wicks last breath. My mother continued to encourage me with my new found aptitude for writing. I wrote short stories and poems about different worlds and creatures. I described places around me in such detail that whoever read it was connected by my hypnotic words. I kept a diary that I poured my deepest secrets and life occurrences into every day. However, as I grew older, I began to stray away from releasing my feelings onto paper or illustrating new worlds with my writing. The blissfully unaware child that I once was had transformed into a chaotic, angry juvenile. As I laid her to rest, I ceased to write again and coasted into a life of solitude.

Afanador 3 My teachers in high school acted as if my gifts were tangible, and I was burning them to ash before their eyes. The self-respecting people around me made me envious of their capability to carry on. Reading and writing became things that I loathed, and I proceeded to block them out of my life. I spiraled out of control throughout my entire adolescence, even detesting my mother who had shown me the talents I have today. Going around to every teacher in my high school, making them sign my life away to myself was unbearable. When I got to the last teacher, her eyes met mine with such disappointment. The only words she could produce were, Good luck to you Ms. Afanadorwhatever you decide to do, I know youll do great. Heat rushed to my face, tears welled up in my eyes and a cold hollow feeling in my gut formed as I walked away from my life as a high school student. Years passed without reading or writing, besides the test I took to obtain my General Education Diploma. In those years I met a girl, Orsi, who I have since asked to be my wife. Every other night, she lay down with a book in her hand and a tranquil expression spread on her face. I poked fun at her for reading so much until she insisted one day that I read with her. With her encouragement, I gave into this hobby I once despised. I felt with every turn of the page was turning me into the blissful, eager child I once was. The more books I read came with an undeniable feeling of accomplishment. My appetite for reading now has only grown with each finished book. The decision to go back to college this year was very daunting at first but with the love and support of my family and friends, I have achieved the thing I fear most. I couldnt be more thankful and appreciative of my up-bringing and I am more than willing now than ever to expand my knowledge further.