A Memory in a Moment: Where the Narrative Became Mine (Literacy Narrative)

I had never given much thought about my personal writing development. Sitting in my Basic Writing Theory and Pedagogy class forced me to do so. My professor, Dr. Gleason assigned the class a literacy narrative, and I was challenged with two things—first, what is a literacy narrative, and secondly, how do I write one? At first prompt nothing immediately jumped out at me when posed with the question “how did you learn to write” or as directly assigned, this narrative was to “focus on one key event” that affected our development as a reader or writer. The most obvious answer would have been through my formal K-12 schooling and my time spent in my undergrad.

There were important moments in time that I learned new brainstorming methods, new ways to phrase my sentences, and even learning to write very objective, research-based papers. That was my writing career; aside from a few short poems scrawled inconsistently into a spiral-bound notebook that I dare not call a journal. This was the extent of my writing exploration, and otherwise my only and extremely vague memory was in my freshman composition class where I wrote prompted argumentative essays for good grades.

The first draft of my literacy narrative, in my opinion, was fairly terrible. I wrote about the aforementioned freshman composition class, and I felt like I was reaching for some long lost memory, and attempting to revitalize it into this masterpiece. I had a very low level of confidence in this particular writing, and for the first time, I felt legitimate shame for turning in a paper. I’ve had difficulties writing essays before, but never had I suffered so much over ink on paper. And my feelings were confirmed (or so I thought) upon receiving my paper back from Dr. Gleason.

Immediately I looked that number of circled phrases and words on the first page. Each circle drew me more and more into a state of worry and humiliation. No longer was I focused on the actual points Dr. Gleason had written in the margins about this essay, but I concentrated on my lack of effort and thought when writing this attempt at a literacy narrative. Although the SmartBoard projector screen centered on the front wall was brightly lit, I only sensed the darkness of the pencil markings blanketing my essay. As I turned through my paper, there was the hope that somehow I had redeemed myself by the end of this four page debacle. Quickly, that hope was dashed, and the reality of the situation settled even more—this paper was subpar, and there was little likelihood for me to save it.

Although I became stuck in that moment, the class was moving forward. With our desks aligned in some shape that resembled a horseshoe, we moved on to talk about some of our experiences with writing this essay. I began to look at the expressions of my classmates around me and judged their papers according to the smiles or grimaces that sat plastered on their faces indefinitely. According to some of my peers’ faces, I saw that maybe I was not the only one who was pretty disappointed with the turnout of my essay. There was that hint of a possibility that I was better off than others. Although I did quite know what to do, or even how to proceed with my literacy narrative, I quickly realized what I shouldn’t have done—exactly what got me in this position in the first place.

So as my classmates continued to discuss their difficulties, or their ease with writing their literacy narratives, I tried to pinpoint what I had done wrong. My mind ran repetitively over and over this forlorn excuse of a paper. Some people seemed as if their literacy narratives were written long before prompted by Dr. Gleason, and that they had distinct memories of these profound moments where they greatly developed their reading and writing. We reviewed one classmate’s paper about her path to learning English through radio, and thus resulting in her literacy. Others shared their experiences in certain classes throughout their education, or even experiences with reading non-English texts. I had nothing, and my thoughts about having nothing is what I shared. I described how I didn’t remember much about my freshman writing class, but I knew that it played a significant part in my writing career (which was the only reason I had the first draft of the literacy narrative). To me, this lack of memory was a curse, or possibly a blessing in the moment.

As I was sharing with the class how my basis of writing was always centered on a very objective topic, I received my first of several ah-hah moments. I was no longer trying to relay already researched and tired information. I was not trying to create a new story, or relay a tale passed along over the centuries.  This was the opposite. I was the story. The literacy narrative was not about some stranger who learned to read or write, but it was about me and my development in becoming a better, more aware writer. This was Mark sitting in this trash-speckled classroom attempting to wrap his mind around his scriptural failure. This moment was my literacy narrative (my second ah-hah). This was my big memory in the making that forever changed the way I understood writing. I was living in that moment, half way watching myself go from disappointed and confused to literarily-enlightened.

This was my break in the clouds; my light at the end of a self-perpetuated tunnel. Dr. Gleason’s words earlier that night about taking the writer from the writing had never meant so much as in this time. Although my paper was no masterpiece, but a piece of dung, I wasn’t! I wasn’t defined by the markings and circles formed on my paper. I was now a newly enlightened writer.

From there, I began writing furiously all over the pages, adding to the already pencil-damaged text that lined the white sheets. I was being smart, and I wrote down every thought that came to mind about my new literacy narrative. I couldn’t leave it to my feeble memory to recall this great moment in time where not only I got my idea for a paper, but also my entire perspective on writing, and even greater, my writing changed.

My class continued to share their emotions and experiences with writing their literacy narratives, and I secretly wrote about my class, for they did not know that every minute we spent talking, they were becoming part of my own narrative. Every detail shared was evolving into this memory of how Mark Jamison went from not being able to write a literacy narrative, to not being able to write down everything he wanted to include in his literacy narrative. The pale walls were no longer so pale, the dreary room after a long day began to lighten again, reflecting the still brightly-burning SmartBoard centered on the front wall of the room.

I had been defined by my writer’s block. I had been attempting to find this great story, relative to what I would have deemed as epic. But instead, I found no story in my life that was my personal Odyssey. There was no hero to swoop in and write my story for me. No, the story found me. I was situated in the midst of an already happening event, and my development came in making that event my own.

That night, our class talked about linear versus episodic writing. Linear was based on a timeline, and in sequential order, and episodic was likened to a crime show where we see the victim die, then we fill in the story. How I wrote this paper was in the most linear method possible, but my final ah-hah moment was in my realization that the entity that is this paper represented the victim, and the words on the page told the story. This literacy narrative is my opening scene; the product of struggle, hurt, humiliation, and confusion. And these closing words are my finality. They are the smile on my face. They are my experience, regardless of the grade I’ll receive. This was no longer writing for a pat on the back or a sticker with a smiley face. This was me painting this particular moment in my life on the canvas named Microsoft Word. This was Mark Jamison writing his literacy narrative. But like I stated before, I had never given much thought about my personal writing development.