ERW Vivid Childhood Memory, final.

I used to hate reading; as funny as that may sound right now. The fact that I’m in an expository reading and writing class would serve to contradict that. But now, I love reading and writing. I love the sense of accomplishment I get from finishing an exceptionally long novel. I love that indescribable feeling I get from sharing ideas with other writers. I love how reading inspires the imagination and makes you think. This is the story of how it all started.

My family, both from my mother and father’s sides come from a country in South East Asia that takes up over 7,000 islands in the Philippine Sea. They immigrated here to the US sometime in the 80’s. I guess life on a farm in the Philippines was pretty hard. So they sold everything they had, and decided to pursue a dream in the land of opportunity. My mother only had the opportunity to go to college for one year, back in the Philippines. But she had to quit to help support her family. When she had time though, there was one thing that she loved to do; read books.

It was my mother that started me on reading books. Keep in mind that I grew up as a kid in the nineties, so there was no shortage of cartoons to keep kids like me entertained. One night before bedtime, she pulled out a book, and told me that she was going to start reading to me. I objected of course, content to just watch late night television; she persisted though, much to my dismay. When I look back on it now, I’m glad that she began reading to me against my will. I have no idea if I ever would have picked up on reading if she had never done it for me.

My mother read to me that night. I became fascinated by the story that flowed off the books many pages. By the time she kissed me good night and turned off the light, my mind was racing. I stared up at the green glow in the dark stars that peppered the ceiling of my room. I was hooked; I couldn’t wait until the next time she would read to me again. Eventually, I started reading on my own. My mother would take me to the library, and I would check out stacks of books that were probably taller than me. I wish you could have seen the look on the librarian’s face when I walked up to the check out counter with my stack of books..

I remember checking out all manner of books. Books about the mechanics of flight and airplanes shared space next to copies of Dr. Seuss’s Green Eggs and Ham and The Cat in the Hat. As I got older, naturally I progressed onto harder and longer books. I remember reading the first of the Harry Potter series. Reading naturally gave way to writing. I remember a day in elementary school, when I had to write a story for an assignment; it was my story that really caught my teacher’s eye. She even went through the trouble of calling my mother into her class and telling her that I was reading at a high school level. At least that’s what I remember.

The impact of that first bed time story is still felt, even today. Just look at where I am now. When my mother first read to me that night, I couldn’t have imagined that I’d be taking this class ten years later. Reading books and writing have become a major part of my life. I can’t imagine life without both; it certainly would be very different from what it’s like now. It has all led me to think and question everything, it’s taught me to think for myself. All of this is thanks to my mother, who, one night cracked open a book for me. It was a book that would open up the whole world to me.