Michael Shaw

Campbell
University Writing 1103
02 February 2016
Learning To Hate Reading
I cant remember the first book that I read. I cant name the first story I ever wrote. I
couldnt even tell anyone how old I was when I learned to read and write. I do, however,
remember the reason I dont enjoy reading or writing today. I do remember 4th grade Language
Arts class. I do remember Ms. Brantley.
Growing up I loved reading, my mom would read to me any book I could find to bring to
her until I could read for myself. I read all kinds of books: picture books, novels like The Magic
Treehouse and Harry Potter, books about different animals, and any other book I could find
around my schools library. I couldnt get enough of the different worlds books could take you to.
Reading never felt like work to me, I never felt like I was being made to read, it was always fun
and easy for me.
Writing was always a strong point in school for me when I was in the early grades. I
remember being a good speller and being good at understanding the basic grammar that a 2nd or
3rd grader was in charge of knowing. I wrote in my free time. I wrote any story I could think of
and never had a problem with being creative. Id spend hours in my room writing whatever came
into my head. Writing came naturally and I never had to strain myself to get school work done
for my writing classes.

Writing and reading were what I looked forward to in school. I didn't like math, I couldnt
be as creative in math so it was less fun for me. Writing and reading were how I was able to
show off my creativity, where I was able to express my thoughts and use my imagination.
Reading was always my favorite though. I loved to read and I loved being transported to
different places through the books that I read. I never thought that I would hate reading the way I
do now back when I was younger. I never thought I would hate writing either.
4th grade should have been like any other year, with one big exception. I was starting a
new elementary school and had no idea what to expect out of the new school. When I got my
teacher assigned, I didnt think anything of it. Ms. Brantley. Seemed harmless enough, but the
name still brings up horrible memories of the 4th grade Language Arts, what might have been the
hardest class I took until the 11th grade. I remember that class more than the rest of my entire
elementary school.
The first day started as usual. Bus came on time, my first classes went well and lunch and
recess were great as always. Then came my last class of the day. Language Arts. The class was in
a different room from my math class earlier in the morning and it was with Ms. Brantley. I
walked into the room and immediately noticed that there was nothing on the walls. What kind of
teacher has nothing on their walls? The class seemed like a prison to a fourth grader, white walls
with only one window on the far wall. The desks where in 4-desk groupings, with assigned
seats. I nervously sat down with three kids I had never seen before, being at a new school, and
looked around for anyone that resembled a teacher.
Then Ms. Brantley walked in. To this day I remember her slamming the door. Get paper
and a pencil out now, were the first words she said to us. Nothing too bad, but still not the nicest
introduction. Over the course of that first day, I had been assigned a paper that had to be three

pages long on what I learned in 3rd grade English, and two novels that had to be read within the
first couple of weeks. Today this would be no problem, but to a 4th grader this was torture. My
stomach dropped as she read out the list of things we were going to be doing. Essays? I had
never wrote an essay before, and the novels being assigned were far more boring and educational
than The Magic Treehouse.
Over the course of the year, I slowly began to hate all things reading and writing. I
stopped reading at home, I stopped writing in my spare time and I stopped being as creative in
the assignments that I had to do for class. School became a struggle. I paid attention less and
started to slack off on getting my work done on time. I skimmed the books I had to read never
fully trying to understand or enjoy what they were about. I did the bare minimum to get by in
high school especially, not reading a single book that was assigned my junior or senior year, only
reading the SparkNotes on the different books. Today I still struggle with reading and writing,
and I blame 4th grade for this.
All throughout middle and high school I did significantly worse in English classes than I
did in Math or History. I hated reading, I hated writing. I hated having to reflect and I definitely
hated having to be creative in writing. I wasnt good at it anymore, I couldnt get my thoughts
onto the paper anymore, I couldnt stay focused while reading anymore. It took me hours to write
even a page paper, I just sat in front of my computer staring at the blank screen, only my name at
the top with none of the assignment even attempted.
Looking back on it, I cant blame Ms. Brantley for being a hard teacher, or really even for
making me hate reading and writing. She was doing her job and teaching the way the school told
her to. If I had to blame anyone I guess I would have to blame whoever created the 4th grade
curriculum that particular year. Or I could blame myself, for not trying to give either reading or

writing another chance, for giving up on enjoying what was once my favorite subject in school. I
gave up when school got hard for me. I didn't like the challenge in an area that had always been
so easy for me. I started only liking History classes and even then only History classes that didnt
require a lot of essays. I hated writing.
I dont know why I haven't given reading or writing a second chance. Theres no reason
not to anymore other than my own thoughts on the subjects, and I can change that if I really
wanted to. I guess every time I try to get back into it I remember the reason I dont enjoy reading
or writing today. I remember 4th grade Language Arts class. I remember Ms. Brantley.