Class Today

So today, I had to share one of my papers as a peer review. I normally hate this, because I feel really self-conscious about my writing, and usually everyone just gives me a "good job, make it longer," in passing. Having everyone review my paper and give their opinion was surprisingly helpful, since a lot of the suggestions are things that I wouldn't have thought of myself. I never really saw the value of having someone else look over my paper, but now I think I understand a lot more how the writer can be too close to the paper to see what another person would.

Writing Process

As I am sitting down and thinking about what to write for our next paper--wait, stop the press. I'm actually thinking about what I'm going to write? That's a first!

One thing WRIT240 has begun to show me is the importance of the pre-writing stage. I've never been one to voluntarily write rough drafts, make outlines, or mind map. Rather, I usually sit down at my computer the night before an assignment is due, and make it up as I go. However, as we have edited each others papers so far, I have started to realize that a little pre-writing goes a long way.

Cupelo Lit. Bio- Words

I don’t remember when I first started reading, just that I always was told that it was important. I do remember sitting on the couch with my mom and my little sister, Caroline, as I struggled to pronounce the words that meant nothing to me. Needless to say, Caroline learned how to read before I did. I remember being more interested in the colorful pastel pictures than the actual story that I didn’t really understand. I had no idea that the words I glanced over would become a huge part of who I am.

Since those early days on the couch with my mom I have become an avid reader. I can still remember the rhyme in one of my favorite children’s book entitled Forever For Always. I enjoy reading a wide variety of genres and have that typical obsessive-compulsive tendency to be physically unable to put down a book until I finish. I read the seventh Harry Potter book in one day, with an hour to spare, and won a dollar for beating my older sister, Emily. I loved Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables and was devastated when my dad told me that the over a thousand-page book I had read was only the abridged version. To this day, George Orwell’s 1984 and Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird are my two favorite books; followed closely by J.D Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. I am terrible at writing formal essays, but when assigned to do so on these books, they were the easiest A’s I have ever received. To me, books are just like movie scripts. The writer provides the set, misleading plot, the twisted characters, the action and imagery; all you have to do is close your eyes. Most movies are based off books anyways. Ever notice how similar the movie V for Vendetta is to 1984?

I don’t think that there is such a thing as an original idea. Emily used to keep a journal filled with movie lines, song lyrics and quotes said by famous people in history. I used to stow away into her room and read through the notebook full of the

same clichés that were simply said in a different style surrounded by varying adjectives. I didn’t even care that I was going to get in trouble for sneaking into Emily’s room. I couldn’t help myself. I loved that there were so many different ways to express ones self, so many words at my disposal that carry such weight. I find that this weight is like a catapult, once we cut the rope the shear power is released and even though we may not see where the boulder lands, damaged may have still been caused. Sometimes, we don’t think, but a simple thank you can make all the change a person’s life. Eventually, Emily started locking her door as to stop me from stealing her books, but I foiled her plan by learning how to pick her lock using a clothes hanger. Fed up with my annoying intrusions, Emily told me to stop reading her notebook and to just try writing on my own. I wrote a poem about memories entitled “Memories.” I knew that it was a subject that was very overdone, but I figured the real writers, who are older than me, already took all the good ideas. It was then that I concluded that there is no way I can come up with an original idea, my only choice is to put my own spin on an old theme. Just like all the people Emily had quoted in her journal. After nervously watching Emily decipher my poor handwriting I was told to never stop writing. Which is why, now, when I get in trouble for writing in class I simply respond that I am only doing what I was instructed all those years ago.

When I first started writing, the style that truly captivated me was poetry. I saw poetry as the best way to transform a common idea, and make it into something different by surrounding it with detailed imagery and elaborate metaphors for my readers to discern. When we started to learn about the components of poetry in school, my enthusiasm was usually matched by groans made by my peers. They saw poetry as something that is written to make readers’ brains hurt. I saw it as the most intriguing puzzle ever! It does not, as stereotypically thought, require a rhyme scheme; there are hidden symbols knitted into the piece; the form in which the poem is presented adds all the more to the visual aspect of the overall poem; the metaphors and similes are proof of the writer’s pure creativity and ability to see things in a different light. The connotation of each word must be balanced before

even being considered, as its power can determine the direction the piece will take after being interpreted by the reader. You are only given a few lines to write in, but so much can be done. Even a voice can be heard. In my eighteen years of reading, I had found that in each book I read, the speaker has an audible voice throughout the entire work just by the words he chooses to say. That’s what appeals to me most, the writer’s ability to express his or her voice through the words that he or she writes.

I easily classify myself as someone who is quite quiet, so my voice is not something that bounces off people’s ear drums that often. I understand that public speaking is a common Achilles heel, but it’s more so for me than anyone I know. My fingers will writhe in my hands, my pulse flares into a dangerous range as my legs begin to bounce under the table as I attempt to release the nervous energy and my head is kept down. I just find that words come to me easier when I’m forming them with ink. When I’m writing I can make the conversation go in any direction I choose. I can get my point across with no one interrupting me. When I am writing, I know am guaranteed to be heard, even if it’s just by the sheets of paper in my notebook. With so much going through my head, sometimes I just have to get things out. Whether it comes to you after much contemplation or during a daydream. Even if it means getting in trouble for writing during class, it would seem that my love for writing as a cathartic release is more appropriately described as an addiction like that of a alcoholic. It’s bittersweet in that I love the feeling of an accomplished piece but it burns as I realize that there is so much editing to be done and I am left itching to exercise my wrist again.

Last year in my creative writing class, I was able to spin my wrist in other directions than just poetry. I was taught different types of poetry such as villanelles, sonnets and slam poetry. We focused on sound imagery and form. We also tried our hands at one-act plays and short stories. We also kept a journal in which we wrote freeform in each class. I loved it all. I didn’t even care that I had to present every piece I wrote. I didn’t care because it gave me a chance to speak. To show people that I’m not just some kid who wastes class time writing in a spiral green notebook.

