Final Literacy Narrative

Andrea Neeranjan

Feb 18, 2009

Literacy Narrative

Eng 2020

Growing up in a somewhat-traditional sort-of-Indian household, education has always been my priority. When I was first introduced to writing, it seemed like it was just another subject to excel at. It was like math, but with letters instead of numbers. But, it was basic - too simple to be interesting. However, I continued to follow my teachers’ lessons on writing and grammar, but didn’t care about the content of the writing. At the same time, I didn’t speak. Maybe because I was too focused trying to become the “perfect” student, I never even bothered to expand my oral communication skills. I’d talk normally to my close friends and direct family, but mumbled when asked a question to anyone else. So, when I was given my first creative writing assignment, it was astonishing how much I had to say. When I failed to communicate orally, writing helped me reveal my thoughts and dreams onto paper. Now that I’m a more comfortable speaker, writing helps my inner perfectionist shine. Writing, interestingly enough has always been a reflection of my character.

I was incredibly shy as a kid. I’d hide behind my mom or dad when being introduced to someone, or whisper in my mom’s ear to have her say the words I didn’t have the confidence to say myself. I was considered the “mute” in my family and my class. The game ‘telephone’ always comes to my mind when I had to communicate to someone outside my circle of friends. I’d say something to someone to tell to someone else, which, in turn, told the message to the destined recipient. Of course, if you’ve played this game, the original message always was misinterpreted, so my form of communication was limited. I chose not to speak and I wasn’t too fond of writing. Eventually, something had to give.

My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Gilbert, asked our class to write a short story on, of what I recall, a rock. I thought it was incredibly dumb at first. Who can come up with an amazing story about a rock? Well, turns out, I could. When my idea hit me, I wrote and filled up not a page, not even two or three pages, but seven full pages about a schoolgirl who discovers a magical rock that grants her three wishes her heart desires. Probably due to my obsession with Disney movies as a child, the story was similar to the plot from Aladdin. In a way, this first story was my opportunity to put myself in those shoes and be the girl with the fairy-tale adventure. Regardless, I was exceptionally proud of myself and amazed at what I was able to do with only a few pieces of paper, a pen, and my thoughts. Mrs. Gilbert continued to give us creative writing assignments and I continued to write my stories. The more I wrote, the more I “spoke.” I found a comfort in writing, and as time progressed, I found “myself” in writing.

Writing immediately became my “me” time. It was a comfort, a consistency - it never changed, and it was and still is, always there. I kept diaries and journals, I wrote countless numbers of stories on wide-ruled loose-leaf paper, all stored away now in a big red box in my room. These small, overlooked forms of writing allowed me to develop both as a writer and as a being. Truly, the more I wrote, the greater my “voice” was becoming. Eventually, I had no problem communicating my writing through my real voice.

During this time, writing helped me transition speech into my main form of communication within the next couple of years. It doesn’t count for much, but being unable to talk to my best friend during class, we wrote ridiculously long notes to one another. And since I wasn’t able to convey my personality through speech, it had to shine through my writing. In these notes, my sense of humor appeared quirkier and all my stories seemed more dramatic than they originally were (which explains why I’m such a drama queen today). I was no longer the shy, quiet girl in my writing, but rather an obnoxious, quite humorous teenager (or preteen at that time). Oddly enough, the personality in my writing was carried into reality. Writing helped me bring out the other side of my personality and in essence, induced another source of communication.

At this time, I had the opportunity to see the writer I was, meaning, I had a clearer perception to the person I wanted to be. Being able to distance myself from my writing and see not only the content, but also my style and tone, helped me transition that into my speech. My writing (at that time) had an obvious charisma and charm, which I strangely admired. I wanted to portray my same “self” in my writing to my “self” in reality. Soon enough, life imitated art and I took on the same personality my writing carried. Writing was no longer a source of communication for me, but rather, a reflection of myself.

Others began to notice this change in my character. Over time, people were able to visualize me when reading one of my texts, or even an essay for English class. I’ve heard it on more than a few occasions where peers and teachers would say, “I could definitely see you saying what you wrote.” In that sense, my transition from verbal communication to oral communication was ultimately successful. My personality was able to shine through two mediums, a feat that was nearly impossible for me a few years back. Now that I was a comfortable speaker, I didn’t need writing to help me state my thoughts and feelings, it now had another purpose: becoming perfect.

When I was younger (really young, like age five or six), my parents (mostly my dad) sat down with my brother, sister and I and informed us that without an education, our lives were virtually meaningless (who tortures five-year old kids with these things? My parents are sick, I know). I remember coming home with a 99 on a Social Studies test in the third grade, feeling ridiculously proud of myself (especially since I got the highest grade in the class) and my dad just looked at it and asked, “Why didn’t you get a 100?” That day, my dad turned me into a perfectionist. I checked and double-checked everything. There was absolutely no room for any margin and error. Years and years later, I realized it’s virtually impossible to be perfect. I saw I was able to be perfect in writing, through editing. In editing, I had the ability to go back over and over again, checking, fixing, deleting, adding – you name it, I was able to do it, without any repercussions. No one even had to know you made a mistake in the first place. Editing fascinated me in this way, because it was the only chance in life you had to erase your mistakes.

The major turning point in writing came to me my junior year of high school. I was taught by the most amazing English teacher, who’s every little writing peeve was embossed and engraved in my head and subconscious. Because of her, writing became an act of achieving perfection – both in the editing stage and writing stage. She taught me one lesson I will never ever forget: you can’t assume your reader knows what you’re trying to say. I made sure to be as simple and precise as possibly, without being redundant and babbly. This small advice made me start edit papers constantly and I loved it. I cut words, phrases, sentences, and paragraphs that weren’t necessary relative and replaced them with words that were sweet and clear. My writing was logical and short, while still maintaining its charisma and it helped develop my on-growing love for editing.

Being such a critical person (there’s no way you can be a perfectionist without being critical), it was an easy way of taking a negative aspect of my personality and bringing it to a positive light. Instead of hurting people by telling them their obvious flaws, I offended them in a less apparent and more effective way. It was my way of taking control of a situation. In a sense, editing was my form of rehearsing. I didn’t get to edit what comes out of my mouth (which has always been a problem for me), but I did get to decide what goes on a piece of paper. I had the ability to do it over and over again repeatedly until it’s right - until it’s finally perfect. The control in editing was more appealing than the editing itself. I was able to fix everything with a cross out and replace it with words a bit more powerful.

It was only a few days ago when I edited one of my friend’s papers. I was actually having a pretty terrible day and being able to make right of all these wrongs on a piece of paper made me overwhelmingly happy. The paper was appalling when I first read it. It had no focus, an extreme lack of organization, and it was filled with irrelevant evidence. After spending a good amount of hours fixing it up, I managed to get my friend an A-. He wasn’t entirely happy when he saw the amount of scratch-marks and red ink, but when he received his grade, he was more than pleased. Editing allowed me to take my negative energy and turn it into one that’s beneficial, for the writer and myself. It coincided and relaxed my need to criticize and perfect a universe full of chaos.

Seemingly, writing is just a take of my personality. It’s my words, my voice, and my personality. It’s my way of finding out my heart’s desires for a magical rock to grant or my way of appeasing my constant need for perfection. Whether it’s imitating childhood dreams or quirky personality traits, my writing is who I am. Writing, essentially, is part of who I am and who I aspire to be.