Literacy can bring together people from a variety of backgrounds and help them communicate their thoughts and ideas with one another, which is why it is something that I’ve continuously revered throughout my life. It is something I’ve considered to have always been a part of me, and I find it hard to remember a time without it in my life. It’s something that I feel like I’ve known forever, like knowing how to walk or talk, but still, it had to start from somewhere. My journey begins in Kindergarten, as most people tend to learn about literacy at that time, but my process of learning did not ensue for the same reasons as others.

            It was the beginning of the Kindergarten school year, different hues of orange-colored leaves covered the sidewalks, and the feeling of summer fun melted away with each cool breeze that blew over me. I was beyond excited for the new year to begin and for all the possibilities the future held; the air almost had a spark to it because of my own electrifying excitement. As I predicted, one of the many possibilities of the year appeared with the arrival of a new girl to our class, and no one could stop talking about it. The only reason being was that I went to an “outback” school, or a small school out in the countryside, with the nearest city about 45 minutes away, so everyone knew everyone whether you liked it or not. With that, every child in my class was perplexed with her, including myself, as she was dressed more beautiful and elegant than I, or any other classmate, had seen before. She had a long, silky scarf snaking around her neck that matched perfectly with her green and purple daisy dress and her caramel hair that was held high in a neat, professional-looking bun. I was in awe. She had this aura of grace and poise, and I was entranced by her, completely hypnotized by the way she carried herself. To my pleasure, the teacher seated her directly in front of my desk, giving me the perfect view of this new and mysterious individual in our classroom. The teacher then announced her name to be Maggie, which I found completely fitting for her whole character, and I gave her a reassuring smile because I could tell she felt foreign in this new land, even though I was somewhat intimidated by her. She had an ally here, a person that was ready to befriend her, and I wanted her to know that she wasn’t completely alone. That is, until lunch came and went, and I soon found myself turning into an enemy preparing for battle.

            When we returned to class from our all-to-early lunch at 10 am, my teacher sat my classmates and me down in a circle on our round rainbow rug and began to introduce reading, the thing we had been preparing for with the alphabet since we first began school in Pre-K. I was thrilled, to say the least. To my 6-year-old mind, reading and writing meant I was growing up and finally gaining some independence, no longer needing the help of adults. Sadly, before we could even begin to delve into the new wonders of creating words and intertwining them into sentences, Maggie jumped up and announced to everyone that she could read, as if that if she didn’t say it then, she would have forgotten it forever. We were all surprised and quite taken aback, including the teacher, because not only had she startled all of us, but no one had been ahead in schoolwork. I found myself immediately denying it, thinking she made it up, and as I looked around, a few of my classmates’ faces said the exact same thing I was thinking. But, to my dismay, she stood up with the teacher’s permission and began to read off the words underneath each letter of the alphabet on a poster above our whiteboard. “Apple, Bee, Cat…” Maggie proudly continued, but it didn’t matter because her voice had faded away, and my face began to heat. I was jealous. Extremely jealous in fact, and I would not stand for that.

            Before Maggie, I had liked to see myself as the smartest kid in that class, nay the school. Throughout my little time at that country school, I had always been praised and given extra responsibilities because the teachers saw me as “gifted”, and I loved every minute of it. My family even had a legacy of sorts there because of my older siblings that had gone there before me, who then created a legion of teachers who adored anyone with the last name Hernandez. Now it was my turn to step into the spotlight and receive the applause of my peers and teachers, but something, or someone, was standing in my way, and her name was Maggie. She had shoved me out of the spotlight, taking the applause and appraisal I had once adored. I deserved it, and I wasn’t just jealous anymore, I was furious. I could feel the teachers and students leaning more and more towards her for help and the responsibilities that had once been mine. I was sidelined, and I felt like a last resort that no one needed or wanted. Now left in the dust of those leaving me behind, I was jealous, furious, and most of all, hurt. But I had a plan.

            I picked myself up and dusted myself off, and knew I needed to get back at Maggie, the spotlight stealer. I would learn to read even better than she did, if that was possible, and I’d even one-up her by showing her I could write sentences, or at least that’s what my train of thought was at the time. I was on a mission now and nothing could stop me. I was more determined than I had ever been about anything, and I set my plan into motion.

            From then on, I listened as hard as I could when the teacher gave her lessons, and with any given chance, I would volunteer to help her so I could get practice in. At first, I was overwhelmingly impatient after only a few days that I still hadn’t gotten as good as Maggie, but thankfully my teacher noticed my frustration and reminded me that no matter how long it took me, I would get there. With my new confidence boost, I found myself with a spring in my step, running home every day after school asking my mother to read to me or to take me to the library so I could scavenge the aisles of books, trying to understand the titles around me. I was trying my hardest and everyone could see; even Maggie noticed. She didn’t acknowledge my doings, and in fact, I thought she seemed to see my pursuits as laughable, but I didn’t care what she thought. I persevered on my reading quest because I knew, deep inside of me, that I would learn to read.

