In doing this assignment I am reminded of my early childhood and the cherished memories of learning to read. I was in home school at the time where part of my sister’s and my curriculum was a mother imposed hour of reading every school day. It began when I was six (maybe five, but I know I wasn’t older than six). The point of the hour other than improving my pathetic level of literacy , was to give my mother a bit more time to care for our other (nonliterate) siblings, who undoubtedly enjoyed the attention and snacks without having to sit in on another arduous history lesson.
I remember those hours as vividly as any from my childhood, it was during these hours I read my first novel Geronimo. If you are unfamiliar with the exploits of Geronimo he was an apache and one of the last true Indian warriors. In the first hour I read that book I was barely able to scrape by three pages, however by the time I finished the book I easily managed over 20.
I grew in that time, this godsend of a book was a perfect measuring stick for my ever-expanding literary ability. I started with barely enough ability to even attempt such a book, but my school work and eager desperation to find out what happened to the young apache warrior combined in such a way that by the end of my book I had grown into a literate boy with a newfound sense of accomplishment and love for reading.
I can attribute so much of who I am to the books ive read. The ideas ive found there have helped to shape me into the person I am today in a way that no TV show or movie ever has(or probably ever will). I found incredible truth in fiction, incredible lies in history and sense of well being I never would have otherwise found. Still years later and at the end of every book I walk away a little bit more wisdom than before and with a hunger for more knowledge.
Yet there are still children of every community who will never voluntarily pick up and open a book. They are never encouraged (or forced) to read and...