Listening to books being read has been a critical part of my literacy narrative. From my parents reading picture books to me, to enjoying audiobooks as an adult, being read to has been a staple in my enjoyment of the world of literature. I even spent a number of years in early middle school listening to the Harry Potter books on tape, as they help to rid me of the night terrors I dealt with at the time. The activity has a certain level of comfort to it that I believe many of us that have grown up with this shared experience might identify with.

I have also found that I get a great deal of pleasure from reading aloud to other people. I believe this stems from the time my brother read The Hobbit to me. While I am sure it was not the first time a book had been read to me, it was one of the first times that someone had read me a story of such length and maturity. My brother, a high schooler at the time, would offer to read to me after dinner, before I went to bed. We would climb the steps to the top floor of our house, where he had annexed himself out of what I can only imagine was teenage angst and a desire to be left alone, and sit on the floor of his room where he would crack open an old copy of the text. I still have that same copy of the book somewhere—battered and dog eared, the binding coming loose and a piece of construction paper wrapped around it as a replacement for its long lost cover.

I suspect that his stint in the theater department at his high school played a role in his desires, but that experience remains one of my cherished memories of our brotherhood. He gave each of the characters a unique voice, inflecting as that would, coming to life through his words. Though I knew the story from the animated movie, listening to the book was somehow so much more enchanting. My mother would go on to read me the first three Harry Potter books, but reading The Hobbit with my brother was one of the more memorable literacy events of my life.

As I think back on my childhood several small books come to my mind such as The Very Hungry Caterpillar, The Little Engine That Could, Amelia Badelia, and so forth. Growing up. I had a vast book collection, so I cannot exactly recall the first book I ever read or was read to me. My mother would read to me daily because she and my father strongly encouraged literacy. I was very skilled in reading and writing, at a young age. Whenever I would start a book, I would simply become bored and forget to finish reading it. I guess I could say, I had the attention span of a goldfish. However, there is one book that I remember clearly and that I am very proud to say I read thoroughly. I was in the fifth grade, and I met the end of the year Accelerated Reader criteria. On my personal time, I decided to read a book called, The Secret Garden, and it was my very first chapter book other than the Goosebumps series. In order to get extra credit the teacher allowed us to write an essay on a book of our choice as long as the book was on our reading level. The Secret Garden was without a doubt the most exciting book, and it could tap into my imagination and kept me guessing all the way through. The Secret Garden was mainly about a little girl who lost both of her parents due to an earthquake, so she moves in with her uncle who is very distant towards everyone. She undergoes a lot of hardships in her time. The little girl grew bored of her lonely room, and she began to explore the estate. Much to her surprise, she came across a secret garden that had been locked away and had been hidden by shrubbery. The little girl also had an ill cousin who was afraid of life as a whole. Her cousin would often times go out into the yard with her (from what I can remember). The little girl fixed the garden to her liking and basically, in the end, everyone was happy. The book was written where that it could lock the reader in and make them imagine that they were one with the little girl. As a child, a book that could tap into emotions was pretty much a well written book.

While I cannot remember all of the instances where I was forced to sit by a computer chair and read aloud to a mother who made me restart until she heard me pronounce every word, I can recall reading one pop-up picture book entitled Counting on Angels. The story’s main focus is teaching children the numbers one through ten with the use of cool and neutral colors that spring to life once they open a new page; but looking back, there were other elements of the book that I didn’t catch on to when I was younger.

The imagery of angels ties into Christianity, and while I do not remember any references to God, the book mentions prayer at the very end. Throughout the ten-page story, the angels are seen as figures looking over children as they prepared for bed. They are always present, but never speak to the children directly. Towards the end when they see that their “work is done” for the day, they fly off and go to other sleepy children to protect them as well. This was a subtle approach to introducing me to religion without having to throw me right into creation stories or bible verses. It allowed for me to realize that I was being watched over and protected all of the time. It was comforting to know that children like myself had guardians, and that they were benevolent beings that only wanted my safety and happiness.

Another interesting aspect of the book is that this is my first memory of diverse characters in a picture book. Like the angels tying into Christianity, I did not pick up on this consciously. There were angels of all races, which shows that the author/illustrator intended for the book to include more than one type of person. For children, this could send off a message that anyone could be an angel regardless of how they looked, and that they were protected and loved unconditionally.

Counting on Angels is simple and provides a type of interaction that one would find in most children’s books, but there are still features of it that I still probably haven’t analyzed in my adulthood. If I ever have the chance, I would like to find this book again and see what other messages I may find.

