Language, Listening, & Literacy I dont remember learning to read. I have no memory of practicing my alphabet.

I dont recall a passion for writing exquisite pieces of poetry at the phenomenal age of three. I have no sweet, endearing stories of wowing my neighbors and grandparents with my infinite vocabulary. (Ive been told I was an early talker, but I just attribute that to my understated genius; if I were to say I was born with the ability to read, however, Id imagine John Locke would turn over in his grave and make it his one and only goal in the afterlife to prove me wrong.) Regardless, Im fairly positive I learned to read and write at home, perhaps sometime between three and five years old. My mother is a teacher, so of course there were books and lessons and Phonics. I just dont have what some would most commonly refer to as a story of literacy, a specific memory of my acquisition of words. Obviously I was educated at some point, but my growth and development as a writer is a somewhat vague fraction of my memory. What I do remember is talking. Constantly, talking. I remember an unconditional love from my family. Always there, always listening, telling, teaching. Learning to communicate, to listen and talk, to share feelings, to be in tune with others is what I recall. Words are how my family operates. We share stories. We laugh. We scold. We criticize and praise. The only way Ive ever known to interact with people involves warm, expressive words. As a general sense of civility, my sister and I were taught at a young age to be open and welcoming to all, to listen to what others have to say and respect whatever that might be. In the scheme of things, I realize now that this is literacy. Though I initially assumed literacy to be an encompassing word in reference to literaturethat being a simple allusion to books and novelsby accepting the grander idea of a story of words in general, a literacy narrative to me is simply a story of self-

recognition. It is an account of listening, of reading people, and reflecting on what you see and hear, making it a part of you. With this in mind, I consider my family to be my literacy. Not just the source of my literacy, but the essence of and hunger for it. The notion of language is not simply a way of life, but life itself. How you communicate with and listen to people determines who you are; in this respect, my family made me who I am. Always listening and sharing, theyve done all they can to steer me in the right direction. A reality for which Im incredibly grateful, my family is there for me no matter what. Ive met others in my lifetime who have agreed, but it is the truth that not everyone can say the same. It doesnt matter what I do, where I go, what I say. Some people admit to competition in their families, hard feelings toward success or achievement. My family, however, will talk me through my obstacles and encourage me to do only what makes me truly happy, taking genuine pride in my success. Having the relationship and communication I have with them lets me know where I stand, both with them and in the world at large. This feeling of comfort is how Ive come to accept my life of literacy. Ive grown into it over time, through and because of the support I receive from my family. In regard to this development of literacy, I havent simply experienced one of those life changing moments when people say all theyve seen and read suddenly falls into place and the whole world finally makes sense. Itd make for a good story, but as far as I can tell the life I live, while fulfilling and satisfying just the same, is a smidge on the side of mediocracy. Ive never done anything great or experienced anything tragic. Nothing specific distinguishes me from the crowd. No one would recognize my name or anything Ive done. I justify this, however, by the contentedness I feel in knowing my relation to and perspective of the crowdbecause of my family. I have varying feelings about the significance of my memories of literacy, but theyre mine nonetheless. Ive

had to come to terms with my life and experiences as being commonplace, but this doesnt mean my life of literacy isnt genuine. These memories of literacy stem from the lessons learned of my parents over a lifetime of conversation. Theyve always regarded these life lessons as though it is in my best interest to learn about the potential differences in people, as an attempt to remain humble and place myself in the unfortunate shoes of someone else. Be nice to everyone. Dont discriminate. If you want to have a party, you need to invite everyone to your birthday. Everyone is different, all with their own issues, and gifts just the same. Ive heard it all my life. Gods children were made who they are for a reason. Everyone is unique, all deserving of the same respect. In my school, a tiny society of less than 200 farmers and fishermen, there wasnt much if anydiversity. Though Lakota flanks a decent sized Sioux Indian reservation, white middleclass individuals make up about 98% of the population. Though in no way does this warrant naivety or ignorance, growing up with vastly limited exposure to different cultures has an impact on an adolescents receptiveness. Of course we all knew the rules of morality and social conduct growing up. We were just never given the opportunity to put them to use. When all your friendsand foesare white, Christian, blue-collared teenagers you arent confronted by instances of difference. Somewhat appropriately, though unfortunate, as high school students we were never exposed to the diversity of literature either. It is here that my gratitude for my familys consistent regard for the thoughts and emotions of others is in the forefront of my being. Encouraging me to broaden my horizons and take in as much as I can, my mother modeled for me a love of reading. She inadvertently supplied me with books of all types, some perhaps beyond my comprehension at the dawn of my interest, but beneficial none the less.

