Please keep in mind that this is a very rough draft, not all of my transitions make sense, and that while I was writing this, it grew from my original prompt into something more.
Most high school students complain about their home work
load, and I was no exception. Many times, I was less than enthusiastic about my
work load. Often my friends would respond with an “I understand how you feel,” and
all I could think was, no you really don’t. Now, I was under no illusions that
I actually had more work than anyone else, but quantity was not the issue, it
was time involved with each assignment. The thing is, I read slowly, like
snail’s pace slow, and snails can’t read. Comprehension was never a problem, it
was just that my eyes could not move across the page at the same rate as other
peoples. As a kid words and letters were always getting mixed up in my brain,
and they still do. Unofficially, I am dyslexic, meaning I’ve taken tests to
identify dyslexia, but never actually been “diagnosed”. As you can imagine,
this was very discouraging growing up, especially when you take in to account
my role models. Most of my friends were grades ahead in reading, where as I was
always grades behind. And then there is my father. He is the fastest reader in
existence, going through two or three books a day. It was hard not being able
to keep up with anyone.
Despite everything, I had a strong love for story telling
that could not be suppressed, so I became an avid listener. Every room in my
life was filled with voices, like the gold tinged living room with one wall
made entirely of sliding glass doors. In the
evenings, long, heavy drapes would be pulled across to keep in the heat. In one
corner, next to the piano, is my dad’s big, blue armchair. It is old and
falling apart, and for half of my life it has sat empty while he was at sea,
but when he was home, he would sit in that chair, feet up on the matching
footstool, with the standing lamp lit behind him. He would have a cup of tea on
the side table to his left, next to which his glasses would sit, having been
discarded for the time being. The room would smell like his peach tea, and
sometimes of Christmas, and his voice would be plodding along through the
story, rising and falling with each character. A general rule for the holidays
has always been that my father would read The
Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings
in the evenings. For the rest of the year there were other fantasies like David
Eddings’ The Belgariad. As a child I
would lie on the floor playing with stuffed animals or scribbling on bits of
paper, but as I grew, I upgraded to an armchair which is perfectly positioned
so that I can use the edge of my dad’s foot stool.
When ever my father’s voice was not available, there was
always audio books. In the bright red kitchen with pale cupboards that have
taken on a pinkish hue from light reflecting off the walls, there is the audio
system. In my adolescence, there sat a huge, old, black tape player and radio that
would skip ahead if you walked too close, the vibrations from the floor
rattling the sensitive system. Now there is a small CD player that tends to eat
discs when we’re not looking. I would listen to everything from fantasy novels
to The Story of the Word for eighth
grade history. And at night, one of the Harry
Potter books would lull me to sleep. My tiny gray tape player would be
buzzing quietly with narrator Jim Dale’s greatly versatile voice playing over
the hum. Even today, I listen to audio books, they are an effective way to get
through a book while do dishes or driving in the car, and for me it’s faster
than reading the book myself.
As well as listening, I would often be exposed to visual
representations of stories. My family has always been addicted to theater as
well as literature, most people find it hard to believe that I grew up watching
Much Ado About Nothing and As You Like It along with the usual
Disney movies kids watch, but that was my childhood. As a result I have always
had a love, almost an obsession, with Shakespeare’s works. Strange, I know.
What do these things have to do with each other, or
anything for that matter? This has all been a very roundabout way of saying
that I didn't read a lot as a child, and in school, I was never able keep some
personal reading on the side as well as books required by classes. It is safe
to say that growing up, I was exposed to more books in audio form than I ever
read myself. As a result of my snail’s pace, anything I read required a great
deal of dedication, time, and patients. Logically then, would it have made
sense for me to read something I had already heard or read before? Not really.
This isn't an embarrassing or shameful part of my life, and with all my
personal experience, I could go on and on, as I have, about the benefits and
wonders of listening to stories. However, there is one drawback. Listening to a
book means I was only exposed to the narrator’s perspective on how the
character would sound or act. This was not a huge issue as ninety nine percent
of the time, I would agree with the narrator, but it did mean I wouldn't get to
draw my own conclusions.
Not so long ago, that changed. At the end of my senior year
of high school. As we had already taken the exams, and finished the course
curriculum, my AP English teacher had everyone pick their own book to read and
give a presentation on it. My choice was Shakespeare’s Merchant of
Venice. I had seen this performed in Ashland many years before and I was also
in possession of Al Pacino and Jeremy Iron’s film version, I had also heard it
from various places and read most of Asimov's guide about it, but I had never
read it myself. It was a challenge I set for myself, and an enlightening one at
that. I was suddenly able to see this story not only in the way others had
perceived it, but also in my own way. Even though it was the same story, and I
knew what was going to happen, it was like reading something entirely new
because of the different format. The experience was entirely freeing and
enlightening, to read about these characters but without being restricted by
someone else’s interpretations of their words and emotions.
Sitting in my English
classroom, that was usually somewhat dark with the windows covered, with the
soft noises of people snickering, and the water pot for tea boiling in the
background, I plunged into a world so familiar yet so foreign. I could hear and
see in my mind the colorful interpretations that I had known before, but also a
new setting and new characters that I hadn’t really known. While sitting on the
horrible uncomfortable chairs, I suddenly saw that Shylock became more retched,
more pitiable, Bassanio less noble, Antonio more conniving, Portia more brilliant,
and Jessica more lonely.
I have no doubt
that my previous interactions with the play were involved with how I portrayed
the story in my mind’s eye, in fact I think it was helpful. There was less of
the pressures of a normal reading assignment, so the experience of reading
this play was like a gift, not work. Also because it was the first time I had
attempted to break out confines of other’s views, finishing the play was like
crossing some invisible finishing line, one that all my reading experiences
throughout my life had been leading up to.
This has been a
trial that I doubt most people have been through. Though I am sure I am not alone
in the world of audio book listeners, I have never met anyone who has had the
same dependence on them. And up until this point, I have never really reflected
back on this part of my life. Perhaps, one day, I will write a narrative about
writing this narrative, as it has made me think about events that I had never
given much credence to before. I have been on a path of self-discovery, and
one, I imagine, that will continue well beyond my high school assignment.