My one-act play entitled “She Said Yes…” was in the top six in a competition we were forced to submit to, and my villanelle won honorable mention in a contest. My

teacher, Mr. Benware, and my friends constantly told me that I have talent, but it fell upon deaf ears. I do not like to boast about my pieces because whatever complimentary attributes they are given, I know I am not yet a writer. I still have so much to learn, and I know that being at Siena College is going to get me one step closer to that admirable title. My grammar is still not exemplary and my mom still complains about my poor handwriting. This however is not going to put a damper on my writing. I like to think that my ideas and twists on normalcy are something worth reading. I like to think that my perspective is worth reading and discussing. I do not have a special delegated ballpoint pen, nor do I have a really cool retro quill that’s reserved for writing in some special secret notebook. I do however have numerous pens and a pencil in my backpack ready to be used. There is something about holding a pen in my hand when I write the letters that form the words in my head. There’s a kind of old-fashioned satisfaction that adds to the experience that just makes my scribbles worth etching.

Now that I am at Siena, it has become more difficult to find time to write, especially by hand. So, I have begun writing a journal type of document on my laptop that is filled of my observations, memories and random thoughts. The document is entitled Contemplations of an Emo Kid: “the so-called problems of an angst-ridden teenager from middle-class nowhere.” I am fully aware that I am not emo, however, I just like the title and I think that emo is a funny word because it reminds me of the word emu, and emus are funny. This type of thought process is the epitome of my random writing style and evidence of my tendency to lose focus in essays, but everyone has their strengths and weaknesses.

My weakness is formal essays. Like most people, I am terrible at writing formal essays. I find them restricting in their structure, and confusing. It’s more like expanding on a checklist. You must ensure that you hit certain points with enough information to support what you say. There is little to no room for your own personal style, let alone your voice. Recently, I have begun free writing before I

delve into my essay so as to get my thoughts in order, and this process has helped me improve my amateur essay skills. I am often frustrated that there is an imbalance between my ability to write formally and creatively. Life can’t give you everything though. Some people are good at focused essays; some people have short attention spans.

Life has given me an adoration of writing though. That obsessive-compulsive tendency I have for reading has transformed into an obsession of writing. A skill in which I plan to enhance as I continue learning from professors in college, the books I read, and the critique of my peers. So, let me apologize in advance if I write during a class, presentation, or while you are speaking. Please understand that I am merely following Emily’s order to never stop writing. Who am I do deny such a request?

Exemplary Parents and Inferior Teachers

When I was young, my parents often reminded me that I should not worry about other people’s opinions, unless they were trying to help me. This meant that I should not care if someone did not like the form of my jump shot in basketball, my pitching wind-up in baseball, or even my style of writing. When I found success in something doing it my own way, then there was no reason to change it. Not everything has to be done the conventional way, I was taught. If this support had been matched by more of my teachers growing up, then I would have entered Siena College as a far more confident reader and writer. The truth is that my teachers in middle and high school, perhaps the most crucial years for a student, did not help me improve my skills through instruction and positive criticism, but shed a negative light on each that has set me back in the long run. This was until I graduated from high school and made it into college. Taking college classes and being taught by professors who value the progress made by their students has brought literacy back into my daily life.

The home environment in which I grew up should have, in retrospect, guaranteed me a future as someone with a great understanding and love of the English language. My father graduated from college with a degree in English, and my mother did the same a few years later. Neither of them went on to careers that were primarily focused in reading or writing, but they truly loved the English language. I asked my parents just a few years ago if they had hoped that my brother and I would share this interest with them; both said yes. I had to know that this would be the answer—at least I should have. My mom is a stickler for proper grammar. She consistently critiques letters, emails, and general conversation. More of a Patricia O’Connor type, my mom never speaks out to be hurtful, but is just an honest and helpful person who enjoys the English language in the way it was intended. As a young kid my mom taught me how to properly carry on a conversation. Listening to me speak, one would never hear mistakes like, “me and Chris are leaving,” or “I’m doing good.” Errors like these have set off an alarm within me since I was very young, before I even knew why, thanks only to my mother. My dad was never the type to correct me, yet he expressed his desire for me to share his passion for English in his own way.

Every night before bed my dad asked if I wanted to listen to him read a book. To be honest, I do not remember when this tradition started, but I do know that it went on a very long time. The Hardy Boys and The Happy Hollisters were our two favorite series. Sometime during these years began my love of reading, or at least hearing my dad read to me. My dad loved to share one story in particular from when I was in preschool. We were going to have a “father-son” day. My request, out of anything in the world, was to go for a hike and find a spot to read. The day was perfect; a clear blue sky without a cloud in sight, the rushing water of the Susquehanna River smashing against the rocks beside us, and the distinct smell of the air after a long rain when the sun comes out and shines. We sat on the damp, moss covered rock of my choice, and read. At some point during the story, my dad noticed that I was not looking at either him or the book, so he asked me what was going on in the story. I went on to give, as he told it, a ten minute summary of the last few chapters of the book up until his last few words. This, in my mind, must have been around the time I started to love literature. I began feeling not only the satisfaction gained from a good book, but the undeniable pleasure of parents’ true approval. Everyone knows that their parents love them, but there is something different about the look they give you when you truly impress them.

Going to school should have obviously strengthened my reading and writing skills, and this is what happened in elementary school. I can remember reading out loud for the first time to my classmates in Mrs. Sosa’s first grade class, my first report in third grade—the reason why I am still an authority on leopard seals, and being one of two people to read an essay aloud to the entire student body in sixth grade entitled “My Seven Years at Center Street Elementary.” The most important part of these years was that I had teachers who saw potential in me, like my parents had, and pushed me to succeed. I continued to love this feeling of being recognized, just like my parents had made me feel at home. This was something that I became accustomed to and did not think that anything would ever change when I moved up to Oneonta Middle School. Nothing played out the way I expected.

