Michael Berry David Kossy, WRD 103 Literacy Essay Literacy as Individuality Literacy, as a synonym for knowledge, is a powerful

thing to haveand something I take for granted, at least literacy of the English language. Most Americans take for granted their access to clean water, electricity, and their human rights; the ability to read and write is central to my personal list. I cannot remember learning to read, struggling to read, or a time when I could not read. To me, my literacy is just as natural as breathing and sleepingand just as necessary. My early ability to read built a strong sense of empathy within me as I strived to discover more about the world at large. Such curiosity caused me great pain; I did not like the world that I saw. The more I found out, the more I could not come to terms with, ever infuriating for my mother, whom at this age I still believed could answer all of my endless questions. Mom, why are the popular kids not the nicest ones? I remember asking her this question after school one day in kindergarten, and it was the first question of mine she had absolutely no answer for. With such a question, my understanding of the true character of the narrow-minded, vain, and shallow community I resided in began to developand my love of written word flourished. The more I saw my peers, my neighbors, and the people I had to deal with on a day-to-day basis, the more I withdrew into my developing reading skills, using them as an aegis against the dark and dreary dystopia I found myself trapped in. Each slight from a classmate, each demeaning glance from a stranger, each ostentatious display of wealth pushed me further into the worlds of Harry Potter, Redwall, and Narnia. I found solace in the fantasy of

a world where people stood for something other than their own gain, and in my disenchanted state I became a cynical recluse. That is where my grandmother entered the picture.

My grandmother and I lived in similar areas, and had similar strugglesshe was my mentor in many ways and without her, I would never have been able to bring myself to continue to reach out and attempt to understand the world. I owe her not only for my literacy in writing, but also in kindness. She lent me the strength I needed to build my individual self and the sympathy I needed to protect that self in the hostile environment that is Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. The inhabitants of such an environment were of the same species as in her hometown, Lake Forest, Illinois. Bloomfield Hills is a throwback to a medieval era, both in the design and density of the houses (read: castles) as well as in prejudice. If one does not fit the narrow set of

correct aspirations, values, and lifestyle as defined by the community, he or she becomes socially invisiblea total outcast. In both Lake Forest and Bloomfield Hills, people are devoted to the altar of money and the cult of artificiality in their futile search for meaning. An elderly woman with a noticeable lack of plastic surgery and a speech disorder stuck out like a sore thumb in Lake Forest, and a young boy with no interest in using wealth as a social grading scale and who refused to assimilate into that culture was an abomination in Bloomfield Hills. We were the rejects, and that was made evident to us. Such ostracizing environments, while painful to live in, allied us on a subconscious level. My grandmother had a stroke when I was young, in which she sustained permanent brain damage, triggering aphasia. Aphasia occurs when the part of the brain that is used for verbal and written communication is damaged, and even though one still forms complete thoughts and has not experienced a decline in intelligence, people with aphasia generally come across as insane or senile. In the years thereafter, she struggled to live on her own in Lake Forest, and spent everincreasing amounts of time at our house, and we spent ever-increasing amounts of money supporting her. Such a decline in her well-being had a silver lining, howevergrowing up with a close relationship to an unbelievably kind person (her stroke had caused a personality change for the better). She loved the world, and I aspired to emulate her in her energy and enthusiasm for the beauty in both nature and humanity. On one of her visits, we decided to go for a walk. Walks were something of a tradition, but this particular one went on for hours. As we strolled through a park, she spotted a weeping willow and we hurried towards it. Positioned on a slope near the edge of a small pond, the willow provided us with an excellent location to sit and rest away from the sun. As we sat there, she passionately chattered about how beautiful the leaves were, and

how the long arms of the tree were resilient in spite of the seemingly enormous weight they carried. The willow was much more than a tree to usit was a symbol of inner strength in the face of great strain, and a way to appreciate the world around us to maintain hope. This event may seem insignificant, but from it I took not only a lesson in finding an inner strength no matter what the circumstances, but also a lesson in figurative thinkingmy grandmother was teaching me to look beyond what I saw, and trying to find the hidden meanings and beauties that lie below the surface. From this particular event, I trace my ability to understand and use figurative language, as well as reframing the lens through which I view the world. No longer did I despair at the desolation and problems of the world, instead the desolation and problems were merely the haystack I had to sift through to find a needle of beauty. Even today, I strive to find the good of every individual, the silver lining in every problem, and the phoenix in every pile of ashes. My language ability failed me, however, when I was stricken by unbearable grief at her abrupt death. One of my worst memories is of standing at her funeral, watching them place a wooden casket underground, and I was unable to watch. I turned away, tears streaming down my faceI had been thrown from my life and thrust into an alternate reality I did not and could not yet understand. My lexicon was utterly insufficient to express the magnitude of my sadness, the shock to my heart, and the aching in my bones. The language of beauty wilted like a lonely flower in a drought. In this drought, I found a thirst for knowledge and it drove me to read and write as much as I could. Maybe, with enough vocabulary, enough experience, and enough time I would find a way to describe the immeasurable grief I held in that moment. And so even in death, my

grandmother pushed me towards literature, and my grief eroded by the river of writing that flowed from the lake of reading, until my grief subsided and the lonely flower blossomed. Her perspective not only influenced what and how I read, but inspired me to write in order to document every such needle. I am often found writing a short poem on the wonderful view from my window in fall as the leaves change color, or a short passage on a subject I find particularly fascinating. Reading was no longer escapism, but instead insatiable curiosity about this world and every imagined one in my grasp. By reading and writing, the world became meaningful, rich, and vibrant. My world became more desirable than the one from which I was forbiddenthe approval of my peers paled in comparison to writing a well-crafted poem or reading about Lewis and Clark! Much like those adventurers, I was (and still am) on my own adventure. I am by no means completely nonchalant about how I was treated in my childhoodI harbor resentments, I retain bad memories, I struggle to overcome my self-image of an ostracized individualbut no longer am I dominated by my social separation. My relationship with my grandmother not only affected my focus in literary pursuits, but also my worldview. Her speech disorder greatly affected her use of the English language, and in all our time together I was often mentally translating what she said into what she meant. I took her aphasic dialect not at face value, but rather as a cryptic message that I had to translate. In doing so, I became a master of metaphor, a crafter of connotation, and a scholar of simile. In literary literacy I had not only an effective coping mechanism, but also a channel for a sense of individuality that is my most cherished possession.