Brewer 1 Kristyn Brewer Miss E.

ENGL 1101-017 26 September 2013 Freedom: A Personal Literacy Narrative One of my earliest memories is of my father sitting me down, a book in hand and telling me with the most serious face, Kirstyn, if you will read it, I will find a way to get you the book. Those words stuck in my three-year-old brain. We never had much, even at that age I understood that. So the vow that I would be able to get something if I wanted it was appealing. I had started reading young, breezing through Dr. Seuss by the time I was five. By the time I was six, I had read everything in the house I could get my hands on, and my father got me a library card. We moved around a lot while I was growing up, so books became my friends. I read to escape, read to avoid making friends, read because I loved it. I was shy, and alone most of the time. I read because it allowed me to be myself. And in turn, I loved the school libraries that always stood as gateways of wonder and beauty in the front of the Elementary schools I attended. I read everything I could get my hands on, slinking through the low shelves placing a stick in it before removing a book. I sped past the blue and yellow dot books of my first grade reading level. I moved into the green dots with ease, only to receive the strangest looks from my teachers. They didnt think me capable of reading books of the level. It wasnt long before I was itching to get my hands on the red-dot books that were reserved for only for the fifth graders. I had

Brewer 2 attempted to check on out once, only to have the very battered Harry Potter novel ripped from my grasp and told to Go find something appropriate for my age. I was disappointed, but no matter how hard I tried I was not allowed to get the novels I so desired. It wasnt until two years later that I managed to get ahold of that book. It had been bought for me as a birthday present, and I was overjoyed. I can remember the moment when I finished the novel that would begin me on a journey that would last me my entire childhood. The sun was hot on my back, and the blue polyester tarp under my scraped knees was staining my pretty Easter dress with mud and oil. In the distance I could hear my father and two of my uncles cursing at a car they were working on, and my brother played in the newly softened mud with my cousin Luke. I was oblivious to the world, my mind flying over the last twenty pages of the already tattered book in my hands. I had been reading it for two weeks, and I was finally at the epic conclusion.

The Professor! Hes Voldemort!!! excitement bloomed in my seven-year-old chest,

the likes of which I had never felt. I rushed to the end, my heart racing as my grubby fingers traced the final words. Without hesitation I jumped to my feet, racing through the cloud of oil and sawdust that was my uncles garage, and help the book up to my father. Before he could shoo me out from the dangerous place I told him with the excitement that is reserved for children and nerds that I had finished the book. It wasnt until many years (and six Harry Potter novels) later, when he was recounting this story to me that he told me of his joy at the fever in my eyes. He wanted me to love books, and that Harry Potter had opened the door for me. It did more than that, it tore away the barrier and allowed the flood of knowledge and words to come gushing forth in a way that I had never before experienced.

Brewer 3 When I was a child, I stuck to only reading. I loved it. While the works of J.K. Rowling had opened my eyes to the wonder of chapter books it was not the only one I read. Much like the childrens stories of my younger days I flew through the more advanced books as if they were nothing, always, always, always reading. There wasnt a time that I didnt have a book with me. I would read in the time between classes, and after (sometimes before) I had toiled through homework. I read in the car, while I was babysitting my brother, in the few seconds between math problems in class. I read every time an opportunity presented itself. My mother, who came into my life at the age of nine, was less than thrilled about my constant reading. She made an attempt to control it. She banned books from my life. Anything to do with fiction, or more specifically my Harry Potter, was taken, and I was presented with boring, hard to understand classics.

I was devastated. Books had always been a part of my life. I had been reading for as long as I could remember. I loved it; in my child mind it was all that I was. I read under the cover of night, using a small light-up ordainment that illuminated the pages red and green and blue while I was buried deep into my covers. While I was traveling to wonderful lands of magic and power at night, I was reading what I was told. I was miserable. It got to the point where a friend of her and my father snuck me a book called Magik with a sly smile and the hushed words, Just in case. Dont tell your mom. It didnt take long before I was aching for something more, something beyond just reading.

