An Experience in Illiteracy
posted October 21, 2011
I didn’t always like to read. And to this day, my out-loud reading remains only bearable. I still read relatively slowly, even slower when the material is a textbook. (We’re talking 30 minutes per page, sometimes - I kid you not.)
In first grade, I remember bringing home readers to read aloud to my parents for homework. Dad and I would sit on the couch, and I would sullenly read, “Max drove fast. Go, Max, go,” sighing at every. single. page. turn.
But then my second grade teacher, Mrs. Turner, gave me a taste for The Boxcar Children and Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. Dad read The Mouse and the Motorcycle aloud, and Mom read The Chronicles of Narnia.
In the turn of a page, I was hooked.
By third grade, I was setting my alarm clock to wake me up at 1 or 2 a.m. to read by the light of my aquarium. See, my 9 o'clock bedtime just didn’t allow for enough time.
By sixth grade, I was stashing Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban under seat cushions in the living room, hiding the novel when my mother walked by. I wasn’t supposed to be reading before I’d finished my homework.
By college, I was putting off studying for finals, as I devoured the Twilight series, and punctuating GRE study sessions with chapters from The Help.
I love to read. Familiar stories from old books are like faithful friends. They never change, and their pages ever beckon with refreshing respite from reality.
And then I landed in Bulgaria. Where people speak Bulgarian. And use the cyrillic alphabet. Let me show you what that looks like:
а б в г д е ё ж з и й к л м н о п р с т у ф х ц ч ш щ ъ ы ь э ю я
And don’t be fooled by those letters that resemble the English alphabet. They may or may not symbolize the same sounds. For example:
не разбирам
actually sounds like “neh rezbirum,” which means, “I don’t understand.”
A lover of words, books, and communication, I found myself wrapped in a cocoon of isolation by the language barrier in the Balkans. I couldn’t speak the language. I couldn’t read the language. I could barely hope to even copy certain letters.
I couldn’t even read my own name.
Before classes began, I sat through a safety briefing for the teachers. Administrators detailed protocol for fire and evacuation emergencies. I understood not a single word. And it occurred to me: I can’t read directions. I don’t know which doors are entrances and which are exits. Street signs might as well not exist, as far as my understanding of them goes. And any public service or safety announcements posted around town may find themselves merely captioning whatever blunders this “stupid American” will continue to commit all year long, totally ignorant of their warnings.
Losing the ability to read felt like losing a sense altogether. It was as strange a sensation as I’d imagine suddenly being unable to feel or smell would be.
And rapidly, I remembered what a hard-fought skill literacy had been, the importance of which was lost on my, then, six-year-old mind. As I tromped up and down the streets of Pleven, Bulgaria, what I’d begun to consider inherent, I abruptly recognized as an invaluable, slowly earned and learned skill.
All at once, I understood the debacle of the immigrant to the United States, trying desperately to order a hamburger in a restaurant with menus only in English, failing to understand “do not enter” warning signs, lost on streets with signposts labeled only in English.
Now, I’m not advocating for legislation requiring multilingual street signs. English remains the current lingua franca, I believe (unless Mandarin has passed it up). So economically speaking, English makes sense, for the time being.
But illiteracy is a crippling complication. I can only hope my Pleven neighbors will continue to show me patience and compassion and I bumble through this Bulgarian experience. And one day, back at home and surrounded once again by a language I speak, understand, and read, maybe I’ll have the chance to pay it forward.
original post available here.