Anyone who has gone through school has experienced struggles here and there with various subjects. Some subjects you might despise, some teachers you might dislike, and some subjects just may not be understandable. Yet, as we learn from our school counselors, there is always some tortuous way to get out of that miserable hole. During middle school, I experienced this misunderstanding with history; what more was history than some facts put together in some sort of timeline? Unknown to me at the time, the root of my struggles was in fact the lack of personal experiences that could enable me to relate to history of any sort. I was only able to get out of this muddled hole of misunderstandings in 6th grade, when the true significance of my family’s story was unveiled to me.
The book we were reading in 6th grade, When My Name was Keoko, was a fictional account of a sister and brother living in Korea under Japanese occupation. Its cover was typical of a symbolic book: a matte brown binding with italicized text and a white flower pasted on top. The fact that the novel was historical further made me more disinterested; if I was going to have to park myself in a dimly lit room so my poor eyes could be wearied away by a novel, it had to be something other than history. Yet, my usual apathy didn’t …show more content…
Almost subconsciously, I felt some presence behind my back; I had left the blinds open. I immediately closed the blinds, as if doing so would give my mother a sense of privacy. When I returned to my swivel chair, the darkened room made my mother seem foggy, even distant. I wondered if she had the courage to start her
The book we were reading in 6th grade, When My Name was Keoko, was a fictional account of a sister and brother living in Korea under Japanese occupation. Its cover was typical of a symbolic book: a matte brown binding with italicized text and a white flower pasted on top. The fact that the novel was historical further made me more disinterested; if I was going to have to park myself in a dimly lit room so my poor eyes could be wearied away by a novel, it had to be something other than history. Yet, my usual apathy didn’t …show more content…
Almost subconsciously, I felt some presence behind my back; I had left the blinds open. I immediately closed the blinds, as if doing so would give my mother a sense of privacy. When I returned to my swivel chair, the darkened room made my mother seem foggy, even distant. I wondered if she had the courage to start her