Brewer 4 I can remember the first time I touched a pen to a sheet of paper with the intent to write for pleasure. I was thirteen. The sweet, sweet age of thirteen, and we were living in some rundown shithole of a trailer. It was just after my seventh grade year, and I felt an ache deep, deep down. I wanted to write, to put words on paper and create something beautiful. The room was hot in the middle of that North Carolina summer, and it would have been dark soon. I couldnt write after dark because there was no power, and no way to see save for candle-light. I got through one page, and then two. It was the most wonderful feeling on Earth. To create, to build something that exists only in my mind. I loved it, and that became my freedom. I began to write every day. If I wasnt reading, I was writing. It allowed me to express the thoughts I had been harboring for so long. It was as if I was free for the first time. I could do anything, be anything. I love to write. I had no motivation, no encouragement as I discovered this. Again my mother stood in my path. She told me daily that writing as much as I was was unhealthy, that I shouldnt be doing it, but I couldnt stop. I was never freer than when I wrote. It is a beautiful thing. When I couldnt speak up, and tell of what I was thinking, what I was feeling, I wrote. It was beautiful. I wrote off and on from then until I got older, always in secrete, and always where it couldnt be read or taken. It wasnt long before I traded my pen for a keyboard, and the real writing of my life began. I can remember so clearly the first time I started a project. Carolina Nights. It was my first serious project, all of the others had been sort, simple, written in a day. This was different. This was the first one I was proud of. As I typed the title, I hit enter twice, my fingers hovering over the letters of my name. I sat there, staring at the screen, wanting to put the words, but I couldnt.

Brewer 5 My name wasnt appropriate. If I was to ensure the freedom of this story, I couldnt use my name. I paused. Thought. Slowly, ever so slowly I typed the letters. A-N-G-E-L-I-A R-E-A-DE-R. The name that would later be the staple of all of my writing. Angelia Reader. Everything I wanted to be, free in ways I couldnt be. Angelia Reader: the name that is signed to countless poems and stories, the name that is known for its brashness, for its daring. Angelia Reader is a name that will one day be on the shelves of book stores. Angelia Reader: born from my middle name and my title. Angelia is free, words flow from her so easily. She is strong. She is brave. She is a writer, unafraid of what she writes. She is my freedom, everything I want to be. Angelia Reader, the writer of every document that is neatly organized on my flash drive. Everything, but one. The only one that Angelia cannot claim is the poem thrown together in thirty seconds before my senior English class. The poem that went on to win two awards. The poem, The Truth in a Dream. I can remember presenting it. The room was cool, as libraries are known to be. My skin puckered at it, as I shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden chairs with the other seven participants. My stomach was in knots. I had thrown together a few words that sounded really good at the time, and now I was about to stand up and read it. I mean its only honorable mention. Nothing special. I tried to tell myself. I was the last to go, and felt intimidated by the long poems that had gone before me. Theyre going to know theyre going to know I didnt take my time on this.

Brewer 6 Finally Id like to welcome out our honorable mention, Kirstyn Brewer and her poem The Truth in a Dream. I made my way to the front of the tiny room that stood in the back of the library, the thoughts bouncing around in my head. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Stand slowly. Thats right, dont let them see you shaking. Smile. Why did I wear heels again? Oh yeah confidence. Is it hot in here or is it just me? I lightly rested my hands on the cool, scarred wood of the podium. I could feel all eyes on me, waiting. Outward I was nothing but calm, but inside I was about to die from nerves. Softly I cleared my throat, and lifted the slightly damp sheet of paper that held my thirty-second poem. I cleared my throat again and began. The Truth in a Dream, I cant do thiskeep your voice steady Pride, Is the thing that make us stand tall, Hope, Is the thing that lights the dark and warms as all Courage, Is the sister of Pride. It opens the heart, and refuses to hide. Ok they seem to like it. Go on These three things, Separate, Are nothing. Together, Are the light at the end of the tunnel, and The wall that blocks it. My voice is clear and steady throughout. Perfect. I flush at the praise as I return to my seat. I would die to hear that sound, the clapping and cheers of people loving my work. I felt nothing but the upmost joy. There is no nervousness left in me, even though I am shaking. This is art. This is love. For me both are words. In the iconic words of Isaac Asimoc, "I write for the same reason I breathe- because if I didn't I would die." This is me. This is writing.

Brewer 7 Writing is freedom. It is the bleeding of your soul put to words. It is the light that brightens the darkness of your inner mind, the hand that reaches forward to rip away all pretenses. It is liberation from all that is wring and all that is right with your world, a peek, a mirror held up to your inner self. Writing is Freedom.