The Princess and The Pea was the first storybook I ever read. I remember coming home and showing my mother I could read with this book. I memorized the entire thing very quickly and as my mom noticed this, she came to the conclusion that I needed a new book. The story begins with a girl who is drenched wet knocking on a door and trying to find safety. She claims to be a princess, however because she does not look like one, she is overlooked. They then test her sensibility because only a normal girl could sleep sound-fully on a mattress with a pea underneath it.  To the mothers surprise, the Princess awakens the next day and says she had trouble sleeping because there seemed to be a lump in the bed. (Ridiculous, I know.) From this day forward she is recognized as a true Princess and she lives a long happy life alongside her new Prince. I loved it because it was fairly easy to read and somehow the story always kept me entertained. I had an obsession with princesses when I was younger. The ones that did not actually look like princesses intrigued me the most. (The Princess Diaries was also a favorite of mine). I wanted to be a princess SOOO badly and these books gave me hope that some day it would happen. Although the story is completely impossible, the little girl in me is still in love with this book. 

The very first book that I could recall reading was, awkwardly enough, the twelfth night by William Shakespeare. I had just turned ten years old and had been in the United States for about three years so my English hadn’t been good. My father thought I could learn the English vocabulary faster with the help of his favorite English writer and poet, William Shakespeare. Just like father, like daughter, I soon became obsessed with Shakespeare and his works starting from the twelfth night. It wasn’t odd for me to like that kind of literature because up to that point of my life, I hadn’t read any American children books that I could compare it to. I didn’t feel unusual, liking Shakespeare at that particular age because it felt nice to enjoy educated talks with my father.

As it turns out, Shakespeare was more fascinating than I had ever imagined seeing that I still can’t find a book more entertaining and scandalous as the cast of the twelfth night. Identical brothers and sisters, love affairs and of course the conventional awkward jealousy being told in 17th century rhythm and dialect was a thoroughly enjoyable read. What ten year old wouldn’t love hearing stories of dukes, lords, ships, and deceit in the earliest form of literature? The twelfth night is still one of my favorite stories from William Shakespeare. I was envious of Violas courage and Olivia, so cunning and beautiful, was inspiring to me and my unsolicited mind. I understood the dynamic between the characters before I knew the drama of life and society. There is a lot to learn from reading adult fiction at such a young age as my entire world became more of a fantasy adventure. Adult fiction is powerful because of the diction and ironic wordplay used that for younger audience, with their limitless imagination, could visualize something bigger and better than themselves. It’s one thing to imagine fairy tales and happily ever afters but it felt bigger than life to apprehend the affairs of men and 17^th century behavior.

“A Seed”

My first experience with literature was around the age of five. Give or take a few years — my memories from that age are hazy at best. I do, however, remember my father reading the book out loud to myself and my sister with great clarity. That book was The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien. I can see, vividly, the layout of the furniture. My sister and I shared a room, our twin beds lined up along one wall. My father would pull up a chair (beside my bed, I would have you note — clearly I was his favorite) and crack open the tome, dispensing only one chapter each night. No matter how much I protested, bribed, or reasoned, I would have to wait until the next evening to hear any more.

This was almost certainly the seed from which grew my love of all things fantasy, not to mention my becoming a hopeless nerd. I would tell my fellow kindergarteners how AMAZING the story of Bilbo was, what with its hobbits, and wizards, and dwarves, and elves, and, oh my gosh, the WORLD itself! As I recall they could not have cared less, but that didn’t dampen my enthusiasm.

To this day my favorite stories are big and fantastical, be they the works of George R.R. Martin or Robert Jordan or one of almost countless others (thankfully I never had a shortage of reading material). Of course I read more standard children’s works as well — Where the Wild Things Are comes to mind as a favorite — but it will always be The Hobbit that has hold of a special, very consequential portion of my heart.  I couldn’t be more thankful to my father for the role he played in instilling in me a love of reading, or more grateful that he chose such a wonderful book.

– Chris Kimsey

I can remember the first book I ever read: There is a Town, by Gail Herman.

More importantly, I remember the feeling I had when I read it for the first time. Apart from being proud, I was excited, because I knew more about the world than I did before I read it. I knew something about a little girl, who wasn’t me, about what she got for her birthday and what her family was like, and how the streets in her town were different than the ones in mine. I have now read a plethora of books, and I can say with confidence that I have learned at least one thing from each of them. Even if I didn’t benefit just by virtue of the information from books, the process of reading has helped me in my academic life since elementary school. After being diagnosed with ADHD, many parts of school were a struggle for me, with the exception of English. For years, reading the only time I never felt distracted or confused. I think succeeding in my favorite subject gave me the confidence to apply myself in others, and allowed me to getting better at using the same concentration I had for reading in more areas. My lifelong love for reading has been the most valuable asset in my English courses at Georgia State, and has also been one of the skills I’ve developed the most. I consider reading to be something beyond the physical act of sitting down and looking at a text. Instead, it’s a foundation that enables me to think critically about the world around me, understand other people, places, and times, and reflect on issues that are overlooked.