In the center of a pristine building, I stood silent and motionless, with only my eyes wandering around the bustling atmosphere of the airport. I was fixated on reading the color-coordinated fluorescent lights that glowed on each display with data on the locations, departures, and arrivals of flights. Shifting my gaze, I observed the swift yet fluid movements of people maneuvering through the terminal, occasionally eavesdropping on their conversations as they hurriedly passed by. Overwhelmed, I looked out the window into the midnight sky. I stared at the glistening reflection of stars elegantly placed on the dewy glass panes. With tears streaming down my warm, rosy cheeks, I peered into the busy street for one last time before boarding the plane. Eleven years ago, I immigrated from the Philippines to the United States. I was six years old when I had to embark on an entirely new life in a strange environment, assimilating into a culture where I could not speak the common language of its people.

              Two months after my arrival in the United States, my mother enrolled me in second grade. This soon became one of the most demanding obstacles I had to face. Although my education in the Philippines gave me a basic grasp of English, it was not enough to psychologically prepare me to adjust to an unfamiliar society. I was stuck in a foreign nation, unable to speak its general language, and it was terrifying. I recall the loneliness I felt whenever I drifted timidly through the halls of my elementary school. My thoughts spun chaotically as I failed to make sense of the clashing noises that spewed from my classmates’ mouths. I saw each interaction as a succession of fast-paced dialogues with foreign subtitles and a slew of exclamatory remarks scattered through a cluttered screen. Going from perfectly understanding passing conversations in my home country to being perplexed by basic sentences left me in despair. With uncontrollable tears welling up in my eyes, I dropped my head, ashamed that I could not begin a simple interaction with my peers simply because I could not understand them. It was overwhelming. It was heartbreaking. Most of all, it was isolating. I was restricted in the tight confines of my born tongue, ashamed that I could not say the simple words or phrases that would allow me to escape.

              Throughout primary school, I saw myself moving further away from the possibility of forming connections with others. I often spent my days gazing at the beaming smiles racing through glittering blacktops or lush grass fields while I sat alone in peaceful, dimly-lit classrooms. Days spent in the haven of empty spaces turned into opportunities for me to inspect the unexplored shelves that lined the edges of each room. One by one, I examined the pages of random dusty books. The majority of the books in the school’s library had been damaged and covered in marks from students flipping through pages or storing them away in obscure places. A few books were so distressed that the artwork on their covers was no longer visible; there were only faint outlines and blots of colors spread here and there. The pages were smooth and delicate with only a few creases and folds that I felt on the grooves of my fingertips. Something about holding these books in my hands made me feel as though I was holding the key to breaking away from my linguistic binds. At that moment, I embarked on my literacy journey and began to appreciate the wisdom and beauty of literature. Although I did not understand the letters written on the pages, I was inspired to learn them. I made it a mission to obtain at least one of those books by the end of the school day.

              Gathering the courage to approach my homeroom teacher, a compassionate older woman named Ms. Wood, I politely pleaded, “Ms. Wood, I read this book at home please?” I vividly remember her stunned expression as she could not believe that one of her timidest students had approached her with such confidence. Without hesitation, we quickly returned to the collection of bookcases I had previously discovered, and together, we scavenged for the ideal book for me. After much deliberation, we stumbled upon a book titled Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans. Ms. Wood turned to me, and with a gratifying laugh, she offered the book as a gift for me to keep. I peered into her eyes, unsure whether what I had heard was true, and was welcomed with loving reassurance. I proudly grasped my new book and leaped to hug my teacher for her kind gesture. Without skipping a beat, I promptly stared at the illustration in the book, attempting to tie the pictures with their corresponding text. Of course, it was much more difficult than I imagined, so I patiently waited until the end of the school day to go home and pester my mom to assist in my readings.

              Every night, like clockwork, I read and recited the dialogue printed on each colorful, picture-filled page. I became flustered with every pronunciation mistake or misread sentence but that did not stop me from persevering. No matter how tired I was, I would make a point to at least read a page or two without error. However, some nights were especially disappointing. On the ground were scattered piles of paper with notes that my mom and I meticulously produced so that I would have an easier time remembering how to say specific phrases. Frustrated, I held my head tightly between my hands and gripped my hair until I felt a few strands break away from their follicles. My tongue twisted in ways that were unnatural to me and it felt as though my mouth was going to burn off with every attempt to say words like “Tuesday”, “broccoli”, or “picture.” I felt a sinking sensation in my heart, similar to when you fall in your dreams only to be awakened in a cold sweat before collapsing to the ground. Those were the nights when my loving mom consoled me with a gentle embrace and encouraged me to continue to learn despite how hard it was. Holding me in her arms, my mom caressed my hair as I allowed my emotions to wash down my cheeks in an unending stream. Of course, a few moments later, my mom showed me the tough love found in all immigrant households and said, “If you keep crying, you won’t learn. You’re taking up too much time. Go study.” but I digress.

              I cherish these moments of failure the most. Failure is what pushed the boundaries of my knowledge and resulted in my drive to overcome my adversities. Over the school year, I accumulated so many books that my reading nook covered an entire corner of my room. Reading in that nook felt almost magical as the golden afternoon glow shimmered on the edges of the page, with rays of light guiding me through each paragraph. I lost myself in each captivating narrative for hours on end.

              Throughout the school year, I applied the knowledge that I learned through reading in conversations with my classmates. Although my English was not at its greatest level, it was enough to form the lifelong bonds I have today. A few simple phrases were enough to loosen the shackles that once grasped so tightly, I had no room to breathe. There was one girl in particular whom I was constantly interested in conversing with. She was timid like me, looked like me, and was an immigrant herself, but I never found the boldness to approach her. After months of studying English through my readings, I eventually managed to strike up a conversation with her. “Hi! My name is Ariane. What is your name?” to which she shyly whispered, “Hello... My name is Celhsly.” Awkwardly, we stood there waiting for the other to speak. It seemed as though we were both flipping through our mental note cards, looking for a line to continue our conversation. Finally finding the right words, we both exclaimed “How are you!?” Our voices echoed in unison. The tension suddenly vanished behind the sound of our resounding laughter. The shackles eased once again, and I walked out of them feeling liberated.

              After releasing myself from my linguistic confines, I connected with many people, including a part of myself that would develop into someone who appreciates literature in all cultures. My love for reading has only grown since then and it has become especially useful throughout middle and high school. In middle school, I remember reading the entire Harry Potter series in under a month. I felt so immersed in each book’s magical spells and enchanting scenery that I became unaware of my surroundings whenever I held one. In high school, I became absorbed in the literary works assigned to me to analyze. Those novels became my method of escape from the world. Even now as I am writing this literacy narrative, I reflect on a time when I had minimal knowledge of the English language. I feel proud of my accomplishments as a student. Most importantly, learning English through reading has allowed me to become a better student in life. It has taught me that even though I may not start at a different academic level than others, I am capable of accomplishing what I want and more. It has also taught me that my cultural heritage and upbringing are not boundaries that prohibit me from performing well in life, but rather serve as a mode to realize my potential.