Narrative Revision

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Harita Patel

WRI 1000

November 12, 2021

Every Slip Is Not A Fall

I've loathed English my entire life. Grammar and sentence structure were the last things on my mind. Do not get me started on how to pronounce words or even how to read aloud. I've never been able to get along with English. Scholastic publications have always been a favorite of mine since I was a kid; they were the catalog that every kid wanted in class. It had all the newest children's books at the time of their release. Every time I saw a book's cover image, I was enthralled.

At the time, I didn't even need to read the brief description that accompanied the photographs. I recall coming home from school every night and begging my mother to purchase me the books I wanted, even though we didn't have enough money to eat that week. After a few back rubs and lots of hugs and kisses, I got my wish. A new Natasha emerged as soon as I opened my present. Inquisitive about the subject matter. Interested in reading all of the books on the shelf.

As soon as it came time to actually read, I found myself having a hard time. When I opened a book, all of the words on the page were jumbled together and difficult to read. I'd never be able to decipher the meaning of any sentence or paragraph that was read to me. For me to grasp the primary idea of a paragraph, it would take three times as long as it would for a seven-year-old. As a child, I've always struggled with reading comprehension.

When I was a baby, I struggled with stuttering, and I still do on occasion when I come across a few unfamiliar words. Since she worked every day, my mother had little time to read to me when I was a child. I didn't have any aid from my father, either, since he wasn't in the picture. Throughout my childhood, my grandmother was my primary caregiver. My maternal grandmother immigrated to the United States at the age of 22. She was unable to assist with reading comprehension because she was unfamiliar with the language. When I was in fifth grade, I discovered that I had a problem with English.

As a fifth-grader, you had entered middle school, which was an entirely new experience for anyone. The workload increased significantly. As time went on, even getting through the readings became more of a challenge. I was embarrassed. I felt like I had been pushed through the system all these years as a lost child. It was continually on my mind to beg for aid, but I was too ashamed to confide in anyone that I was in need. Because I was afraid to admit that there was a problem, I didn't want to admit it to myself.

When I walked into my seventh-grade English class. A mixture of joy and trepidation filled my body. My teacher, Ms. Badillo, was immediately recognizable to me. It wasn't just that she was my English teacher, but she was also the choir's lead vocalist. Since I was a child, I've always had a unique bond with her. In seventh grade at Immaculate Conception School, my sister had her, and my mother had heard her sing at my baptism. Having her as my teacher was one of the only things I'd hoped for when I signed up for this school. She was the kindest person you could ever hope to meet.

Since I was a child, I've attended Catholic school and served as an altar server at my church. Ms.Badillo arrived at the alter as I was arranging it on a Sunday morning. She warmed up a bit. It wasn't long before we started joking around about how amusing some of the priests are. The secret that I've been struggling with recently was something that I wanted to tell her about at that point in time. In order to have a private conversation, I requested her to accompany me to the back room where the robs were all spread out. I began to stutter at the beginning of my words.

Anxiety began to take over my thoughts and actions. My mind was a jumbled mess of ideas. Just saying the first few words of a simple request for assistance was nerve-wracking. I decided to go for it since I understood this was my last chance to make any progress. I expressed to her that I'm having a hard time grasping the notion of English and asked for her assistance. I explained to her how each word resonates with me as I read.

That the sensation it inflicts on me makes me ill to my stomach. What I've noticed about myself is how nervous I become when she asks me to read aloud in class. Her facial expression, on the other hand, was unexpected. A simple "it's going to be alright" from her was all that was needed. For the next year, she worked tirelessly with me to prepare me for the challenges of eighth grade and high school.

Reference

VAN DER LELY, H. K. (2020). Narrative discourse in Grammatical specific language impaired children: a modular language deficit? I would like to thank Linda Stollwerck for all her help with this study; Annette Karmiloff-Smith and Neil Smith for their insightful comments on an earlier draft of this paper; Corrine Haynes, the other speech and language therapists and the teachers for their help and cooperation and the children who participated in this study from Dawn House School, Nottingham, St Georges School, London and Picklenash ....