Final Draft of Literacy Narrative

  "Lashanda!" It was my mom calling in a tone that didn't too pleased.

      "Yes mommy?" I called out while walking to her bedroom.

      "What did I tell you about writing on the walls?" I was five and in kindergarten. I looked at her stupidly.

      " No more writing on the wall." It wasn't so much a statement as it was a warning. She gave me a look that said I could go. I walked away surprised. She didn't sound too angry, which was weird for my mom. There were things she didn't tolerate, I was pretty sure writing on the walls would be on that list. I walked back to the living room and pondered my mom’s apathy towards our ruined walls. It occurred to me that she knew. I couldn't stop if I wanted to. I just learned to spell my name and I had to write it everywhere.  I entered kindergarten afraid, my parents left me at the gate with a stranger holding my hand. I held back tears as I waved back at them. The building looked like Cinderella's carriage after the bibbidi bobbidi boo. It was another world, nothing like the schoolhouses I had seen in Ghana. Birthed in the Bronx I was whisked away to Ghana at the young age of two, and now I had returned to begin kindergarten. I solidified my knowledge of the ABC's in kindergarten. I learned to spell my name; I learned how to interact in a classroom. Those were the big take aways. I remember struggling with books in first grade, but by second grade I realized how much I loved story time. We would sit cross-legged on the rug and the teacher would read to us. I would be so engrossed, listening with my whole being, mentally in the world of the characters that when story time ended I felt as if I had woken up from a dream. My mom gave me a beautiful little journal around that time where I would scribble little things. My teacher would go through the pages and tell me how good each line was. Her attention felt amazing. She was blonde and tall, but then all grownups were tall to me. She always spoke in a soft tone. I did whatever I could to get her praise. I'm pretty sure I would have jump out of the classroom window if she asked me to. I have never given much thought to my literacy journey and if it wasn't for my writing theory class I probably never would have. Some things we have been discussing heavily is the idea of sponsors. 

     Deborah Brandt, a scholar wrote a piece titled Sponsors of Literacy. Her work addresses how people become literate. She claims that a person’s literacy has to do with their economic situation and any entity that restricts or facilitates their literacy such as the government, teachers, or parents; she calls these sponsors.  Ms. Milano, my fourth grade teacher was one of my sponsors. It was the last day of fourth grade, the only reason why we came was to get our report cards and see what class we were placed in for next year.  Some friends would be torn apart others coupled together. I skimmed my final grades quickly and turned to the back of the card. I gasped when I saw what class I was placed in. I ran to Ms. Milano.

“You put me in 01?” The other kids in the classroom heard my loud outburst and gathered around us. “She’s going to 01?” Someone yelled, the rest murmured among themselves.

“Yeah,” Mrs. Milano said calmly. “I think you can do it.” There was a number system in my school of all the grades. the first number was the grade level the other two numbers was the skill level of the students in that class. The 01's were the kids on the advanced track; most of them had been together since first grade. Mrs. Milano believed in me. I let her down brutally (I want to find her one day and apologize). I was only half there in class and I barely did any homework. I felt no motivation to do any work outside of class. I really liked my fourth grade teacher. I wanted to impress her, which is why I tried in her class. The atmosphere of 501 was completely different. None of the kids wanted anything to do with me, I was all alone in that classroom. I spent that year waiting for school to be over. That year, a girl died in our class. Her name was Nathera. She had contracted a very rare disease that caused her skin to swell up and bloat. It was on News 12 the Bronx, reporters wanted to interview us. By the end of the year she was mostly forgotten. Her mom wrote and distributed a poem at the little memorial we held for her. It was beautiful and I would read it every couple of months when it was time to clean the house and I would discover it again. I had it for a long time. It was ripped and browning before I lost it.  In fifth grade I thought poets wrote poetry. Ordinary people, moms— didn't just up and write poems. But Natherea’s mom had and it made me think that I could write a poem if I wanted to. I didn’t though, until it was a required assignment for school. PS/MS/95 also known as public school/ middle school/ 95, if you're not from New York City you're probably not familiar with the school numbering. Every public school has a number. I was in 95 from kindergarten to 8th grade. Nine Years. 
      The school was severely underfunded. We had no music program and art stopped once you hit fourth grade. There were no special books or technology even for the 01’s. The school administration just had the good sense to separate the kids that were more advanced so they could be challenged and taught at a quicker pace. We did have teachers who cared and the administration would repeatedly tell us how lucky we were. They had horror stories about other schools where the teachers sat in the classrooms just as bored as the students. 

When I was very young, I'm not sure when, the time is all warped and distorted, I had a tutor. I was having problems with basic math. I didn't get it, and even though I was really young I thought my tutor was very cute so I did try. Stephen was a teenager who lived in my building, a fellow Ghanaian. My dad knew his dad and asked if Stephen could tutor me for some extra cash. One day he was asking me something about a problem, I shrugged to say I didn't know the same time my dad passed by. Stephen the tutor misunderstood the shrug and told my father that I didn't care.

