words part 1.

One of my nephews is learning to read this year. It is fun to see videos of him reading to his little brothers. When the littles were first born I gave them a book and have every birthday since. Perhaps it’s the teacher in me. Perhaps it’s my love of reading. Perhaps it’s the example I had in family members who gave me books for my childhood birthdays. In the homes where my niece and nephews live, many books are read. It makes me happy. Happy because books are essential and instrumental in forming one’s vocabulary, one’s understanding of language both written and spoken, one’s comprehension of underlying messages, and one’s imagination.

Reading didn’t come easy for me. I remember my teacher in grade 1. She had fun posters on the chalkboard to help us remember letters and sounds. She loved to read stories to us and I loved writing. From the first days I was meticulous and a perfectionist - my letters needed to be formed just so. Several years ago I went through my school notebooks and found how neat my cursive was almost right from the start. My teachers were my heroes, and I wanted to be just like them… I tried to copy their cursive and to imitate their loops and angles. I loved hearing stories and I loved writing letters but I had such a difficult time reading. I hardly moved up to new levels and couldn’t form the words that were on paper with my mouth. A lot of insecurity arose during those early years, especially when my family moved during the summer after grade 2. From then on I was reading in a small group with a reading mom, while peers were allowed to read together - because they were able to read.

It wasn’t until I was in grade 5 that I was allowed to read with a younger reader; she was in grade 1 at the time. Suddenly I started enjoying reading. Why? Well, because finally I was the better reader, I could finally read with expression (or pretend to do so), and was able to help the little girl. (I remember who she is and I found out through a friend that this little girl is now a teacher as well!)

Receiving Christmas books from church and school and parents was always such a wonderful time. Two weeks of Christmas break with three new books! Wow! My parents used to read to me, I think, and then I started reading them on my own. Words became stories and stories became films in my head with wonderful images according to the author’s descriptions. A new world opened for me and I started reading more and more.

When we moved across the world I hit a wall, or perhaps you’d call it a ravine. My reading level plummeted. Not because I couldn’t do it anymore. No, it was because I had to learn a new language. What a terrible feeling it was when my sister and I had to go and check books out from the primary library at our school. ‘Run, dog run. The dog ran fast.’ Oh my, I was 13 years old and had to read such pathetic material - because I couldn’t speak this dumb language called English which was spoken in this dumb country called Canada where we lived.

Words.

Words printed on pages. Black and white. One letter beside another, beside another and another. Words forming sentences and sentences forming paragraphs. Words expressing setting, feeling, character, et cetera. Words expressing a time and a place and a person and a thing. Nouns and verbs and all that jazz (which I know all too well, but is too much to list right here and you non-grammar junkies don’t want to be bored with…). Once I started reading English my understanding of the language began to expand as well. I began to realize what people were saying and was able to formulate responses. The fact that I was thrown into a foreign language and had to swim in order to survive helped immensely in the rapidness of learning the strokes. I had to. There was no way around it. I started to dive deeper and swim across many seas, from elementary to middle to secondary and then post-secondary school - studying language and reading and writing for more than I thought possible or desired!

Words, curves on lined paper; sometimes pressed hard and written ferociously. Other times beautiful lines expressing gentleness. Those first few months after immigrating I started writing, writing down my feelings - the good, the bad, and the ugly. Words went across the world, ink on paper across the skies. With tears sometimes blurring my vision and the words all the same. I wrote. I had to. I couldn’t express myself any other way; verbal communication was too difficult. I couldn’t find the words to tell you how I was doing, not in English anyway. Thus I stuck to writing, cards and letters, to you and you and you. Many read my words, my words of anger and frustration, my words of shock and awe, my words of hate and disgust about the North American way. [I’m sorry team, I was a teenager forced to move across the world and it was hard, okay?!]

Words. I think that’s when words started finding me, when my brain started connecting words with feelings and I started expressing myself more fully. It was a way for me to cope with the situation, manage my emotions, and find ways to deal. Writing wasn’t a conscious effort or decision during that time, it just happened and it happened to work.

In 2005 we vacationed in the Netherlands, only 9 short months after immigrating. During our time in NL, I had a conversation with an older friend and mentor. I vividly recall her telling me that she believed me writing was a way of processing and giving things a place… It wasn’t until years later that her words came back to me.

Words. Written on paper, they let you look into someone’s life, their mind, their inside. Through my words (many posted on this blog) you can read what was and is going on. I can’t always verbalize the thoughts, can’t always get it across, but it’s there somewhere. Through writing I learn to read. Through writing I see what is going on in my own life. And as I look back in old journals, come across old letters and cards, read essays I have written over the years, I hear myself grow. Words on paper or on a screen, you get to see me. Words shared with you, it’s an open invitation. Come on in, I may be far away, but you get to still know me - through those words.