Literacy Autobiography
HWP 2010
J.T. Funk
I Wasn’t Always This Way
I remember my dad sitting on my bottom bunk. I was 8. It was a wooden L-shaped
frame. My older sister had the top bunk. She had a room of her own, yet we slept in the
same room for many years. We felt comforted, safe in my room. My dad would come in
to say goodnight and he would always have something that he was reading with him. To
this day, I find myself walking around my house carrying a book. I love it. I feel good,
smart, and ready with a book in my hand. I judge its weight, feel the cover with my
fingertips, swing it proudly or slap it against my palm as I set it down.
On this particular night he had the dictionary with him. He said, “Hey check this out,
have you ever heard of the word ‘gnarly’?” We both said that we hadn’t. I can’t be sure
if he had just realized how great the word was, having possibly heard it on Teenage
Mutant Ninja Turtles, or, he was trying to show us the new word and teach us the value
of language and its awesome power.
He laid back and propped himself up with my extra pillow, taking his hands and folding
the pillow into a ball for extra support. He opened to the page and began to read the
definition to us. “Gnarly, adjective: twisted into a knot or distorted form.” He then broke
it down for us and told us that it meant something all discombobulated or tangled up. He
loved to use other large words to try and describe things to us. He either didn’t
understand what he was doing or knew exactly what he was doing. It must be the latter;
he is the greatest teacher I have ever known. He then showed us a picture of it. There
was, in the margin of his Oxford English Dictionary, a black and white photo of a tree
with limbs twisted around and tangled up into its own bark--gnarly. The roots were
protruding from the ground, a bumpy mass above the small patch of earth that was
underneath the tree. That picture is burned into my memory. However, things did not
progress the way my father wanted.
I focused my attention on sports. I wanted to be like them, but reading just bored the hell
out of me. I still wanted to be a part of conversations with my father and my sister so I
fought my way into adult conversation with my sister and father through humor. They
were both so knowledgeable. They seemed to know so much and could articulate
themselves in a way that I couldn’t yet. I had always been a crazy and silly kid, but this
was when I truly became funny. I interjected by connecting to the social problems they
discussed with a ridiculous, satirical solution instantly. I did not know it then but very
Twainian or Vonnegutesque. The great and unfortunate part of this is that it is effortless
for me, but I didn’t have to push myself to read what they had read or listen to the news
programs they did. I could be part of it while not having to be a part of it.
This lasted all through high school. I survived on quick wit and lazy reading. It wasn’t
until I reached Indiana University that it caught up with me. I began to submit essays in a
Middle English Lit course and I began to get “C” grades. It dawned on me when one of
my professors wrote at the top of my paper, “You and I both know that you haven’t read
the material.” She asked to see me during her office hours. I went to see Professor
Anderson. I walked into her office and she scooted under her desk and tried to peer over
her glasses at me, but was unsuccessful due to the sheer size of her frames. She told me
she understood what was happening. Whether or not she actually knew what I was
dealing with is a mystery; although, what little she said soaked in. This happened with
other professors too. They all told me the same thing. I had to read the material. Each
time I heard it a small part of my façade fell away revealing a new structure—the one I
had always wanted. It was as if my professors sensed my need for push, that I hadn’t
really been tested and pushed yet and here was their chance to do it. It all seems like
fiction--my mom had attempted suicide, my parent’s marriage was falling apart, my
sisters were battling with it all. I needed a way out, and I found it—reading and writing.
It was my sophomore year in college, and I finally started reading and writing. I
discovered the power and majesty of words just as my father had tried so often when I
was a child. Something he still does today.
Now, as I carry books around my house and read as much as I can, I find it hard to finish
books. I routinely read multiple books at a time, sometimes taking months to finish each
one. I feel a need to consume as much as I can—make up for lost time. It is a flaw and a
blessing, instilled in me as a child and solidified by teachers who understood. I have been
playing catch up for the past 8 years, but it is the best I have ever felt being this far
behind.