No one seemed to notice the war I was going through; the innocent dying, the clashing screams of murderous intent. A “children’s book” they all said. How ignorant they were... All they could think about was Magic Treehouse and The Babysitter’s Club. I had no one there to support me, no one. I was alone in this fight, I was alone to store away the gory words and brutal images. I was alone... But without him by my side, I was not. Of course I mean Harry Potter, but that isn’t the important part.
Reading a bedtime story was a ritual that could not be broken, and this, was no exception. Which book I chose could be the rise or downfall of this special ritual, and I didn’t want to screw it up. Luckily, my mom was there to help and she picked the …show more content…
But once I learned more, I could understand on my own and my love for the story soared and suddenly bedtime stories meant so much more to me. Bedtime reading was something I looked forward to everyday and I would get jittery just thinking about it. I’d usually fall asleep during our routine of bedtime reading, but I never fell asleep during this book. Never. No matter how comfy my bed was, no matter how low the lighting or how soothing my mom’s voice was, I never could do that to such a wonderful book. Sometimes I would get too impatient and I’d just read ahead. Then I’d lie about it because I believed my mom would get mad at me. She never did, she’d only give me a knowing smile and pretend she didn’t realize what I …show more content…
I had found a book I actually enjoyed and loved and not something that I would forget about a day after I finished it. I had found something worth reading, the book!
There was just, one, problem... Society. All the kids my age read Magic Treehouse and The Babysitters Club. Sure, I read some of those books, but I felt, weird, for bringing my thick Harry Potter book to school. I felt alone. Some kids would compliment me and say I must be really smart to read it--but others put me down and gave me judging looks just because I could read above my age. I took that heavily... For a while I wouldn’t even touch the book, I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be different. It was such a low point for me. In a way, I was like Harry, being different and standing out, just in different ways.
And then there were the comments. The subtle yet scarring words that sliced through me in such a brutal way. I was only a kid. The simple words of, “What a nerd!” and, “Well I have friends so I don’t have time for books.” I mean, we were kids so they were said a bit different, but the meaning was all the same: cruel, hurtful, discoloring my hope, it all
Reading a bedtime story was a ritual that could not be broken, and this, was no exception. Which book I chose could be the rise or downfall of this special ritual, and I didn’t want to screw it up. Luckily, my mom was there to help and she picked the …show more content…
But once I learned more, I could understand on my own and my love for the story soared and suddenly bedtime stories meant so much more to me. Bedtime reading was something I looked forward to everyday and I would get jittery just thinking about it. I’d usually fall asleep during our routine of bedtime reading, but I never fell asleep during this book. Never. No matter how comfy my bed was, no matter how low the lighting or how soothing my mom’s voice was, I never could do that to such a wonderful book. Sometimes I would get too impatient and I’d just read ahead. Then I’d lie about it because I believed my mom would get mad at me. She never did, she’d only give me a knowing smile and pretend she didn’t realize what I …show more content…
I had found a book I actually enjoyed and loved and not something that I would forget about a day after I finished it. I had found something worth reading, the book!
There was just, one, problem... Society. All the kids my age read Magic Treehouse and The Babysitters Club. Sure, I read some of those books, but I felt, weird, for bringing my thick Harry Potter book to school. I felt alone. Some kids would compliment me and say I must be really smart to read it--but others put me down and gave me judging looks just because I could read above my age. I took that heavily... For a while I wouldn’t even touch the book, I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be different. It was such a low point for me. In a way, I was like Harry, being different and standing out, just in different ways.
And then there were the comments. The subtle yet scarring words that sliced through me in such a brutal way. I was only a kid. The simple words of, “What a nerd!” and, “Well I have friends so I don’t have time for books.” I mean, we were kids so they were said a bit different, but the meaning was all the same: cruel, hurtful, discoloring my hope, it all