I was a strong reader and a confident writer moving on to OMS. Ms. Drago’s favorite quote in sixth grade was, “middle school will prepare you for the crucial four years of high school.” This is not what happened. I had average grades in elementary school, so in middle school was placed into the regular classes. Surely these teachers were expected by their superiors to provide the best education possible to the students in all of their classes, but it is clear looking back now that they did not. I did not understand why they did not share the enthusiasm of my parents and earlier teachers. They did not have the confidence that those before had in me, and left me lacking the advantages of positive criticism or worthwhile approval. Seventh and eighth grade consisted of the students messing around constantly while teachers let it happen. Looking back on these days I regret so much that I did not take the initiative outside of school to read or practice any form of writing. I was definitely not doing what my parents had hoped I would. If only my teachers shared the same feelings. I believe today that the expectations of my teachers were being fulfilled because they did not expect anything more from me than the mediocre work that I handed in and the rude attitude that I displayed. This may sound harsh, so I offer another possibility; maybe the teachers felt that they were doing their jobs, and this was all that I was capable of. The latter would seem highly unlikely, though, if anyone were to sit in on an Oneonta Middle School classroom. On to high school I went, headed on a backward path toward illiteracy.

My first year in high school things actually began to turn around. My Englsih teacher was a friend of my parents, and like them, she loved the language we speak. Mrs. Hardison showed interest in me, and made me feel like someone with a future beyond high school. When I was there she let me know when I did things well, and this made me want to do more. When I made mistakes, she was there to fix them and guide me in the right direction. In this year, I was doing what my parents hoped of me. It seems mostly trivial to talk about ninth grade because over the next three I managed to forget what I had learned due to bad teachers and lack of interest on my part. The downward spiral in literacy soon began.

There was really no reason why I should have such negative memories of these academic years. I could have made more of them outside of school, or even worked hard enough in my classes to be placed in advanced ones. The simple fact is that without the motivation I knew from home provided by my teacher I do not perform at a high level. Not only were my grades at a level far lower than what I was capable of, but I also began to look negatively at school. It is obvious that most kids “hate” high school, or at least say they do, and I think this is something that comes with the age. The difference in my case was that my teachers seemed to be right there with me, even fueling my negative feelings. Countless times I heard phrases like, “Is it Friday yet?” or “Do I have to teach today?” One positive influence from a teacher in the next few years could have changed my outlook on my education entirely. Instead of focusing on school, I just tried to have fun.

I have so many memories of the last three years of high school, and most of them do not take place in an educational setting. I had a lot of fun but did not learn what I should have. I can remember goofing around in the library when I could have been reading, roaming the hallways laughing and joking with friends when I should have been in class, and finally, when everything culminated in being awarded the “Worst Case of Senioritis” for our senior class. I was carefree and fun, and this I do not regret. All of the fun I was having should have been mixed with some form of education.

At some point during these three years I should have seriously thought about what my parents were thinking. While they always expressed their opinions, they never wanted to judge my behavior and upset me, so I never really considered the disappointment they must have felt in my slacking off. I stress the words “seriously” and “really” because I know that in the back of my mind I did feel bad about my behavior. I was caught up in the moment. I felt too cool to look back and remember the little boy I was who loved to read books and speak like an adult. Somewhere I should have brought back these things. My English classes were not the venue.

To help illustrate my English classes over the three years, here are a few examples: in tenth grade our teacher took a well-deserved year off to stay at home with her newborn child, so we had a different substitute for each half of the year. The first was a long-time substitute who did not see the value in outside reading, so read To Kill a Mockingbird and Julius Caesar out loud to the class. She was replaced mid-year by a woman who had just graduated from college and had close to no experience with 10^th graders; she swore at the class late in the fourth quarter of the year and was not welcomed back. In eleventh grade my teacher often lost things that he planned on assigning us, most likely because all were handwritten and photocopied, and gave each student fullcredit. In my senior year, and I must preface this is my favorite English class experience, my teacher simply gave me an A+ as a final average because it was the easy thing to do. I never understood this, but why would I complain?

Last semester was my first experience away at college, and I could not have been happier with the change in my instructors’ attitudes toward learning. My introductory writing class gave me the chance to express myself in writing for the first time in college. The response I received for my work was what I had desired for so long: the feeling gained when someone takes an interest in me and respects my work, something that I had not felt from anyone besides my parents and select teachers. The fact that I am not easily motivated when a teacher does not show interest is not a fair excuse for some of my actions, or inactions, in the past, but today I no longer face this problem. Now I am in an environment with professors who work hard to teach their students all that they should be learning. This, along with a newly gained maturity that lets me actually sit back and contemplate what my mom would think, pushes me to work to my potential. My parents’ hopes for me are coming true, even though it took far longer than expected. Literacy in my everyday life is more prevalent than ever, and there is no reason why this could change.

First Essay

I Can Do Anything Better Than You

I have enjoyed reading and writing from a young age. As a child I read everything that I could get my hands on including books over my reading level, I think that is what made me such a strong reader and writer.

Every night before bed my mom or my dad used to read my brother and me a story. They ranged from Disney fairy tales to full-length novels. My favorite always being Cinderella, which happened to be the first book I learned how to read. Having an older brother put me ahead of many other children. From the age of two my parents said that I wanted to be able to do anything that he could do. This is what I believe drove me to learn to read and write by the age of four. I remember sitting at the kitchen table doing his homework with him, and I was always trying to know more that he did. This competitiveness still exists today in pretty much every aspect of my life.

My favorite teacher also happened to teach my brother two years prior. Her name was Mrs. Maimone, and she was one of the sweetest teachers that I have ever had, but at the same time one of the most challenging. Having taught my brother, she expected more out of me than any teacher had in the past. My brother was the perfect student, and every teacher wanted him in his or her class. He was smart and well mannered, and always was going above and beyond what was expected of him. This high expectation pushed me, and I thrived on the challenge of being better than my brother. She introduced me to more fiction novels and helped me become a better writer.

The extra attention that I received early on helped me to get into Honors English in sixth grade. This was one of the highlights of my education. Only 25 students were selected to be in honors English, and being put in honors put you on a fast track for other honors classes to come. I finally felt that I was put in a class with students that enjoyed the same things that I did, and loved the books and writing assignments that we had to do. No more book reports and presentations about what we had read, it was the first time that as a student I was asked what my opinion was on a text. My thoughts and ideas about what made it a well-written book, or what could have been done different finally mattered. This might make me sound a little on the geeky side, but reading and writing were my favorite things to do in school.

