I remember when I was a kid, reading felt like a punishment. It was almost an insult, a curse, a form of banishment when someone told me to go read. Whether it was my teacher in class or my mom at home, reading had been turned from enjoyable to criminal. I don’t know when exactly my opinions on books changed, maybe it was after my mom stopped reading them to me before bed, or when they were more words than images, who knows. But as I got older the idea of reading turned from an option to an expectation, which for a good while made me despise novels entirely. Any time there was a reading sent home, I hid it in my backpack, if there was a class reading, I would never want to be called on. It was never that I struggled to read, it was a struggle to understand why I was reading. And now that I look back I realize, no one ever told me why.
It wasn't just the expectation, the assumption, that once you grow you read, it was what we were reading. Even though I knew it was important to learn about History or Science, all the pages and readings felt as though the weight of words was keeping me from enjoying the other things in my life at the time. It wasn't until my English class that my feelings truly changed for the better. What I think made me so distant and disconnected from reading, was 1 because I didn't know why I was reading, truly reading, and 2, I was never asked what I wanted to read. I was just handed the pages and words that to me had no weight, no importance, and no impact.
It wasn't until my English class, specifically the scholastic book fair, where I was given “schoolbucks”, the fictitious currency of the book fair where there were trinkets galore. Spy kits, silly erasers, scented markers, anything a kid could waste their time and money on. My issue, all the fun things were only available if you brought real money, and the only thing you could buy with school bucks was… you guessed it books. Endless amounts of books I had no care for, so as my class strolled down the countless tables of brightly colored packs of toys and whatnots, I was staring at the hard copies I had despised. Until I saw a section I don’t think I had ever noticed before. Graphic novels.
Initially they looked like any plain old book, until I picked up one, the “Percy Jackson Graphic Novel”. I had heard of Percy Jackson as my brother adored the series, which confused and if anything annoyed me, but I had never seen him read any copy like this. The pages were filled with images and words of dialogue, not just line on lines of words. I got as many as I could with my “Schoolbucks”. As my classmates and I headed out I couldn't wait till we were back in the class room so I could flip through all the pages. While others were showing off their new trinkets and toys that would be lost within a week, I sat in the reading corner with my stack of gra[hc novels marveling in the pages I had once hated and now couldn't get enough of. As I went home and kept reading my brother came into my room and saw what I was reading, hurried out and then back in with the first of the Percy Jackson series. I remember he handed it to me and said “This is so much better than the graphic novel, there's so much more in here I bet”. At this I scoffed, how could he even compare the words to the beautiful and enchanting illustrations. But I took the book and threw it under my shiny new stack of books. But what I learned quickly and painfully about graphic novels is as enjoyable they were, as quick they were too. I never thought I'd be upset about a book being too short, but they were.
I had gone through my whole collection in one evening. So in a moment of weakness and slight boredom I grabbed the last book, the bottom of the barrel, the Percy Jackson novel with only one image, the cover art. As I had just read the graphic novel I felt as though I would know everything about this book already, but I was wrong. So wrong.
The first chapter showed me sides and thoughts of a character that the graphic novel cou;dnt even illustrate, action sequences I had not known of, characters that I couldn't imagine meeting. And most importantly it had a world of my own in my mind, not just one drawn and handed to me. It was an experience like no other, because it was mine. My interpretation of the book, my perception of the characters. My mom had to rip it from my hands in order for me to sleep that night. But even then I did not sleep. I thought of all the pages I had read, all the little journeys I had been on without leaving my seat. I had been thrown into a world I could never imagine on my own, and I loved every second of it.
From then on, I loved reading. Meeting new characters in different books, seeing new worlds, experiencing what the characters experience, anything and everything a book had I wanted. And to think, if I had never seen that graphic novel I would have never pushed myself, expanded my mind, explored the unknown. Not only did it push me mentally, but also creatively, I started drawing the characters I loved, writing as if I was an author, exploring genres I would never even look at. Reading taught me to be curious, explore and dive into the unknown, because you truly never know what you will find.
