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Thursday, July 21, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
The Axiomatic Musings of a Teen who would like to share a personal story with you.
It’s a chilly January night in 1999. The building of their house has been prolonged for weeks and they’re still living in the two-bed single room of a nearby Travelodge, waiting for it to be completed. Each day, the small 4-year-old girl would amuse herself by playing with her plush Pokemon toys and learning to write her name in cursive with crayon. Her parents would microwave her dinner, a treat of Kid Cuisine, and she’d eat well and behave. They watched TV often to amuse themselves and pass the time as the weeks dragged on and still their new house went unfinished.
Then, one night, the small girl’s mother brought home a new book for her. The small girl loved to read, as she had been doing so since 18 months of age. Her mother, however, made it clear that this book would be one the small girl would have to listen to her mother read, because it seemed thicker than her usual books and had more complicated words. Her mother reminded her that it was always okay to stop and ask, “what does that word mean?” and the small girl held no reserves in doing so. As they made themselves comfortable on the starchy bed of this makeshift household, the small girl’s mother cautioned her: “Now, this book is about a magical boy,” and the girl smiled, as she loved stories of magic and fairies, witches and wizards, “but it’s a book for kids that are a little older than you, so there might be scary parts. If it gets too scary or you don’t like the book, just tell me and we can stop and read something else. Okay?” The small girl nodded in her agreement and watched as her mother opened to the first crisp page. “Ready?” she asked, and began to read.
“Chapter one, The Boy Who Lived. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much…”
And the small girl never said “stop”.
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