This love of reading and writing were further cultivated as I moved through school. Teacher after teacher had taught my brother since there was typically only one teacher that taught honors and AP in each subject. Every teacher who taught my brother expected just as much out of me as Mrs. Maimone had in third grade. I pushed myself harder and harder each year to live up to and even surpass their high expectations. These high expectations did not come without there consequences though.

With the amount of stress I began to feel at school to be the smartest in every class, I found that I began to stray away from my love of reading and writing. My attention shifted to anything analytical. Here I could prove that I was smarter than my brother. Math and science were simple subjects; I could easily prove myself smarter than my brother. But I couldn’t enjoy what I was doing.

This was when I discovered fiction novels. My parents had bookshelves full of books just waiting to be read, and I gladly began to sort through them one by one. This is something that I had that I didn’t have to share with my brother. He was never one to pick up a book just for fun, it made it my own, something I had accomplished first. And as I sifted through titles of books I couldn’t pronounce, and weird sci-fi stories, I found myself gravitating towards the mystery novels. There is something about the suspense and not knowing what is going to happen that keeps me intrigued. I fell in love with Mary Higgins Clark, and have grown to know her writing style. I have read almost all her books, and will even re-read them even though I know the outcome. But having one thing that my brother did not do was not enough.

The competitiveness continues throughout high school and into college I was always trying to do better than my brother, score one more goal on the soccer field, score higher on my SATs, or get a higher GPA. I think that my parents saw this as a good thing, bragging to friends and family about our high scores and college acceptance to every school we applied to, but trying to live up to a genius is hard work. To keep my head on straight I began to write.

I started to write stories at a young age. Most of my stories had to do with horses, my favorite animal. I still remember the first story I wrote, it was called Halloween Pony. I wrote it in third grade under the watchful eye of Mrs. Maimone, and I still have it to this day on my bookshelf at home. I have never been one to keep a diary or journal, but instead express myself by writing poems and songs. I think this stemmed from my love of mystery novels, because I wanted to be creative, even if what I was writing was not suspenseful. I love sitting down at my computer or curling up in my bed and just writing. The best place to write is outside; my deck swing is a particular favorite place of mine. When I am writing it is one of the only times that I am not distracted. I love the sound of the keys on my lab top or the light scratching sound a pen makes on paper. To me this is comforting, something that blocks off all else that is going on around me, and allows me to just be me.

I write when I am angry or upset, but rarely when I am happy. I found that my brother often made me angry, and writing about it helped me realize that he wasn’t the one always causing these feelings. Putting my thoughts down became my way of dealing with my emotions. I have learned over the years that writing when I am happy does not yield the same quality of work as when I am feeling internal turmoil. This may strike some as strange, but to me, putting my emotions on paper keeps me from using them in a hurtful way. I have found that when I write these feelings down I can go back at a different time and read it, and be able to control my emotions. Writing poems and songs also allows me to freely write without having to think or control what I am putting down in words. I feel that writing in this way allows me to be creative and enjoy what I am doing.

What I do not like to write is pieces with specific guidelines. I especially hate papers that teachers assign topics too. Writing shouldn’t be about who has the best style and grammar, and who can put information down on paper in their own words. It should be about writing something that is meaningful to you, and about learning something. But writing about a topic that is of no interest to you is extremely difficult. Doing research and writing papers about topics that are relevant to a specific class are needed, but it is not the easiest type of writing for me to complete. I feel that I cannot lend myself to certain topics in which I have no emotion about, or that I am not in the slightest bit interested in.

This is one of the poems that I wrote:

Blank pages

Empty faces

A clean slate?

Or an empty heart

Is it possible not to hate?

To feel this feeling

To keep it locked inside

Not helping my healing

To suppress

This hatred I harbor

When writing comes from inside I find that I can express myself better than any other way. When I’m submerged in writing, whether its mine or another authors, I find that I am in a different place. I find comfort in the peace I get from reading and writing. It allows me to get away from the every day competitiveness I feel and express my feelings. What is better than finding what makes you happy?

Writing Autobiography

Creativity Is The Key

I stand in the kitchen and look up at the cabernet-shaded wall. In front of me hang two plates, but the one on the left has more meaning to me. The date 1994 strikes me hard. Wow, was it really that long ago that I learned to read and write? I look at the way I wrote my name on the plate, BRITT on one line and then YNA on top of it. When asked why I wrote my name like that, my teacher somewhat insinuated that I was having trouble writing my own name. However, in my four-year-old cleverness I responded “Well I wrote my name too close to the picture so it didn’t fit so I had to write it that way”. I think she was taken aback by my answer since most children at that age knew the alphabet, but still struggled with forming words.

While I was growing up, I was lucky enough to have a stay-at-home mom who read to my younger brother and me every night before we went to bed. I do not recall the first book I was ever read because we were read so many, but I do remember a distinct moment where I first learned to read. I was three years old and sat in the “time-out chair”, a tattered blue armchair residing in the den; I was in trouble for throwing a Hot Wheels car at my brother. He was almost one year old around this time. He wandered into the den where I was serving my time, and handed me a book, Goodnight Moon. He climbed up onto the chair and sat in my lap. I opened the book and began to read it to him, allowing him enough time to look at the pictures, and even asking him questions like, “What is this?” pointing to a picture of a chair in the book.

My mom would give my brother and me grammar packets to complete before dinner every night when we were younger. One would think that this pressure to complete packets that are not assigned school homework would turn me away from liking grammar and even English all together. With my brother that was the case, even to this day, but with me, I enjoyed every moment of finding a grammatical error and the satisfaction of finishing a novel.

