Growing up I had many favorite books. Dr. Sues, Magic Tree House, The Baby
Sitter’s Club, Junie B. Jones, just to name a few. I remember running through the huge
electric doors at the library, waving at my mom to catch up. Finally, what seemed like
hours later we would walk over to the children’s section of the library. There I would find
one, two, five, eight books that all seemed appealing to me. Shaking her head, my mom
knew there was no way I could read all of them within the two week due date.
Nevertheless, she still would let me check all of them out. Toes wiggling, fingers licking,
I rushed through the pages like no tomorrow. To the right of my flowery princess bed sat
a pink alarm clock. The ignored red numbers continued to change. The suns rays beamed
through the window onto the badge pages. The dust from my rug rose in the light. My
lips moved and mumbled words flew through the air. I never got through the eight books
but to me it didn’t matter. Just having the books and reading something made me happy. I
couldn’t wait for the two weeks to be done with, for I wanted a new stack of books to rest
on my floor.
When I was in the fifth grade I wrote my first book report. It had been a while
since I read a book on my own. I usually read with the class or for homework. As I went
to the library that day I was on a mission to find a book. There almost thirty minutes
passed and I still had not found anything. Board and almost ready to give up there I saw a
book. Laying there on a stack of movies sat a golden book that looked like a diary. It had
a ribbon that some bibles use to mark pages left off. On the front cover was a little girl
about my age (11 years old). She was African American and very light skinned. The title
of the book was “Color Me Dark”. Only taking me three weeks to read, I was ahead of
the class. I was ready to start my report. 4:00, sun shining, kids playing, and birds
chirping. I sat at the blank computer with Microsoft Word on the screen. The black chair
squeaked and I found my new game. Rocking back in forth, I had nothing else better to
do. Nothing come to mind, I had no idea how to start the report. I decided to postpone the
paper. Running outside free I play and play and played until it was time to eat. At the
dinner table my mom asked “How is your report?” Embarrassed I lied “Good!” Knowing
me too well my mom replied “Well since this is your first report I promise to help you
tomorrow.” Relived I thanked her. While working with my mom I finished my report in
no time. Later that week I read to the class and they all loved it. And from the grade I
gotten I could tell my teacher did too.
As a few years passed I grew tired of books and writing. Every teacher decided to
have the class write a paper. The books I had to read were at no interest to me. Falling
asleep in class my teacher began to ramble. Snores rose through out the room. The more I
tired to hold open my eyes the more it seemed to not work. My grades began to slip and I
didn’t seem to care, until parent teacher conference. Jasmine sleeps in class, her reports
are put together with no structure, and my teacher went on and on. So my mom was on
me for the rest of the year. Even though I did my work to get the grades, I didn’t like it
and no one could make me.
High school, the most work I have ever done in my whole entire life. I
hated school. I counted the days for summer, winter, and spring break. The word books
made me run and never want to come back. The only writing I did was on the pages of
my friends’ social networking setup. Then one day, a teacher said something to the whole
class. His words were “If you don’t like to write or read, how do you expect to get
through college.” Those words were simple but hit me hard. I wanted to go to college. I
wanted to further my education and experience being on my own. I thought to myself that
I needed to step it up. I can not keep sliding by and barely getting good grades. Ever since
that day, I have tried to make a connection with my work. Even if I think it has absolutely
nothing to do with me. I found out that when I do this, it makes it easier for me to enjoy
school, reading, and writing. Thank god for that teacher and those few simple words.
The little girls finger painting in her back yard, the little girl enjoying those trips
to the library, the one who wrote her first book report in the fifth grade, and hated reading
and writing until a teacher said something that inspired her, stands here today proud.
Proud to say she is almost there. I am proud to say that I am going to make it. The end of
high school is approaching fast and I made it. I read all the books handed to me, I wrote
all the things assigned to me. I got through with a few bumps in the road but a successful
ending. Not only did I learn what I was taught, I applied to my life to help better me. The
moral lessons in every story, the precise writing, has all assisted me in one way or
another. I will take these lessons and way of life with me to the next level. This is whats
going to help me in college. This will help me keep a one track mind. I cant wait to learn
more, read more, and write more.