The furthest memory I can attain of reading must’ve been when I was around the age of three. I was living in my hometown, Miami, and I was in the guest room of our ranch-style home with my mother. I clearly remember sitting on the bed, propped up against a tower of pillows and reading a worn out Curious George book with a peeling yellow cover. I was always an advanced reader, even at that young age, and encountered limited difficulty while reading the story. Along with being an advanced reader, I’ve always been able to retain my childhood memories as well. Throughout my life my family would ask me “Where did we live when we threw that luau party?” “Who came with us on that road trip to Myrtle Beach?” “What street did we live on in Maryland?” I would be able to spit those answers out with ease: Baltimore, the Hobbs family, 311 Roxbury Ct.; so with such a strong memory, it’s natural that I would remember learning how to read. My mother tells me she would often read to me while I was in the womb. That must’ve been true for as long as I could remember I loved reading, especially that faintest memory in Miami.
I remember all those years ago on that evening my mother made her Filipino adobo for dinner. I can still feel the stinging handprint on my rear because I would rather run around the house than be a good girl and eat. After dinner, my mom gave me my dreaded writing lessons. My grandma still has some papers saved in the storage room of her basement. It’s no surprise that what I wrote looked like complete chicken scratch. I’ve always been better at reading than writing even to this day. I hated those fifteen minutes of trying to write. My mom says she intended it to be thirty but at the age of three, it’s hard to be focused on anything when you’d rather run around and play. I do however remember always crying when my parents were too busy to read to me or vice versa. I loved reading different stories as it sparked my imagination and gave me colorful dreams. After my never ending writing session, I ran to the stuffed bookcase and grabbed that old Curious George book. I remember my mom picking me up while I held my book and Nehneh, my baby blanket, and taking me to the guest room where we usually slept as I hated to sleep alone as a child. I got settled in and my mom propped me against the pillows while she opened the book. I must’ve memorized every page because there was no struggle reading any of the words, although saying them was another story. I didn’t have my two front teeth until I was nine so I couldn’t say my r’s and would tend to whistle out my words. My mom would always have to yell at me asking if I was really reading because I often refused to read aloud. I cross my heart I did read though. As I read about that little