Narrative rough draft

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.