With my love for grammar and school in general, instilled by my mother, I came to watch others in my classes to decipher their reading and writing styles as well. I have come to find that there are three main types of people when it comes to English classes: Those who actually read the book and put effort into thoughtful essays, those who skim the book and get by in the essay department by being a good bullshitter, and those who do not even open the cover of the book and somehow manage to form semi-intelligent words on the paper in the appearance of an essay. Throughout my years in elementary and high school, I was the first type of person previously described; however after being forced to read agonizing books about race and diversity issues, I turned into more of the second type of person. It frustrated me to no end how just because my school was ninety-eight percent white the teachers and administrators felt the need to expose us to other cultures, which in most cases is a good thing, but this overexposure turned many students, like myself, away from reading. The only thing that kept my interest in English class was reading other types of novels and free-read books.

My brother on the other hand, is the third type of person. He rarely opens a book, yet somehow can write a paper on it, and he still receives an A or A- for the paper. After years of being in complete awe of his skill, I proofread one of his papers. I found a plethora of errors! There is no way that his papers are A- let alone A material. I showed my findings to my mom who proceeded to make an appointment with my brother’s teacher; the teacher responded in saying, “Well he is an athlete, what does it matter if he forgets words and messes up grammar every once in a while?”

But it does matter, to my mom, and especially to me, to whom those words from his teacher hit me like the anvil hitting the coyote. To someone whose passion revolves around reading and writing, this nonchalant view of grammar, especially that view held by and English teacher, was hard to grasp. Breezing through The Secret Garden in 1^st grade, easily remembering all of the capitals and states, as well as their spellings, in 2^nd grade, I was a very advanced reader and writer. However, it was 6^th grade that finally marked my placement in courses to challenge my advanced reading and writing skills.

One test, the ELA, would determine my career in high school in terms of the English department. I stared at the blank page on which I was to describe how paintings are like pieces of literature and a painting that inspired me in particular. Immediately, A flashback to a little 2^nd grader me came into my mind. Both the 2^nd and 3^rd grade classes were held at the high school at this point because the new building was under construction. I remember standing at the entrance to the gymnasium and looking way above me, towering like a symbol of what to look forward to be upon entering high school, was this mural of various sports players. I strongly remember the tennis player, the look of intensity on her face as she winds up for the kill shot, with her right foot back in motion swiftly turning into a track, runners and all. This is the piece I chose to write about, because the painting had truly impacted me, and my goal was to become one of those athletes, who one day will inspire another young 2^nd grader.

That was the first point I actually was able to understand the kind of impact that literature can have on a person; just as a painting can have on someone, literature evokes so many feelings, and to each his own. After writing that piece I was placed on the honors English track, along with nineteen other students who would become my family away from home. In 7^th grade I stood strong and read all of the assigned books, and wrote all of the papers days in advance, but by the time 8^th grade rolled around, my love for reading and writing was slowly being crushed by the confined curriculum the teachers pressured on us. Death. Disease. Black. White. Red. Yellow. Pain. Suffering. My brain immersed with these images, had soon lost sense of my literature loving 2^nd grade self. I became that second type of person aforementioned, and even teetered back in forth towards the third type of person in some cases.

Luckily in 11^th grade my teacher, Ms. Barney, actually shared my same opinion on the chosen previous novels, and for once, I would be in a class where the teacher did not have to formulate everything on their lesson plan towards one state test. AP Language and Composition would be my saving grace. The whole year was focused on finding our own writing style and honing it. Creative writing was Ms. Barney’s specialty. Everyday we had to enter class and write thoughts papers, which are basically what their name says they are. We could write about anything, drugs, sex, alcohol, curses, parents, school teachers- whatever; nothing would leave that room she told us. So we all opened up and became a tight knit group to hang out not only in school but on weekends as well. We cried when Colleen’s grandpa died, we fought when Natasha was suspended over ridiculous accusations, we took concern when Eric dropped so much weight for wrestling he was turning white-wall pale. Each of these events, Ms. Barney would turn them into a writing assignment to teach us to express our feelings on paper, thus forming our own writing styles. I remember writing about Eric’s situation particularly. We were asked to write pieces on hunger to be shared with the class and Ms. Barney would provide all different foods, appetizers, main courses and desserts. I wrote from the perspective of a Marine stationed in Afghanistan during Thanksgiving. Harsh, choppy, pissed-off language helped me to overtake the mindset of a Marine in that situation and my words flowed onto the page. Ms. Barney was so impressed with how far we had all come that she decided that we each submit to her what we thought the three best pieces of our writing were, and the class would vote on the one they enjoyed the most. All twenty pieces she would turn into an anthology for all of us to have forever. This is the first time my writing skills actually felt validated, by not only my teacher, but by my peers and friends.

Ms. Barney made me want to become an English teacher and express my love for reading, writing and grammar to others. I will incorporate my mom’s appreciation for grammar, use my brother’s teacher’s comments as a learning experience of what not to do, and embrace the allowance for students’ self-expression from Ms. Barney. All of these together will hopefully make me a great English teacher.

-Brittany Letteriello

First Essay Final Copy

How I Learned to Write

My love has always been math, reading and history, but never writing. Math has always been my favorite subject because it’s something that you can do your own way, know it’s right and not have to worry about someone else’s opinion about how you did it. There are only two answers in math your either right your wrong, there’s no middle ground. Writing is one of those subjects where one form can be right to one person but then be completely wrong to another. It’s not your opinion that matters in writing, even on your own essay it’s your teacher’s, your classmates’, or a complete stranger’s opinion that matters most, and this has never sat well with me. In middle school and high school as I was excelling above everyone else in math, my English teachers were handing me back essays with more red markings then there was black ink from my original paper. To go along with all these red markings, most people would expect an explanation on how to fix the paper and maybe some guidance on how not to make the same mistakes in the future. This was not an expectation any of my teachers ever fulfilled.

To me, the first four essays that were presented in our class were each an account of how my classmates’ love of reading and writing has grown throughout their lives and developed into a lasting love that is still with them today. As I read each one of the essays I realized that I could not fully relate to any of them. While I can perfectly relate to each of their love of reading, as they described how passionate they were about writing and how much they actually enjoyed it, it almost made me sick. “How could someone ever like writing that much?” I asked myself. The whole subject of writing has always left an unsavory taste in my mouth and I doubt that will change anytime soon.

