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Erica Esposito

Professor Pinkerton

English 1510

1 February 2019

The Difficult Journey

I vividly remember kindergarten and learning to read for the first time. I had Ms. Flicker

in Cold Spring Elementary school with a class of 30 kids. The first-time reading was a struggle,

but everyone was struggling it seemed like. I remember getting really frustrated and my

teacher always telling me it was fine to get upset because it was new. She always told me to go

do something else and come back to it. So, I did. As that year went on my classmates were

getting better, but I wasn’t. I was confused and frustrated, so I continued to walk away, doing

something else, and come back to it. This was just how kindergarten was. Maybe would one

day I would be a better reader.

1st and 2nd grade went by and I was still struggling. The reading was getting harder and I

didn’t feel like I was getting better. At every parent teacher meeting my parents were told that I

was just slower at learning to read, but that was okay. It didn’t seem okay. Why couldn’t I do

this? All my friends were really good at reading, but why not me? Library class was hard too. All

my friends were picking out these long hard books, but every time I went to get one of those I

got intimidated. I just stuck with the picture books because they were fun and who doesn’t like

picture books? I always felt like I had to check out a book because everyone else did and all of

them were smart because they were good at reading. I didn’t think I was smart because I

couldn’t read very well. All the smart people I knew were very good at reading. Not me.
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3rd grade rolled around, and I remember this one incident specifically from Ms.

Cunningham’s class. We were told we had 30 minutes to read this short story and then we had

to take a quiz on it. It was a reading test, and I hated these with a passion. I sat at my desk for

30 minutes as stressed as a 3rd grader could be. All the kids around me were flipping through

the pages so quickly and I was still on page one. I decided that I had to at least finish the story,

so I read, and I read fast. I had to keep up. Time was up! I finished the story, but what was it

about? The quiz was put in front of me and I panicked. I didn’t retain anything I had just read.

People started to hand in their quizzes and I didn’t even know what I was doing. I started to

guess, and I handed in my quiz hoping for the best. I got it back, and I failed. Shocker. I went

home that night and cried. I felt so stupid around all the other kids in my class. They probably

thought I was stupid too. Smart people know how to read, but not me. The next week, I was put

into a reading class.

How embarrassing for a 3rd grader. Reading class, seriously? While all my friends were in

normal class for reading, I got pulled out to go to a different room with some lady one on one.

We practiced a lot of reading, but like 1st grade reading. Even more embarrassing. As this class

went on I seemed to be getting better. Maybe not as good as my friends and other classmates,

but still better. Together we figured out what the problem was. I wasn’t able to retain any

information that I was reading if I read at a normal speed. So, learned to read slower and more

carefully and I was taught to put my finger under each sentence, so I don’t get lost. Brilliant! It

was time for the next reading test and I was ready. I’m smart now, I can read! We got 30

minutes to read again and the time began. I put my finger under the sentence and began to

read slowly and carefully. I was doing it, I was understanding, I was retaining, it all made sense!
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Times up! Wait, what? I’m not done! Great. The test was put in front of me and with no

surprise I got only half the test right. I went home and cried again to my mom. I was never going

to be able to read like the other kids. What was wrong with me?

I had reading class all the way until 5th grade. Since my elementary school went to 6th

grade, I guess they wanted to see how I would do on my own before I went to middle school.

Well I clearly didn’t do well. Every day in 6th grade we had SSR for an hour and while all the

other kids brought a chapter book to school I always got one from the loaner shelf and just sat

there. For the entire hour I stared into space, flipped through the book pages, looked at

everyone else, and basically did anything and everything except read that book. It was a real

productive hour of pure nothing. Lucky for me we had no reading tests in 6 th grade because I

guess they assumed everyone knew how to read at this point. I could read, but just wasn’t good

at it. It one day hit me that once middle school and high school rolls around there is going to be

a lot more reading, so I had to get it together somehow.

Middle school hit, and I was right. More reading and more frustrating classes. I

somehow got through it, but then 9th grade English class hit. For our final, we had to write a

personal narrative about anything we wanted. All finals I had in the past were always to read a

book and do some kind of presentation, but a personal narrative? I knew what it was, but I

never got to write one. I was a pretty decent writer, and even though it wasn’t my favorite I

was able to get through it, unlike reading. I was kind of excited, but I had no idea what to write

about. In 9th grade I was going through a really difficult time. My best friend’s family was going

through a rough time and my family was dragged into the mess. I went through things that no

one should ever have to go through. After talking to another friend that was in my English class
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with me, she suggested writing about everything that was happening in my life. It seemed a bit

personal, but after a lot of thought I decided it was the way to go. Writing about everything was

honestly a good therapy for me. I was able to just let everything out, and it felt good. Really

good. The paper was 10 pages titled, “To Live.” It was one of the best papers I ever wrote, and I

couldn’t have been prouder of myself. I got an A on the final, and that was the moment I

realized that maybe I wasn’t the best reader, but I was a good writer. Unfortunately, I never got

to write another personal narrative until 11th grade.

College essays. I had no idea what to write, and this was important. I wanted to stand

out and didn’t want to write about something college’s read all the time. I had a meeting with

my English teacher, Mr. Gorlick, to discuss what I was going to write about. He asked me about

the hardest challenge I ever had to go through. I thought about it for a second. I told him the

greatest challenge is battling my depression and anxiety every day. That was it, the perfect

essay. I went home that night and the words spilled out of me so effortlessly. It reminded me

about my 9th grade final paper, and it felt great. I had trouble keeping the page length down

because I just had so much to say. I handed it in and got an A, and that essay got me into most

of my colleges, but most importantly got me into Ohio University. I was so proud of it, and I am

so happy my English teacher pushed me to write about something so personal.

Learning to read was definitely a struggle for me, and a long journey, but because of this

journey I discovered that writing personal narratives were something I was really great at. I love

it because I can inspire others through writing about something that happened to me. Since I

discovered that I want to inspire other’s it ultimately helped me in my decision in my major of

entrepreneurship and marketing. I want to work in fashion to inspire women to love

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themselves no matter what. I am so thankful that I was able to learn to read and write because

in some places that option isn’t even there. It was a long journey, but worth every second.