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Natalie Allison
Professor Doench
English 100
8 February 2016
The Need to Read
Routine. As a child, this simple 7-letter word was the key to my entire world. If
anything, even just a mere detail were off balance, my three-year-old self would go crazy
and throw an unnecessary tantrum. I was so accustomed to doing the exact same thing
every single day. I would wake up in my pink, ballerina-covered room and walk out to
the hallway, my eyes squinting from the vibrant yellow paint covering the walls. I would
see my mother sitting in the kitchen, usually reading the newspaper or playing with our
fluffy gray cat. She knew as soon as my bluish-gray eyes met hers that it was story time,
something that we had been doing every single day since I could remember. As we sat
down in that dark blue couch with green trimming, I could smell the fresh scent of coffee
coming off of her breath. Almost every time my mom and I read together, I always
ventured towards the book The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Something about the green,
hunched over, red-faced caterpillar on the front cover always appealed to me. This was
where we ran into a problem.
Sure, being read different types of books each day will eventually aid in the
reading process. But, since I only wanted to read one specific book I was not learning to
read, I was learning to memorize. Each time I sat down with my mother, still smelling
that bitter scent of coffee with every word she spoke, I would learn another word or
another phrase. I always looked forward to sitting on that old, dark blue couch and
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hearing the sound of crickets from the nearest window. Eventually, I could recite the
entirety of the book and be able to tell when my sly mother was skipping pages to make it
go faster. In the white, rusty cabinet next to the blue couch was an endless assortment of
children’s books, from action to dress up to anything imaginable. To my mother’s
surprise, I did not want to read those other books; I wanted to read my book, the only
book I knew.
Kindergarten came faster than I thought it would. I distinctly remember the green
grass and birds chirping as I walked into the lively classroom. On the very first day of
class, our teacher, Sister Mary Joyce, asked the class to raise our hand if we knew how to
read. Of course my short, tiny fingers bolted to the sky immediately. She handed me a
piece of paper with short phrases printed on it, such as “How are you?” or “Good
afternoon”. My task was to read the words out loud. I was the most confident six year old
in the room, ready to show the rest of the class how knowledgeable I was. As I looked
down at the paper, my confidence dropped and I immediately became less sure of myself.
If I could recite a whole book, why could I not read these simple words? It was a very
embarrassing feeling when my teacher kindly took the paper out of my shaky hands and
handed it to another classmate. This moment was when it clicked that I was nowhere near
being able to read. I had only been introduced to that one book for so long that no other
words were in my reading vocabulary.
Kindergarten ended and I was still quite unsure of my ability to read. In that
small, crowded classroom we did learn a lot of new words, but nothing compared to what
I learned in Ms. Lucchese and Mrs. Roberts’ first grade class. Every Tuesday, a student
got to pick a new book for Ms. Lucchese to read to the eager class. We would all gather
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in the corner of the room and sit in front of her, anxiously waiting to see which book was
picked week after week. Tuesdays were my favorite days because Ms. Lucchese read to
us and I had Girl Scouts after school, one of my favorite activities. I sat there in my
brown Girl Scout vest and skirt, playing with the buttons on my blue socks. I absolutely
loved hearing her read to us. She had such a calming voice, the kind of voice that no one
ever got tired of hearing. Some people speak so harsh and loud, but not her. She had the
perfect tone, the perfect volume, and the way the words from the books rolled off of her
tongue was indescribable. I was being introduced to so many new words and so many
new books that I started not only learning how to read, but enjoying to read. I recall one
Tuesday where I even volunteered to read in front of the class. Forget scared, nervous,
six-year-old Natalie, I knew every word from that paragraph and I recited it like I was
winning an Oscar.
Day after day and week after week, I had learned so many things in that class just
from being read so many different varieties of books. After school every Tuesday, I
jumped into the silver minivan that my mom drove, immediately telling her every detail
from the book we had just read. First grade did not last forever, and as it came near the
last Tuesday of the year, my heart sank knowing that I would never hear Ms. Lucchese
read a book to me again. I tried to capture every detail on that last day of class, I even
drew a picture of her reading the book to us so I would remember it forever. I stared at
her gentle eyes and the button down shirt that she always wore. I watched her lick her
index fingers and turn the pages with her long, warm fingers. My last Tuesday of the first
grade was over and I was devastated.
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Life went on, second grade passed by quickly, and it was finally time for summer.
Like all little kids, summer is the most exciting time of the year. Vacationing, playing
with friends, going to the pool, and not having a care in the world. That summer was not
like that for me. That summer was one that I will never forget. My family was in Kiawah
for our annual summer trip. It started off being the trip of a lifetime. I swam in the ocean,
made a sand castle, and even got sun poisoning. As I was walking into our blue, brick
condo coming home from the beach, I heard my mom on the phone. Normally when she
takes phone calls, her voice is calm and casual. This time was different. I could hear her
voice shaking from the distance as she tried to hide from me whatever she was talking
about. As she hung up the phone and walked over towards me, tears in her eyes trying to
hold in whatever was going on, she told me the worst news I could have heard. Mrs.
Lucchese had died.
Of course, this was shocking news for me. I could not quite grasp the fact that the
woman who taught me everything up to that point was dead. The woman who gave me
such a passion for reading and writing was all of the sudden gone. I would never see her
again or hear her calm, soothing voice. This was the worst thing that could have possibly
happened to me. When was I going to thank her for everything that she had done for me?
When third grade resumed and everyone had already heard the news, our principal came
and talked to our grieving class. She handed every student in the class a small stuffed
animal bear. It was pink with red hearts on it, symbolizing the big heart that Mrs.
Lucchese had and the love that she showed towards all of her students. Not one student
was unaware of how much she had taught us up to that point and how much we learned
from her.
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Thinking about it now, Mrs. Lucchese definitely shaped who I am as a person
today. Not only did she teach me to read and write, she taught me to love reading and
writing. She made the task of reading fun and something to look forward to instead of
something that people dreaded every week. Without Mrs. Lucchese, I would not possess
the love of books that I currently do. I also may not have survived first grade without her
fun activities and welcoming nature. Thank you, Mrs. Lucchese, for showing me and
everyone else in that classroom your love and dedication to reading. I still look at that
pink bear on the top shelf of my clustered closet at home and remember the woman who
shaped my childhood.