When I was growing up we had a special time in my family, every day or every other day, where my siblings and I would sit on the floor around my mom and listen to her read. There was no better time in my childhood than the time I spent listening to my mom read. The way in which she read brought the story to life for me. She would use a distinct voice for every character in the story and the tone in which she would tell it only added to the excitement and mood already portrayed by the author.

The first book I can remember ever being read, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, is still one of favorite books to this day. In fact, just over Christmas break I read it three times in a row to my two nephews as they sat beside me and pleaded for me to read it again and again after I finished it every time. Their constant desire to be read to, even if it was a book they had just heard two or three times, reminded me of the love I once had as a child of being read to and how I had
always wanted more. Just one more chapter, just one more book.

The most distinct memories I have of being read to come from when I was five to nine years-old. I remember most sitting in my living room day after day, without fail, listening to my mom read each of the first three Harry Potter books as they came out. She would only read three or four chapters at a time and she always found the most suspenseful spots to cut off at. I remember staying up late many nights wondering what would happen to Harry Potter and his companions. This suspense killed me, but it also increased my love of that reading time. Because of these story times the love of reading was always there in my life and even today there is almost nothing better, to me, than sitting down with a good book and reading the day away. When I can find the time to start a good book these days, it is nearly impossible to get me to do anything else; I have to finish the book. The suspense filled nights my mom once put me through will
never happen to me again.

Unfortunately, this love of reading has never transformed into any kind of love for writing. Even from kindergarten there has always been a dread of writing in me. I think it all started from the constant criticism I received from my kindergarten teacher on my penmanship, which didn’t make me want to improve, it only made me want to write as little as possible. Similarly going through the years of English I grew accustomed to receiving the comments of “print more legibly”, “can’t read this” or “rewrite illegible” on my assignments. It wasn’t like I could just easily fix this problem by typing my assignments, as some of you might be thinking, because, believe it or not, most of my teachers up until 9th grade required handwritten papers.

I had it imprinted on my brain, due to the constant criticism of my writing, right from the beginning of my school career that I wasn’t a good writer and I never once questioned this. The simple explanation from my fifth grade teacher of, “Well you can’t be good at everything” made perfect sense to me, and I was good at everything else. By the time high school rolled around I no longer even attempted to get better at my writing, I just accepted that I wasn’t good. Even though I could, by then, type out my assignments, the amount of red ink I received on my writing papers never decreased. I can not ever remember receiving a paper back from a teacher and being told “good job” on it, until my freshman semester at Siena.

Upon being accepted to Siena my motivation was renewed and I was determined to excel in every aspect of my schooling. College is supposed to be a place filled with teachers who actually care about their students and want to help them progress. I can still hear the sound of my mom’s voice saying, “You better not screw this up Patrick Jay!” as she turned to leave on move in day. I was determined not to let her down in any aspect of my schooling, including writing.

With the acceptance of my inferior writing skills still stuck in back of my head, you can imagine how little I was surprised when I met with my Foundations teacher, in the beginning of my first semester, about my first paper. I watched him mark something wrong in literally every sentence of the essay I had submitted to him. “Here we go again!” I thought to myself, sitting there watching him destroy my essay; it was the start of high school all over again, I thought. The only difference this time was that my professor took the time to explain why he was marking these errors. He tried to help me to understand how to correct the mistakes I was making for future drafts and essays. The results of that ten minute sit down showed, in my next draft, that it was really all I had ever needed. The second draft of that same essay received an A and was the reason my professor recommended me to take this course. It was also the paper I used as an example of my writing to get accepted into the course.

Over my first semester, my writing skills continued to develop and grow with the help of my foundations teacher, Professor Harden. Without his help writing would surely still be my weakness and I would not be in this class today, but thanks to his guidance I’m now on my way to becoming a much stronger writer. I would now even consider it to be among my strengths academically and, who knows, maybe one day I’ll even enjoy writing.

Literacy Autobiography Reflection

When given this assignment, I thought I was going to simply answer questions about my writing style in essay format. After answering a few of the questions, I began to realize my motivation to write, which I was actually unaware of prior to starting this piece. The more I wrote, I realized I was answering questions about myself that I never thought I knew the answer to. This piece showed me that confidence plays an enormous role in my passion for writing. I decided to entitle my piece My Style, My Motivation because I began by writing about my preference of style, which just happen to lead me into what motivates me to write.

Literacy Autobiography

My Style, My Motivation

I have come to realize that my favorite style of writing is journals. I feel that I prefer it over other forms of writing because it comes naturally. Free writing in journals helps me to get all of my thoughts out on paper with no pressure to write in a specific format. With other types of writing, such as research papers, there are certain guidelines and rules to follow. Although I tend to dislike too many restrictions on writing, I believe it is necessary to speak clearly and always use correct grammar and punctuation. Journal writing is also a very helpful way for me to plan out an essay and can even pose as a rough draft.

The most difficult writing for me is fiction. I find it incredibly hard to write about something that is not real. I do view myself as a strong writer, but the imagination aspect of fiction writing does not come as easy. On the contrary, writing nonfiction is pretty easy for me. I am much more comfortable writing about real experiences and retelling stories that have actually occurred. This has not always been the case. During elementary school, I absolutely loved to read and write fiction stories. I would look forward to writing time in class so that I could write endless pages on a fairytale that took me less than a minute to come up with. My eagerness for writing fiction ceased as I entered middle school. I began to realize that there was not much room in the curriculum for creative writing. Writing became much more structured and left nothing to the imagination.

Although many may draw a blank, I thoroughly remember learning to read and write. My first recollection of learning to write was prior to attending kindergarten. Most would agree that having an older sibling greatly encourages one’s enthusiasm to read and write. This certainly applied to me. I recall watching my brother doing his homework and reading books that he had taken home from his school library. My mother began to notice my interest in reading and bought me a children’s book entitled “Happy Birthday Boots.” It is definitely possible that most of the words and phrases in the book I had memorized, but nevertheless, it helped me to figure out what combinations of letters made what sounds. Knowing that I had some inkling of reading ability, all I wanted to do was read more and I continued to aspire to reach my brother’s reading level. We were in constant competition, but the fact that he was frustrated I could read at such an early age gave me more confidence, for I knew I was ahead of the game.

