Forgiving

Today, I have two stories. One is short, and the other one will sound weird.

When I was in my early twenties, I remember going to a beach with some friends for a long weekend. We brought the essentials: snacks, enough Smirnoffs, and a collection of fun CDs. While enjoying the latest reggaeton, I noticed a person reading a book. My first thought was, “I wonder where she’s from,” because the idea of reading at the beach was not only dull, it felt foreign.

The second story has nothing to do with reading at a beach but please, stay with me.

There’s this park next to our building where a few animals like to gather for afternoon meetings. I usually see them on my way back from work, sharing a pile of food by the gates. Other times, they are just hanging out, perhaps waiting for that friendly neighbor to serve supper. Vultures, cats, ducks, trash pandas, and roosters coexist peacefully for the sake of survival. Yesterday, as I turned left on South River Dr, I slowed down to make sure there weren’t any ducks crossing the street to join the party in a cool-late fashion; instead, I saw a rooster staring back at me, wondering if it could safely cross the street to peck at whatever was left.

Roosters didn’t mean much to me before. They are funny-looking, and they did wake me up a couple of times while living in Maracaibo, but besides that, they have never inspired any thoughts. That was until I read Ralph’s stories about his roosters. Those beautifully written lines, filled with anguish and adventure, came alive in my mind when I saw that rooster waiting to cross the street. I thought of young Ralph returning home with his mom and siblings to find some of their roosters killed and others missing. It felt like the reader inside me woke up from a nap remembering that story.

And so, no, this isn’t a post about roosters. I felt like writing these lines about my reconciliation with my non-reading life when I was younger—This is a post about forgiveness and second chances.

Teaching myself to become a reader as an adult has been a difficult task. These are my struggles: not knowing what to look for when choosing a book, stamina and attention shifts, consistency, and meaning-making—Even admitting this is a struggle because I know that as a reading teacher, I “should” be better at this. Oh, also, all the books around me are not written in my native language.

If you’ve known me for the past few years, you probably think I’m an avid reader, and, if you’re one yourself, you have probably asked me if I’ve read (insert any book here). Young Ana squirms inside of me every time that happens because, more often than not, if the book you’ve mentioned is an elementary classic, I’ll most likely say, “Oh, yeah! I’ve heard of it!” That is me, masking.

Upper elementary has been a blessing because I’ve gotten opportunities to read some of those valuables books from authors like Kate DiCamillo or Sharon Creech. And the more I read books to my students, the more fiction stories I want to discover. I am trying to let go of my nagging guilt and make the necessary changes in my life to fill in the holes I’ve carried with me since I graduated high school.

Nonfiction and educational texts bring the hype, and with each book I read, I want to read three more. Tim loves saying, “Another book!” each time he picks up our Amazon packages. More recently, committing part of my morning routine to reading fiction has moved me away from pity thoughts and toward fulfillment while I enjoy the latest memoir.

That brings us back to the beach and the image of that girl enjoying a great book near the soothing waves. That image, straight from a rom-com movie, now looks more and more like me. And for the roosters? I’m just grateful to Ralph and his stories for reminding me of the power of reading (and writing, wink, wink) short stories.

P.S.: Tim likes taking photos of the animals at the park. Some pose for the camera, some just hide.