"No, that's not true!" I exclaimed. At that time I was really bad at articulating myself, I didn't know how to explain I had been misunderstood. My dad yelled at me and I was forever upset at Stephen. I sat there seething that day, hot tears in the corners of my eyes threatened to fall. From then on I didn't allow myself to be taught by Stephen. I would only pretend to listen to him, thinking I was hurting him when I was in fact hurting myself.  
      The large Ghanaian population led to a tight community in my building, something I benefited from. The grownups would pass along valuable information to other grownups. We all went to the same buffets and restaurants. The grownups had the same tax person, and went to see the same lawyer. We went to the same doctor and shopped in the same places. I had another tutor from fifth to sixth grade. She was the cousin of an uncle of mine who went to the same church and lived in the same building as us. She would tutor me with another Ghanaian boy who lived in my building, Keith. It helped but not much. I would only pretend to be having breakthroughs when I was still very lost. I'd almost forgotten about her but this summer, the summer before my junior year of college, I learned that she passed away after a complication with her surgery. At one point in my life I was used to seeing her everyday after school. 
      My parents were always working and when they were around the house they would criticize my siblings and I for watching so much T.V. My father would make us go and study. We would look at each other and roll our eyes. We couldn't wait for him to go back to work so we could go back to watching T.V uninterrupted. My dad is always talking about the importance of school and education; I grew up knowing I was going to college. He would go on and on about how he wanted a better life for me. He didn't want me to work two jobs like him, barely getting any sleep. For the most part we were left on our own and we barely studied. I read for pleasure when I felt like it. I told my sisters to read but didn't push them on it. Reading was a personal escape for me. My sisters knew not to interrupt me when I was reading. Before Brandt, I never thought of my parents as sponsors of my education.  I had forgotten about the tutors and all the school supplies they bought. Looking back I realize my parents really cared about my education. Even though we've always been pressed for cash my dad valued me enough to spend money on a tutor.

       Throughout middle school and high school. I was called a bookworm. I was the "smart one" in the class. But I wasn't really, I was failing math all through school. I read a lot, people assumed I was smart. People would see me reading in the corner during recess or under my desk during class. I had a few close friends and no social life. Since the fifth grade I was home continuously watching my siblings. It wasn't so bad in middle school since there was nothing to do but high school presented all these opportunities. I wanted to join all these clubs, especially the guitar club where I could get lessons for free, free but I had to go home and watch the kids. I had to cook and make sure they did their homework. I wanted to join soccer but it was the same situation., practice ended late and who would pick up the kids from after school? I couldn't partake in all these other experiences because of my responsibilities. My parents saw it as my duty and we couldn't afford a babysitter. Why would my parents pay for a babysitter when I could do the job? Ghanaian culture requires kids pull their weight in the household. Part of the reason they're born is to help their parents. Everyone close to me knows how much I love my kids (that’s what I call my siblings), my little brother was born when I was in the tenth grade and he is the best thing to happen since ever. But sometimes I can’t help feeling that I sacrificed something for them.

In high school I began I to consider considering writing just for the sake of it. I was inspired by how the books I read moved me. I wanted to make the same magic as the authors I cherished. In tenth grade my humanities teacher, Ms. McMurdo, a major sponsor in my literacy history, recommended an organization called Girls Write Now. The program paired professional female writers with high school girls with a passion for writing. It changed my life. I ended up winning the scholastic gold medal for my writing portfolio, which included a journalism piece I had written when I was part of the Bronx Youth Heard program. A teen journalism newspaper I joined after some pressure from my journalism teacher. It also included some pieces about my family—things I had written with Girls Write Now. The award came with a ten thousand dollar scholarship, which allowed me to go to Ithaca College. During the whole GWN experience I questioned myself, if what I was doing was actually considered writing. If my work was any good, if I was just fooling myself. Was I faking it, like I did half of school? But I won the national gold medal and it was a big deal. The people who hosted the event really pulled out the red carpet for us. I felt like a writer then.

  There were a lot of programs available to me. Girls Write Now nominated me for the Posse a program, a program that gives minorities a chance to receive a full ride to college. I wasn't accepted but being nominated was an opportunity. Brandt would point out that being from the Bronx where I had access to all of the city’s resources and my parent’s value in my education played a huge part in my literacy journey. My high school although underfunded had a school paper and I was part of the class who was forced to make it.  Even though I groaned all through that class I secretly enjoyed it. My school having a paper is a resource I benefited from. My family is also something I consider a benefit. 

I'm the first to go to college in my family; my parents didn't get the chance to further their education in Ghana, where there is no public education system. All schools are private and have to be payed for at each level. My parents always remind me I'm setting the example for the rest of my siblings. It's all up to me and sometimes I feel like I'm faking it, like I've always done.

But I’m starting to put things into perspective. I've come to realize the things I don’t care too much about and have to fake are not that important in the long run. It’s the writing that’s important. I've known that since I began writing my name.