My fondest
memories of language are of being curled up on the couch, snuggled into my mom
and my younger sister listening to my mom read us a story. Growing up in a time
when there were only 5 channels on the TV, rotary phones, and no computers in
homes meant we read- a lot. My mom read
to us all the time- morning, noon, night- it did not matter. At a very young
age, my favorite stories were from the Golden Book series; I loved the gold
bindings, the vibrant drawings, and the fact that you could write your name in
the front of the book. The Poky Little Puppy was my very
favorite and I would request it be read over and over… and over again. I drank
in my mother’s prosody- her beautiful sweet voice; words flowing like a calm
stream at times, rising like a rapid at others. I embraced the expressions I
would copy later in life- “Now where in the world is that poky little puppy?”
(Sebring-Lowery, 1) and marveled in the figurative language, “He ate up all the
rice pudding and crawled into bed as happy as a lark,” ( Sebring- Lowery, 10)-
remembering later how impactful a simile could be in a story I was writing. I believe my own foundation of linguistic
knowledge began with these memories; the memories of being curled up with my
mom- being read to. I believe my acquisition of language continued to develop
through literature- either being read to or from being a reader myself.
In kindergarten,
Ms. Brown, my tiny 90 year old teacher (maybe she wasn’t really 90, but she was old and to five year olds, anyone past the age
of 50 is really old) taught us
phonics. Obediently, we would mimic her pronunciation of the all the vowel and consonant
sounds from thin books, similar to the popular Dick and Jane series. We practiced our short vowels and long
vowels, our consonant blends, and our vowels diagraphs in a rhythmic pattern
until we’d mastered the correlation between print and sound. Once I mastered this;
a book was always in my hand. I went home and read every Golden Book in our
house, crossed out my sister’s name in the front of any she’d claimed as hers and
claimed them as my own. (This did not go over well, but that is a story for a
different paper.) I was a proud reader.
I read my
way through grade school. Little House on
the Prairie, Nancy Drew, and Ramona
series were among my favorites. From the books in these series and others, my
knowledge of semantics blossomed. “Even a small present was appreciated,
because presents of any kind had been scarce while the family tried to save
money so Mr. Quimby could return to school” (Cleary, 14). I acquired vocabulary
when presented with words not found in every day grade school conversation, such as appreciated
and scarce. These words would one day become my own, finding their way into my
conversations without me even realizing they’d gotten there. I also acquired a broader understanding of the
world around me. From the book, Ramona
Quimby, Age 8, I found solace in a character whose parents had little to
give her except a simple pink eraser, much like my parents who never flourished
us with gifts because of their financial situation. I learned there were other families
like mine, with one parent going back to school and making sacrifices because of
it.
By the time
I was in sixth grade, I’d read a lot- a lot- of books. My verbal language was
exceptional, my understanding of the world around me was as broad as it could
be, but something was missing. I’d yet to find a book that made me love books.
I’d yet to discover a book that would
encompass my whole being and stay with me forever. I’d yet to find a book that
would change my life.
That year my
teacher, Mrs. Mundell, read us The
Lottery Rose. This was the only (and I mean only) positive thing to happen
in sixth grade. Mrs. Mundell, who was otherwise awful, read like a dream. Her voice
was as fluid and soft as the flutter of a fairy’s wings. It rose and fell like
a slight breeze through the trees. She read us The Lottery Rose every day after lunch and it completely hypnotized
me. Irene Hunt’s tale of an abused little boy named Georgie and his beloved
rose bush drew me into a world of beautiful syntax- where the words, phrases,
and sentences had been composed in such a way they brought tears to my eyes. This
book has stayed with me since I was 11 years old. It was the one that made me
want to be a writer.
Though I
kept reading after sixth grade, I would not find a book that would stay with me
until I reached adulthood. Between this time, I was acquiring language- developing
it at rapid speed- through non-fiction text. Bombarded with journal articles,
textbooks, magazines, and encyclopedias in high school and college, I read now
to be able to communicate about the world around me with others.
The year I turned 18 was very important
to me because I could vote. I am one of the countless Americans who consider this
a rite of passage to adulthood. If I was going to vote for a candidate, I had
to know about the candidates. I had to learn about Bill Clinton and George H. W.
Bush and even Ross Perot. Everyone on Concordia’s campus (yes, I did my
undergraduate program right here at CUC- which at that time was CURF, Concordia
University River Forest) spent the first 3 months of school debating the
election. Armed with information from Time,
Rolling Stone, and probably even Cosmopolitan,
I sat in the KCC discussing who the best man for the job was, where we thought
our country was headed, and our hopes for its future. Siding with Bill Clinton
who believed, “This is not about good government; this is about doing different
things,” (Wenner, 1992)),
I too believed our nation was on the brink of great things. Having acquired enough facts in our heads and passion
in our hearts, motivated to change government- our discussions were lively,
spirited- sometimes heated. And I loved it. It was here I developed my love of
argument.
By the time I had my own classroom, I
considered myself a reader, a writer, and a debater. All three roles played a
distinct part in my classroom discourse. I read my very first group of students
The Lottery Rose, hoping they would also
love its literate beauty. We discussed
child abuse, gardening, friendships, and being a good person- sometimes all
afternoon. When I taught eighth grade Language Arts, I shared passages from Al
Gore’s Earth in Balance and we
debated environmental issues. As the years went on, my classes would read such
literary classics as To Kill a Mockingbird,
A Christmas Carol, Flowers for Algernon, and Night. We would discuss social
injustices, share moral viewpoints, and discover the power of being moved by a
piece of literature together. Through readings of poetry, such as Langston Hughes’,
“I, Too” and Robert Frost’s “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”, we’d
develop our prosody. The countless non-fiction articles we’d read about
research topics would broaden our knowledge of the world around us, so much so
that I’d often hear students talking amongst themselves about immigration, war,
the Holocaust- and how they felt about it. What more could a teacher ask for?
With each thing we read, our vocabulary
would grow, too. The acquisition of new words- just as it was important in my
educational career- became one of my main goals as a teacher. I must fill my
students’ head… and hearts with new words. Whether it was me or the students
highlighting, circling, locating new words- we’d practice their pronunciations,
their meanings, and their usage until each word could be owned by the students.
With all of these things, behold, my
students became sophisticated young adults, and I a stronger teacher. Just as it happened while I sat on the couch
listening to my mother read numerous stories, it happens again in my classroom.
As ones’ language develops, ripens, strengthens- so does another’s.
Today, I still consider myself a
reader, writer, and debater. There is nothing more satisfying than a book that
stays with me- the words becoming a part of me- like those in The Red Tent, Unbroken or the many
education articles I devour when I have the time to. There is nothing more satisfying
than composing something whose words stay with someone else- my words becoming
part of them. And still nothing gets my blood flowing like a lively debate over
politics or social issues. I hope by the time I am 90 (like little old Ms. Brown)
I can still refer to myself in this way.
Cleary,
Beverly, and Alan Tiegreen. Ramona Quimby,
Age 8. New York: Morrow, 1981. Print.
Sebring
Lowrey, Janette. The Poky Little Puppy.
Racine, WI: Western Publishing Company, 1942. Print.
Wenner,
Jann. "The Rolling Stone Article: An Interview With Bill Clinton."
Rolling Stone. 17 09 1992: n. page. Web. 16 Mar. 2014.
<http://www.jannswenner.com/Archives/Bill_Clinton.asp&xgt;.
