Literacy narrative: The Joy of Learning to Read
I was 5 and it was one of my earliest memories. Actually, I can’t say for sure whether it is a memory or revival of a story told over hundreds of time. My grandmother, the heroine of my story, worked in a public library throughout her whole life. Every day, after kindergarten, my parents would take me there, as they had to go back to work. We lived in a period of socialism and my parents worked really hard to earn some money.
The public library was one of the most beautiful buildings at the time. Placed in the centre of the town, in a small park, it could hardly be seen in the spring when everything starts to blossom. I can still recapture that silence, so unbearable to me, and that indefinable smell- a combination of freshly polished wood, old paper and grandma’s perfume. I practically grew up there, among thousands of untold stories and my grandmother, my childhood companion. What I didn’t quite understand was grandma’s job. Lots of people would come, talking with her about things I didn’t understand. She would leave them for several minutes and then she would return with her hands full of something that she called “books”. I was seeing the same faces day after day. The fact that everybody in the town knew my grandmother confused me even more. But as children show curiosity about everything, I was no different.
Every day, after she finished working, I would sit in her lap and she would read me a story- each one different from the other. I enjoyed listening to them and I always admired her ability to come up with so many different characters, situations,…
“It is all written down in books my dear”, she said.
At the time, I knew a story of The Three Little Pigs, Little Red Riding Hood, Baš čelik, and many others. I heard them so many times that I knew to retell them on my own. I remembered the colours of the front pages, the images and very soon I knew that part of the library as my own palm. Suddenly, toys and puzzles seemed less interesting to me. Every day I would go through hundreds of pages, looking at the pictures and recapturing grandma’s stories. Grandmother told me it wasn’t long until I could combine picture with the text. She never forced me, she was a passive observer as I was opening a whole new world in front of me- the world of imagination and fantasy hidden in the dozen of dusty shelves.
When she saw my interest in reading, she helped me make progress, encouraged me not to give up- and I wasn’t planning to. I was determined to explore every single corner of that world. All that attention and time spent studying the pages of the stories Grandma once read me, resulted in me learning to read when I was around 6 years old. I was tireless, I wanted to read everything, from books to magazines and posters. My parents were very proud of me, but like all other parents, very protective: they always paid attention to what I was reading, making sure that everything is age appropriate.
At the age of 7, when I started going to school, I was already proficient in reading. Thanks to my grandmother, my love for books never ceased. She played an important role in my life, she showed me a whole new world and thanks to her, I came out as a winner.