As a child I just liked the characters; I enjoyed the escape to another world granted by a good read. It was entertainment. Now, while this pleasure remains, I read to fulfill curiosity, to internalize dialogue that I wouldnt otherwise by privy to. I read to listen, to increase my vocabulary, to gain experience. Books show me what Im missing; they let me look at the world through others eyes, giving me new perspectives and depths of understanding. Ive always felt that if I cant experience something on my own by means of daily life, I could at least imagine it through words. Just as everyone has their own personalities, writers each have their own tendencies and voices. While I believe that what a reader gets out of a book or narrative can vary widely with the connection to the writers voice, it is beneficial nonetheless to not just hear, but listen to what a person has to say. You internalize words, making them your own, and bringing to the story your own perceptions and interpretation. Depending on how you were raised, what youve been through, or what you have learned, youre going to see things differently than the next person; how you see the world is exceedingly dependent on past experiences and instilled values. While books may offer only a small portion of what there is to know and see in the world, internalizing the information afforded by another individual, regardless of your agreement, may give you a whole new perspective outside of the small world you most likely occupy. This thinking, though perhaps overly humble, is how I do in fact perceive my existence. I go to school, autopilot my way through work, complete my homework as it arises, and try to invest in enough sleep to do it over the next day. My world is quite knowingly not the world. When I read, however, Im afforded the opportunity to gain other peoples experiences and assume others unfamiliar roles in the world. I dont encounter all that diverse of opportunities, so when I get the chance, Im satisfied in living vicariously through someone elses words. My

one issue with this, however, is when a persons account of something is slanted, and the only impression taken away from her words are immensely biased. I can think of one event in my life (there have been others, but this particular one, for whatever reason, stands out in my memory) where I, myself, was unfortunately privileged the sight of how misconstrued past experiences, your own or otherwise, can make a persons judgment. Unfortunate to my repute, I surprised myself in a way Id never thought I would. I was proud, contented. I was on the verge of diving in and trying something new, only to experience a vastly shaming confrontation, one that I never actually imagined Id face. No one but me knows of the encounter, reinforcing how inconsequential it was, and that alone makes my guilt reel about in my stomach. I consider myself a particularly understanding and empathetic person, but my reaction to this unprovoked situation humiliates me. I had wanted some along time, and having sought out an appealing area and taking time for myself, I sat down on an isolated bench in a pacifying, tree-filled park to read my just purchased novelthis, too, is a slight embarrassment, but Ill expound on my obsession with vampires in a later testament. No noticeable physical reaction, just a quick, small thought. A judgment. Im a young, single white female sitting alone on a secluded bench. Daylight remains, dancing on the tips of the trees. But down below my eyesight is waning, the words on the pages slowly graying out. I have reason to be nervous. The look of them is intimidating, threatening. The way the one looked at me was certainly a warning. There are so many of them. Why are they down here? There are families around. Im about to grab my

things and run from the potentially disastrous scene. There are more coming. As they stride past me, I inoffensively grab my bag and pull it in tight to me. If something were to happen no one would even detect a scuffle. I am clearly threatened. These individuals are surrounding the area with a distinct purpose in mind. Why wouldnt a group of hardened, shady-looking adolescents harass an assumingly prissylooking white girl? I need to get out of here, but I dont want to seem suspicious of them. Theyll come after me for sure if I appear fearful, let alone a nuisance to them. I have nothing on me: no phone, no keys, not even a fingernail file. Why am I not prepared? My heart is racing as the sun sinks further and further behind the trees. Theyre a bit distracted; what are they looking at? Now is my chance to flee safely. A youth intervention group? After I gather myself and reinterpret the situation, I find I couldnt be more wrong. I cant believe my shrewdness. It turns out these kids are volunteering their time, helping the less fortunate. Their duty for the day: to clean up the park. About ten or eleven young ethnic males had gathered down in this valley. After coordinating, a truck appeared on the scene, backing its bed of rakes and gardening tools up to the group of young men. These thoughts Id had were like a torrent of fear and anxiety; I couldnt help but feel as if I was being targeted. In pacifying myself, I attempted to reassure that my reaction was a natural response anybody would have had in my situation. Where exactly those thoughts were coming from, however, I had not a clue. Never before had I been attacked or singled out, never

even a victim of a racial slur. Not meaningfully, anyhow. As mentioned, Im from a town of predominantly white people, not to mention elderly Midwesterns. It is evident that racism will be present. But I felt that I had educated myself well enough that these thoughts and actions were things I could avoid, that I would handle myself with humility and understanding if faced with a moment of individuality. Ive come to find that you read people and things based on past experiences, on what you know and have acquired through different encounters. I judged these people based on the very few experiences Ive been presentedstereotypes, perhaps the impression of one guy, ruining it for the rest of the population. In no way were their appearances aggressive or suggestive of violence or hostility, they simply looked different than I. Looking back, I even think one of them smiled at me. But of course, in my head I wouldve misconstrued that as deceitful. Concentration on only what I thought I knew had clouded my reasoning. The idea was shameful, and although it was an experience exclusive to me, that it is one of ordinary occurrence is saddening. How you orient yourself to the world and assume the role of language makes you who you are. Acquisition of words, therefore, is simply the first step in being literate. The words we use and attend to make all the difference in who we are. We must be cautious of how we let words represent us, for they are the only means we have in making clear what we stand for. (Though its nothing more than a word, most likely used by miserable people to convey the animosity within themselves, the term niggardly as a synonym for stingy and miserly is a shameful addition to the language we adopt as our own.) Being open and welcoming to all, listening to what others have to say and respecting those very words grants a person literacy, a story of self-recognition. In acknowledgment of listening to and reading people, of reflecting on

what you see and hear, you make it a part of you. With that in mind, I beg you to listen, to listen, and to listen; you might eventually hear something worth your attention.