Literacy Narrative- Free Write

        Reading
     I am sure my mother read to me. I am sure I was read to by child care workers; however, I remember nothing. I do remember sitting in a large, cavernous inner room of a school building or library within a circle of short book shelves with my class.  We were meeting an author. Someone who had written a book about polar bears, and she sat on a low chair and read to us.  I was fascinated. How could she know all this stuff? The book smelled so new, and the light blue cover was a pretty contrast to the stark white polar bear pictured on it.
     Because I know the place of this memory, California, I can determine a time period of my life (I was a military brat for the first 6 years of life, so I am able to recognize memory time line through place).  I must have been 4-5 years old.  I remember having a set question or thought that I wanted to address to the author. My mother must have reviewed the book with me previously, had a discussion with me about what I liked most about the book, and prompted me to remember this to speak with the author.  I remember the author smiling at me. I must have been an adorable know-it-all, curiosity and admiration oozing from every pore.
        Writing 
  Elementary School in the up-state New York Farmhouse
    I don't know the first memory of writing; I can account for a few early memories. I remember working with my mother to write poem for class that would be sent away for a poetry contest. I remember being frustrated and upset because the prompt asked for (what I felt was) a personal and intimate aspect of my life that I did not want to publicize and share with strangers. My mother helped find a topic that was special but not so special that I felt exposed. Although I got my A in the class, of course, I didn't win the contest. And of course, I blamed my mother.

Middle School in the up-state New York Farmhouse
   I remember rewriting my math notes from one disorganized, tattered, and tear-stained notebook to a pristine notebook every evening for a week in an attempt to understand the work for my final test.  As I transferred the work, I attempted to internalize and understand the information.  I remember being focused on the information and attempting to keep my frustration and sadness as secondary.  I kept saying to myself, "you can figure this out.  The answer is right here, now just figure out how they got to it... it's right here, Mellissa, walk through it".  I was successful in learning some concepts, even learning to love some of the work. I know I passed the test, by how much is anyone's guess.

High School in a dirty, smelly Long Island Classroom
   I remember being placed in a group with the "pretty" girl to research and write a paper. I refused to do all the work, so I assigned each of us sections. When we came together on various drafting and peer review days, I worked with her explaining the suggested changes in sentencing, organization, purpose, etc.  We got an A. I remember because from the time of being assigned as a group on, she sat next to me every day (even those days she didn't have to). That puzzled me.  I didn't care either way; it just puzzled me.  When we received the paper back and she and I both flipped to the back page to see the grade (to be truthful, I think she flipped to the back page; I don't recall caring too much about the grade as I knew we'd done A work), she did her cute little cheerleader squeal, hugged me (invading my space and making me uncomfortable), and exclaimed, "this is awesome! I have never gotten an A before! EVER! How do you do this?!!?"

Journalling
Throughout my middle school, high school, and early college years, I kept a journal.  I occasionally still write in a paper journal, but since google docs, smart phones, and the accessibility of digital tools, I write mostly with those tools. I find that the accessibility and expediency of talk-to-text and swiping capabilities allows for a more "natural" journalling in that I can note anything that I'd like pretty much any where and at any time. No longer tethered to the paper-bound journal, I am able to compose more, but write less.

All of these writing experiences highlight how my belief  "everyone has something they struggle with, and something they are good at" was formed.  I use writing to help cope with and conquer my feelings.