            Thankfully, about two months later, I finally found myself equal with her after I had spent day in and day out learning how to properly read and write. I was filled with pride and I envisioned myself now on a stage once again, but now across from Maggie, each vying for the attention of the spotlight to shine on one of us. Soon after I had “mastered” reading and writing, my teacher paired Maggie and me into a reading group because we were now at the same upper level. I saw this as a competition, even though my teacher had made it clear prior to our sessions that it was for learning from one another, because I needed to prove that I was clearly the better student who deserved all the praise. Maggie and I started spending more and more time together alongside our regular daily classes, with me trying to one-up her with every given chance by showing the teacher my mastery of sentence comprehension and sentence building skills. Of course, my teacher didn’t divulge my wishes in knowing who the best was, but still, I continued the same at almost every session, and then before I knew it, there was a shift. It was like the wall I had built between Maggie and I had crumbled, with each session together taking a brick away. I soon began to actually see her for who she was, in and outside of school, and I liked it. We both did.

            With my realization that we were no longer enemies but friends, I started to rethink my stance on reading and writing, and then like a giant burst of light from the gates of heaven, everything made sense to me. Reading and writing weren’t just ways to show someone’s intelligence level, the words had meaning to them. You could tell a story, your experiences, your thoughts, and anything else you wanted to express through literacy, and someone somewhere would understand exactly what you were saying, as well as make their own thoughts and ideas based on your work. Now, after finding out that words had weight, my journey truly began, and like a runner hearing a gunshot, I was off.

            I went to every book fair and every bookstore in my town, buying as many books as my parents would allow. I would read each book at nearly lightning speed, not because I wanted to prove myself, but because I was engrossed with every story I came across, completely transported to another reality. I found myself writing magical and mythical stories of my own imagination, creating worlds entirely my own, and writing letters to family members in an attempt to create pen pals, all because I now had the ability to communicate through the written word. Maggie and I would even spend time at each other’s houses, reading, writing, and talking about everything and anything, because we now had each other. We were no longer fighting for the spotlight, a scene I had created in my mind; we were now friends and the idea of performing for teachers and classmates left my mind. Soon, I found there to be a new love in my life that completely took over my heart, and it was literacy.

            Looking back on that time of my life now, I find myself chuckling at how silly it was to be competitive over being the “best” student. I thought the prize for all my work was appraisal and applause, but the true prize that I found myself appreciating was friendship and literacy. Literacy brought people together, no matter their differences, and that was what made me fall in love. Literacy connected people and made the world seem somewhat smaller, even with so many different thoughts and opinions bouncing around. An instance that especially reminds me of that is when I was in middle school and all the girls around me began to sort themselves into cliques.

            It was spring and the end of the school year was fast approaching, with summer finally in sight, and I was still attending my country school. My mother and I were at home cleaning out her cramped closet, separating what could be thrown away, donated, or kept. As we sorted, I stumbled upon a book with the cutest white rabbit I had ever seen drawn on the cover, the title reading The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane on the bottom in beautiful white cursive calligraphy (DiCamillo and Ibatoulline). I was mesmerized, and my mother could tell, a small, understanding smile on her lips. I asked why I had never seen it before and she explained to me that she had read it to my older siblings when they were children, but she had tucked it away and forgotten where she had placed it, which broke her heart because she adored the story. I never had the pleasure of hearing it, so I begged my mother to let me borrow it, promising not to let anything befall to it, and to my relief, she said yes.

            I read that book faster than I think I have read any other book in my life, to this day. I was in love with it, to say the least, and in my eyes, it was a literary masterpiece with perfect symbolism and a message that hit home for me, a lost rabbit just trying to get back home. Somewhere deep within me, I felt that a book this great and impactful shouldn’t just sit and collect dust, so I made it my duty and my mission for everyone to know the tale of Edward Tulane (DiCamillo and Ibatoulline).

            I ran to school the very next day after finishing the book, raving about it to anyone that would give me the time of day, even teachers and lunch ladies, because I didn’t care who listened, I just knew that people needed this book in their life. My friends at the time took to it like moths to a flame because they had never seen me so frazzled over a book, and knew I spent most of my time reading or writing. Even girls that were considered to be rivaling cliques to my group decided to read the book, even though we had very little in common. They each took a turn reading over the book, each just as quick as I had, and before I knew it, we had a book club. Everyone adored the book and found the same love for it as I had, and I was beyond thrilled to have my mission completed of Edward Tulane’s crazy journeys known to the world, or at least my school (DiCamillo and Ibatoulline).

            Any time all of us girls were together, we only talked about the book because it was all we could think about. At recess, we wouldn’t even play with other kids, no matter how great the weather: we would all crowd around the swing sets and set up our station for discussion, with each of us taking turns to share our thoughts of the book. We shared how we felt after reading, what we thought as we read, and how we related to parts of the story. I was having the time of my life, sharing what I loved most with people who appreciated it as much as I, and like I had when I first began to understand literacy, I came to an interesting conclusion.

            We were connected through this book. While we each got a different takeaway and had different opinions over certain parts, we each loved the book the same and enjoyed spending time together talking over it, like a book club would. No matter if we even liked one another, we each appreciated this work of art and understood one another as individuals, individuals who made a connection.

            Both of those moments I consider to be equally monumental times when I understood literacy. The first when I truly understood the meaning and why we have it, and the second when I saw a real-life example that cemented the ideas I had made years past. Words had weight, and they connected people every day, no matter who they are or what their differences may be, because there is a way for us to communicate our thoughts to one another and be heard.

            Today, I still find my grip on literacy and my understanding of what it is growing. It always has been for me, and every time I find a new piece of written work or I write something myself, I come back with an evolved understanding. I believe that it will always continue to be ever-expanding in my life, and that I will always be connecting the dots to what literacy means to me. One thing I know for sure though is that literacy will always have a place in my heart for its art of unifying the Earth.