My earliest memory of reading may be like anyone else’s. Your mom comes in your room right before you fall asleep and reads you a bedtime story. As a child I enjoyed reading and allowed my mind to drift to a place of imagination. But when I reached the age of eleven my imagination and enjoyment of reading had drifted away. It wasn’t until my first day of 6th grade that I met a teacher who would show me what it truly means to enjoy reading and would change the way I lived my life. Walking into 6th grade I wasn’t sure what to expect. My first class of the day was English, the most dreaded class of the year. I expected that we would be given long reading assignments and essays to write, which didn’t make me any more excited for the class. When I walked into my English Classroom I began to feel at ease because I saw my best friend Sarah. My teacher then entered
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Reading didn’t seem to be such a task, but it seemed to open up my mind. As I connected to the characters in each book I read I felt a little more joy. Every morning before school I would go to Mrs. Baird and tell her about the new book I was reading and connect to her on a more personal level. But one day I came to school and Mrs. Baird wasn’t there. When class began a substitute teacher told us the tragedy. Mrs. Baird earlier that morning had driven off a roadway into a dried up riverbed. She was left in her burning car unable to move until a man saw the accident and saved her right before the car exploded. Mrs. Baird was rushed to the hospital and left in critical condition. The sub explained to the class that she would not be coming back. Suddenly what I had read in books had all seemed like fiction. No imagery or connection to a character could ever amount to what I had just heard. The books seemed to disappear and the painting of a picture never seemed so clear until I hear the news about Mrs.
Reading didn’t seem to be such a task, but it seemed to open up my mind. As I connected to the characters in each book I read I felt a little more joy. Every morning before school I would go to Mrs. Baird and tell her about the new book I was reading and connect to her on a more personal level. But one day I came to school and Mrs. Baird wasn’t there. When class began a substitute teacher told us the tragedy. Mrs. Baird earlier that morning had driven off a roadway into a dried up riverbed. She was left in her burning car unable to move until a man saw the accident and saved her right before the car exploded. Mrs. Baird was rushed to the hospital and left in critical condition. The sub explained to the class that she would not be coming back. Suddenly what I had read in books had all seemed like fiction. No imagery or connection to a character could ever amount to what I had just heard. The books seemed to disappear and the painting of a picture never seemed so clear until I hear the news about Mrs.