My Literary Heritage

Over the last several weeks I have been thinking about my literary heritage. When we first started discussing the idea of our personal literary heritages in practicum, I felt tears in my eyes, because I could recall myself as a little girl being read a bedtime story or going to the library on Friday afternoons. I can still smell the Lee County Library and hear my footsteps as I climbed the tiered platform in the children’s section. As I began examining all of the pieces to my literacy story, I was humbled. Not all of my students share the same fruitful background in reading. Knowing where we come from helps put things into perspective, and as I explore my background in literacy, I realize that my training in literature and composition began before my formal schooling.

I do not remember a time in my life when books were not around. My father had built a floor-to-ceiling bookcase in my room, which took up an entire wall. I would look at my books when I was trying to go to sleep. My mother started reading to me when I was very young. She either read to me or told me stories every night. One of the first books I remember her reading to me was Laura Ingles Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie. We read all the books in the series together. This time with my mother was what initiated my love for reading, but she was not the only one in my family who inspired me.

Every morning my father would read the newspaper. Actually, he had to have more than one paper, including his Daily Journal, USA Today, and the Commercial Appeal. Much to my mother’s dismay, he would often times read aloud word-for-word a story that caught his attention. Although my father did not read books all the time like my mother, who received her degree in library science, he valued reading. Whereas, my mother read mystery books for pleasure, my father read shorter pieces for information.
My grandmother also had a significant role in my literary heritage. I spent the night with her three times a week, and before going to bed she would read the Bible to me. After my grandmother had a massive stroke when I was in the fifth grade, I would read to her. We also enjoyed reading Chicken Soup for the Soul books together, and I would read a couple of stories to her before going to sleep.

Although I have an older sibling, I was raised as an only child. My parents were overly protective of me and rarely let me out of their sight. I longed for adventure, and since traveling the world by myself at the age of eight was out of the question, I read a lot. My favorite author growing up was Madeleine L’Engle. Every time I would finish one of her books I had the feeling that I had just become a better person in some way. I loved fantasy and adventure books as well as domestic girl stories. I associated reading with intelligence, and I thought that whatever I read was preparing me for something in real life. I didn’t read to escape; I read to experience. When I was in the seventh grade we had to choose a book for a basic report. I decided that the Baby Sitters Club and Goosebumps were not challenging enough, so I tackled Moby Dick. I read the last two hundred pages of the book in one evening, while sitting in my Nintendo chair in the basement. At that moment I hated Moby Dick, but I was pleased that I could say I had read it.

Every summer I would participate in the summer reading program. I always met or surpassed my goal, and I refused to read easier books just because I could have read them faster. In elementary school, I won several personal pan pizzas for reading a certain number of books, and in high school, I was one of the few who enjoyed taking accelerated reader tests.
Books were among my favorite presents. Sitting on Santa’s lap, I would ask him to bring me books and surprises for Christmas. For birthdays and other special occasions, my parents would buy me a beautiful hardback book. One year, I received a beautiful copy of Little Women and Little Men, another year it was the complete Winnie-the-Pooh stories. My mother would inscribe every book, something she still does. My parents constantly pick up books for me. I think I have more English Literature Anthologies than I could ever use, and even though I have yet to read a John Grisham novel, I have two of his autographed novels. I also give books as presents. I have two nephews and a niece, who can count on getting a book for a holiday or even just because. I introduced my nephews to Harry Potter, and it is one of the few movies that the three of us can agree on. When I have children of my own someday in the probably not-so-distant future, I am going to shower them with books. I often fantasize about having read-ins with pallets and pillows on the floor or which books we have to read when they are certain ages. As wonderful as my childhood was in regard to reading, I want theirs to be even richer.

As I’m older, I love to visit the sights associated with books and their authors. My parents took me to Muscle Shoals, so I could see the water spout which transformed Helen Keller’s life. The summer before I graduated with my Bachelor’s, I studied children’s literature in Britain. I walked in the hundred acre woods, stood on the platform of 9 and ¾, and visited Jane Austen’s tomb. For my honeymoon, I wanted to go to South Carolina, because one of my favorite authors, Nicholas Sparks, bases most of his novels there. Last August my husband and I went to the 100th anniversary of Anne of Green Gables in Prince Edward Island, and I can finally understand why L.M. Montgomery felt such an attachment to Canada’s smallest province. Also last summer I went to New York City, and walking along the Upper East Side, I traced the path of some of Madeleine L’Engle’s characters. I have a continually growing list of other literary places I want to visit.

Although I focused on the reading portion of my literary heritage, I enjoyed writing as well. I kept stacks of journals and wrote letters to friends. I even joined a pen pal program and wrote to kids my age all over the world. Whenever I’m upset or angry, I have to write it down, just like L.M. Montgomery. Sometimes it’s the only thing that can make me feel better. I don’t always enjoy writing papers because it takes so much out of me, and I always feel rushed. Writing is work, no matter what some people may think. As I’m beginning my thesis, I am truly excited about this writing project because I have given myself plenty of time for researching and writing. This summer, my sole responsibility will be to read, research, and write on my two favorite authors.

In essence, my literary heritage is also my legacy. The more I think about how much of my life has been invested in literacy, the more I understand that if I can sometimes have resistance to reading and writing, that it is no wonder some of my students share this frustration. Because this exploration has been so beneficial for me, I’m going to ask my students to write about their own literary heritages. I can’t wait to read them. I even think I’ll post mine for them to read, but I think I'll let them post theirs first. I want to see what they can come up with on their own.