They say kids are like sponges; The younger we are, the easier it is to absorb. Knowledge is acquired through experience and what we are exposed to. Furthermore, it’s necessary for us to nourish language and literacy from an early start, for the things we learn will serve as guidance and as tools for the “us” in the future. I can acknowledge this statement now as an adult with years in my past. But as a child, my actions told a different story.

 For me, Spanish came first, English second. My first 6 years of life were in Venezuela and so English wasn’t essential. I did attend an after school class where I learned basic phrases and words but even so, I paid little mind to it. Then as my 6th birthday approached, my life completely changed and I left everything behind to start a new life in Boston, Massachusetts. All I brought with me that tied me to my roots was my family, boxes on boxes with toys and Spanish children’s books, and my Spanish. Now, the English language was at the center of it all. As for English literature, I pushed it far to the side, for reading was never a passion of mine to begin with and so I chose to do the bare minimum that was required of me as an Elementary schooler in the United States. 

I was very shy as a kid. Communicating with anyone that wasn’t my family was already hard in my native language and now I was expected to speak and read in a language that others from birth had known. I remember imagining a glass wall between myself and English and preferred resorting to the comfort my dolls and movies gave me. But the act of speaking was ingrained in my everyday activities and avoiding its presence wasn’t an option. As for reading, things were a little different. In the class, I could get away with a quick look at the words, add a wrinkle between the brows for a pensive look, and let students and the teacher take it away while my eyes were simply resting above the page. To put it simply, I found reading boring. I lacked patience, curiosity, and desire for books. Knowing the type of kid that I was, I would only partake in something if I found genuine joy. My tolerant relationship with literature did not ride the bus back home with me and it certainly did not find its way in my hands. Looking back, it’s funny to me how my basement held a collection of 700 books that belonged to my mom. Some of her favorite’s were “The Wednesday Witch” by Ruth Chew and any piece of literary work by Jane Austin. Not all the books had a place on the bookshelves, for some were stacked on the floor or balancing themselves on the ledge of the shelves. But to me, It didn’t matter the diversity of literary works that rested in my basement. Not once did I pick out a book on my own other than occasionally picking up one of my children’s books in Spanish to enjoy a brief moment of Nostalgia.

In second grade,  our teachers started to take us on monthly trips to the school’s library. It was with the intention to motivate us to read. More times than not, I would walk into the library with a sense of dread every time we’d go.  I would pick a book that met my demands; BIG font, large pictures and of course, with the least amount of pages. These requirements followed every book I chose. A year later as a third grader, I was still keeping a large distance between English literature and myself. That is, any book that had words filling up the pages from top to bottom rather than an image as the focal point. Literature has many forms and sizes but the real daunting work was the one that required more reading than anything else.

 I saw the library as a forbidden place. My negative views on reading forbade me from sprouting any curiosity towards a book and finding a reason to step into the library’s hidden treasures. From my eyes, the library was quiet, it was foreign. There were books on books, and large posters with fictional characters with wands and brooms in their hands, hanging high on the walls. On one of our visits, I observed the library as I always had. Nothing had occurred prior in the day that would have suggested maybe this time it’d be different. My class and I had single-filed into a corner that read READING AREA. The librarian Ms. Mcdougall and a book were waiting for us. We settled down and she’d begun to read.  Afterwards, we had our usual time to look around for our personal pick. I wandered around and carefully searched for what appeared like easy choices. I was prepared to be the last kid at the checkout line. And then, as I aimlessly passed the time, my eyes landed on a softcover book with a sketched out drawing. 

There was a girl, sitting on a stack of books and the name Matilda read across the top. I wondered, is this the same Matilda I saw on tv? I looked at the inside only to confirm my suspicions to be true. My immediate thought was how easy it would be to get away with “reading” what I already knew! So, I grabbed it,  checked it out and didn’t give it a second thought for the rest of the day. 

I must have been absolutely undeniably, totally and utterly BORED to have found the book in my lap. Whether it was boredom or a shred of curiosity invading my mind I don’t recall but I began to read:

“It’s a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think he or she is wonderful. “

Not a bad start.  I continued to read.

”Some parents go further. They become so blinded by adoration they manage to convince themselves their child has qualities of genius.”

I read. I paid attention to the words and the weight they carried. I imagined and created images, characters, personalities. I let myself get lost in the writing and flipped through the pages effortlessly. Soon enough, I started to see myself within the text. I resonated with her solitude, with being part of a dysfunctional family. I listened to her character, and why literature was her best friend. I found pure joy when diving in the universe of Rhoald Dahl. The more I read, the easier it became yet harder it was to leave the book alone. 

The library became the prettiest place in the whole school. I could no longer deny literature from my life. Reading Matilda was personal and rewarding and was the literary work that opened the door for other books. Books have provided me with comfort and a place to escape from my own reality, much like the way it does for Matilda. I started accepting my moms recommendations and becoming familiar with the books in my basement. However, the book may never have crossed paths with my childhood, if I hadn’t been forced to step into the school’s library. I cherished not only Roald Dahl’s writing but also the lesson that was in place. Letting myself be exposed to a world that I had closed myself off from, only let good things come out of it.   Literature is one of the many things that add color to our lives, so why deny its beauty?