Having confidence is vital to be a good writer. The more confidence one has the more encouraged they will be to write and actually put effort into what they are writing about. This theory is actually what encouraged me. In eighth grade I had a teacher, Ms. Coleman, who always told me I was a strong writer and frequently used my pieces as an example for the class. This gave me a lot of confidence as a writer and made me actually like to write, while other students continued to groan and procrastinate with every assignment we were given.

My experience in eighth grade truly encouraged me to write more in order to constantly improve my skills, although as I got older, more and more structure was put into the curriculum and I began to lose interest. I can recall specifically in ninth grade when I switched into a private school, there were much more research papers assigned than I had ever written. I knew I would be able to easily write a paper in one night, but I was not as motivated to do so and therefore I would hand all my assignments in days, sometimes even weeks, later. My friends did not understand how I could hand in assignments so late, yet still receive such a high grade. At this point, it was clear I was much more of an advanced writer than I had even thought.

This brings me to my next dose of confidence; college. Papers became even more frequently assigned as I entered college. I realized my typical homework assignments had turned into anywhere from a one page paper to a fifteen page paper, at least twice a week. Although this may seem to be negative, it made it much easier for me to get into the routine of writing my papers on time. It was not until my foundations professor brought it to my attention, that I realized I was an advanced writer in high school, as well as college. He had sent me an email to see him after class, and as most would suspect, I thought I was in trouble. Despite my fear, I approached him after class. He asked for my permission to submit me to the Peer Tutoring in Writing course.

I was more than ecstatic to hear one of my college professors refer to me as a highly developed writer. Being recognized in this manner made me actually want to write more, which I was definitely not used to. For this very reason, I took him up on the offer, though it did take much considering. I constantly thought about all the papers I would probably have to write, which I usually dread. This brought me back to the thought that I had prior; the more I write, the easier it becomes. This simple realization was the determining factor in my agreement to join the Peer Tutoring in Writing class.

Although my increasing confidence had encouraged me to desire writing more than I had in the past, I cannot say the same for reading. When I finally finish a piece after what seems to consist of endless planning, outlining, writing, and revising, I feel accomplished, proud, and usually astonished at how well I was able to write. This particular part of writing, the final product, is what usually inspires me to want to write. With reading, I find no sense of accomplishment, and most of the time, I get highly intimidated by thick books and miniscule font. I feel as if it would be much more enjoyable for me to watch a movie that derived from a book, rather than read it all over a large time span.

I honestly would love to have the passion for reading that my peers have, and that I once had. I recall it being exciting to buy a new book and the constant anticipation for some free time to just lie down and read. Anytime I was considering putting down the book for a little, I could not do it. It was impossible for me to stop reading, while still wondering what was going to happen next. For this very reason, I found myself finishing books within the first day or two that I had begun reading it. This certainly does not pertain to my reading today, nor does it express my feelings towards reading presently.

I am not too sure as to how I can enjoy writing, yet dread reading. One possible reason could be that readings I had always been assigned in school never captured my interest and totally turned me off to reading altogether. Also possible, I could have simply grown out of my reading stage and lost interest. I truly believe that what has most impacted my lack of interest in reading is all of the novels, short stories, poems, and plays I was forced to read, mainly throughout middle school and high school. I find myself, most of the time, reading pieces without actually grasping what I am reading and merely skimming the pages.

The time in my life that I can remember fully enjoying both reading and writing occurred in fifth grade. I can distinctly remember having time set aside every day for either free reading or writing. At this point, I think I was a little more interested in reading than I was writing, surprisingly. As always, I was assigned to read a certain number of books every year. In fifth grade, my teacher would put a sticker on a poster board next to our name every time we completed another book.
I always tried to finish my books in the shortest amount of time possible in order to see a long line of stickers lined up next to my name. It instilled a sense of accomplishment in me, which encouraged me to read more. The stories I read would also give me great ideas for when my class and I had writing time. I feel this grade very much revolved around academics, creativity, and imagination, which I feel should occur in the higher level grades as well. For this very reason, I believe fifth grade was one of my favorite years of school and one that helped me develop more of a yearning to reading and write.

As one can conclude from the previous paragraphs, I have definitely changed as a student. I believe the school curriculum has altered my interest in both reading and writing, with the outcome being both positive and negative. I feel that the constant approval and positive feedback I have always received from my teachers on my writing has encouraged me to write more. On the contrary, all of the readings I was forced to read throughout my years of middle school and high school have turned me off to reading and made it more of a job than a hobby for me. Although it seems as if I completely hate to read, I do believe that if I ever have free time and no schoolwork to worry about, I may be able to begin reading again and develop the liking for it that I once had.

What I regret most about my educational experience is that I never tried to continue reading books that I actually enjoyed on my own time, even though I was somewhat turned off by it as a result of school. I feel this would have made me appreciate reading today and not dread having to read something as minimal as a short story. Even though I may not be passionate about reading, I do feel that I still am capable of still having strong writing skills and believe it will benefit me in the future, in whatever type of writing is entailed, whether it is for school, an internship, an occupation, or anything else.

First Paper Reflection

After printing out the final copy of my first paper I realized I did not save it correctly on my computer and did not have a finalized copy to place on the blog. Because of this I had to retype the entire thing. At first I was upset as I had already read it over twice and decided I would not find any other errors. After starting to re-type my paper I realized a lot of different mistakes. Re-typing it gave me the ability to stand back from my own writing and see them as just words of the paper. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise...

First Paper Final Copy

An English Revolution

The story of my as a writer is a turbulent tale of misguidance, lack of interest, and above all, the barriers that I myself established. My first experience as a reader ended up being a fun story to tell, however, it was undoubtedly a day in which my teacher arrived home in a huff; throwing her bag on the kitchen table, vowing to never teach kindergarteners again. Over the years, my interest in English as a subject has improved. English was always the easiest class of the day; it took me a long time to realize it was because I enjoyed it.

