The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go. –Dr. Seuss

Humans don’t start off knowing how to read, of course, we have to learn--preferably from our mothers who teach us starting with the letter ‘a’. Like a form of evolution at work, the mother teaches the next generation language and the ability to read what previous generations have said. Repeating the cycle, that generation teaches the next. And why not the mother? Who knows us best but the one who has birthed us?

My first real memory of learning how to read was vivid—even to this day.  I was six years old and mom and I were on her bed. We had just gotten to the Z’s. Our lesson for the day had ended, and my mother was cleaning, but I wanted to get onto full sentences. I remember my wanting to continue learning that day, as there was so much to soak up in the theater of books and words. That much I knew. But why did I want to read so badly? I confess, it is my parents’ fault. Both of my parents read to my siblings and me. Our house was, and still is, a palace of books. To date, our house has eleven bookshelves. And the books that I read as an emerging reader are still there. Just think, a mountain of books vs an empty headed, yet a knowledge-hungry kid. Hunger of Memory? I had a hunger for books.  

I can safely say that the Harry Potter series gave me a kick start into the jungle of reading. It was the first of many stepping stones that would get me into and across the river of knowledge. How interesting that Rowling’s putting pen to paper to craft a scar-headed hero would welcome me to the information-enriched world.

Looking back at the books I had read before my teen years, a common thread emerges; I had read fiction combined with mystery and a few, fun autobiographies. Yet, luckily for me, reading for fun did not die once I reached high school. Sadly, the books that I read before high school didn’t give me any perspective. They were fun, sure, but they didn’t give me a contrary view on my core beliefs. As a matter of fact, in my early years, I didn’t even question my own core beliefs.

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“I’m reading Thucydides!” I blurted out excitedly to the same friend.

“Oh, wow! That’s great! How are you liking it?” he asked.

“It’s big,” I said, “I’m just past the first section, and I’m really soaking it up.”

“That’s great!” he encouraged.

And not just Thucydides, whom I affectionately called “Thucy” in my diary, but Dante, Homer, Sophocles, Bede, Augustine, and John Milton. Some I understood. Others? Not so much. Dante; the traveler through the nine rings of hell; Homer, spinner of the Trojan Saga; Bede, a monk, a compiler of English church history; Augustine, sinner, preacher, and saint; and John Milton whose paper my earthly father wrote up in blue ink…Pridefully I added them to my have-read booklist, but what did they do for me as a person?

 The ancient authors helped me question my own beliefs and examine my personal values. Dante helped me even consider the question; What DOES happen to us when we die? Thucydides showed me that even the top dog in the playground can be subdued. Augustine, such a complicated figure, yet so compelling with his obvious and outward love for Christ which helped strengthen MY faith. These writers didn’t address controversial modern topics such as our presumption of innocence until proven guilty laws or physician assisted suicide, yet they did help me to understand why they believed what they believed and in turn helped me to fully try to understand what I believe.

Ancient writers helped me to start questioning my own beliefs, but I needed someone to help me formulate a strong argument for my beliefs; I was, after all, not even 15 years old. I needed my elders to step in with the ethos, pathos, and logos-infused writing.

With great fondness I quickly point to Wendell Berry, Joel Salatin, Jordan Peterson, the writers of the four gospels, and many others who helped me to formulate (coherent) arguments of why I believe what I believe. If you can’t stand up for what you believe, who are you, really?

“The best way to teach people critical thinking is to teach them to write.”--Jordan Peterson.

     Hence, I needed to learn how to write. My early year writing courses were OK. They didn’t get me to write enough, however, and that was a major obstacle for me in my development as a writer. I liked to do creative writing, but even so I was simply writing without guidelines.

     AP English Language has helped me immensely, and even though I haven’t finished the course (yet) I can already see the benefits. Having a reliable teacher with a sharp, helpful pen has transformed my writing quality from the grey rag of a one-point essay to a five.

     Throughout all this jargon of “I did this” and “I know this person” and “look how special I am” I’ve fully come to realize how my background has helped me.

I have seven siblings. My family members are bibliophiles. We cry at the mention of Fahrenheit 451. My family reads as if there isn’t going to be a tomorrow. Taught at an early age by our homeschooling mother, we shot off to read the great books of 1st grade, 2nd grade, to high school, to college, and beyond.

     So, there’s that background.

     Then there’s another.

“If you only read books that you agree with, you’ll never grow as a person.” –Ken Myers, founder of Mars Hill Audio.

 It’s not that I didn’t agree with Joel Salatin, it was the fact that I had never even considered his platform of ideas and arguments. Salatin took my nice (safe) sheltered cocoon of knowledge and broke it over my head. His persuasive, almost fiery language against industrial farming helped me to know what I wanted to write against. I knew what I could write for, but what can I honestly contradict in life? Industrial farming went on the “Owen-wants-to-persuasively-write-against” list.

“The most merciful thing that a family does to one of its infant members is to kill it.”--Margaret Sanger.

What sort of monster advocates that? 

Thomas Jefferson understands that the pen is mightier than the sword. His Declaration of Independence is one of the most famous documents ever. To this day, I know that I need persuasive, coherent writing skills not to dramatically change the world as Jefferson did, but to help me think critically.

My story is short. It has gaps in it, but so does memory and life. “This is too abrupt an ending” you yell, but does life always end slowly? This story ends, yet everywhere writers are plucking up their courage to pick up their pen one more time. To start a narrative, for instance.