The first book I can remember reading was Mrs. Wishy Washy, in my kindergarten class. To this day I still remember what my classroom looked like. Everyday I would walk in, hang up my coat on the hooks along the right wall and walk to my cubby. We were all allowed to bring in one toy and it was to be placed in our cubbies until recess. Even though there was to be no talk of the toys we brought until playtime, my friends and I would always show what we brought, while convening at the cubbies. We would get scorned for doing this as we were clearly informed of the rules on a daily basis.

The rest of the classroom was a typical kindergarten room. There was a section with tables for arts and crafts, the rug on which we would all read, and of course the ever popular corner of building blocks. One day, right before recess we were to have reading time. It was during this time that one of the teachers, as well as three of four kids, would all claim some space on the floor and begin reading. It was that day in which we began reading, Mrs. Wishy Washy. I cannot exactly remember the book, however I do remember that Mrs. Wishy Washy would complain daily about doing her daily chores. Mrs. Wishy Washy and I had more in common then I allowed myself to believe.

I insisted that I was not going to read that book and instead, rolled around on the floor throwing a fit until the teacher stopped reading. Every time she would continue, I would yell, “I don’t wanna read Mrs. Wishy Washy”! Finally, the teacher gave in as she realized that no amount of time could instill any desire to read that book. Following this reading, we were allowed to go outside for recess.

My house was on the park that connected to the school. Even though it was a considerable distance for most kindergarteners, I knew the way and had decided that I was going to run home, for fear that the dreadful book would be placed in front of us after our half-hour learning hiatus. I ran. I ran past the swings and down toward the football field. I remember seeing the tennis courts with my house just on the other side. The hill I was running down was much too steep for my stubby little legs to handle and I fell. I rolled to the bottom of the hill with my teacher right on my trail.

This is what I remember about my introduction to the world of English. As dramatic as it was, it did not have any long-term effects. Into middle and high school I always enjoyed English as a subject, however I did not realize it would one day become my major. In high school I tried to do as little work as possible in order to get by. Even while doing this, I was placed in advanced placement classes, skipping a grade in both science and math. I recently realized that it was my writing skills that enabled me to excel in these classes. It was easy for me to get my ideas onto paper and hand them into my teachers, while some other students were still struggling with grammar usage. To be honest, I think I was often given good grades because of how my answers were phrased and not necessarily the answers themselves.

When I was younger and had to write essays in middle school, I would as my mom to proofread them for me. I often thought this would give me a break from my “homework time” to go hang out with my siblings and possibly catch a peak at The Simpsons, a show I was forbidden to watch. This was not the case. My mom would make me sit with her and would tell me each word or phrase she was correcting and why. I would get angry that I would have to sit there and once I was out of middle school I would not ask her to correct my papers was what made high school so easy for me. From a young age, I was taught correct grammar, tenses, and punctuation. When my peers were still making these mistakes, I was acing my tests, solely because I had received extensive at home instruction on the English language.

Looking back, I was a very impatient child, trying to get my schoolwork done as quickly as possible in order to move onto whatever activity I had planned for the rest of the day. To me, the ten minutes we spent correcting my paper took an hour. As this went on, the trend only got worse. Before I could drive, my parents had to complete control over where I could go after school as I relied on them for rides to and from my friend’s houses. The moment I turned sixteen, this all changed. Grades were always very important to my parents and they expected me to do hours of schoolwork a night. At the time, like everyone else my age, I was more concerned with hanging out with my friends then reading The Great Gatsby. It became very easy for me to tell my parents I would be staying late to do my homework, or was planning on meeting up with some friends for a study group, giving me the opportunity to spend the afternoon with friends. I would find myself putting off large assignments until the last minute, but still managed to get good grades. I was never given the opportunity to inadvertently teach myself a lesson. While this attitude may have been fun during high school, it did not prepare me for what was to come in college.

I entered Siena College with the mindset that I would be able to breeze through the next four years and graduate with a finance degree, which I had decided to be my true calling at the age of eighteen. The first semester or so did happen in just that way. With a schedule full of core requirements such as history, introductory English, and foundations, I would be able to spend time with my friends without any parental restrictions. It was after my introductory courses that this began to change and reality set in. The first QBUS course I took at Siena College was a real wakeup call. I had started the class believing I could breeze through it just as I had my other classes. I was sadly mistaken when I got my first test back. I got a D. My parents were less than thrilled and I realized that perhaps college was not going to be the party I had expected.

After this alarming wake up call I had some serious soul searching to accomplish. I went into Siena with the dream of graduating with a degree in Finance and working on Wall Street, earning millions in bonuses alone. This dream came crashing down upon the realization that I have no desire to work with numbers for the rest of my life, let alone the ability to do so. It is following this that the panic set in and my majors began to change. I changed my major two times in the next year without any real guidance. I was shooting in the dark hoping I would enjoy next semester’s schedule.

Finally, after two and a half years of college and a lot of personal growth I am able to define myself as a student. With one-day left to change my schedule, I marched into the academic affairs office and make my claim. I had always enjoyed English and the thought of reading another marketing textbook made me shake. I needed to study a subject that I actually enjoyed.

English has not only recently become my major but my passion as well. I find myself reading ahead in assigned readings just because I enjoy an author’s writing style, or have gotten caught up in a story. Never in my life have I been able to say I went above and beyond what was necessary because I truly wanted to. Majoring in English has restored hope in myself as a student and has given me a field of study that I really enjoy. I want to share this love for literature in the future by becoming a teacher myself. Even thought I made the change too late to major in English Education, I will have time to travel and teach English abroad as a second language through either the Peace Corps or other similar organizations. I never thought I would be saying this but I often find myself having fun in class because I enjoy and understand the course material.

I am not one to dwell on the past and the decisions I have made. However, if I could change one thing it would be the way I approached college. I went into college as most high school seniors do, felling as if I was invincible. I quickly learned the reality of that situation and have become a better person as well as student because of it. My passion for the English language will be all I need to succeed in my last three semesters at Siena College.