My Journey to Literacy
Catholic schools often get labeled. Sometimes they are known as “the rich kids’ school” others may be known as the “land of cliques”, but for me, Catholic school was a wonderland—filled with adventure, new discoveries, and concepts of life which struck the core of my essence.
I transferred back to a Catholic school from the local public school in middle school after I had both a deep and surprising conviction that I was meant to return for middle school. I lit up as I met new people and rekindled the old friendships I had when I was younger. Smiles of peers met me in the hallways and hooting and hollering could be heard when I passed my friends. Everything was going smoothly. I had my pencils in order and my stylish notebooks lined up perfectly in my locker. What could go wrong?
“Okay everybody, please turn to page twenty-six of the reading packet and diagram the second sentence in number two. When you are finished you can move on to the next sentence.”
“I’m sorry. What?!” I thought.
My perfectionism-ridden heart was racing, my hands became sweaty. My stomach dropped and I struggled to swallow as I realized I had no idea what she was talking about. I looked up at the green chalkboard to see if I could find a resource...nothing. My eyes scanned the room and saw that all my classmates were busy writing. My new-girl pride was shattered.
My stomach remained in knots when I went up to Mrs. Cornelius, the somewhat infamous teacher of my older brothers. All I knew going into her class was that she graded very thoroughly, and she had very high expectations for her students. I arrived at her desk and quickly took in the beauty behind her. I was surprised by the golden frames and tapestries hung against her mahogany-red wall. It was as though I was transported into another universe when I saw the richness of the art hanging from her wall. This feeling lasted only a fleeting moment. I looked back at her, spoke quietly, and said,
“Mrs. Cornelius, I am sorry, but I have to admit I was never taught to diagram sentences.”
I was met with kindness and encouragement as she told me that I was not too far behind and that the rest of the class had only just begun diagramming last year, at the end of sixth grade. The knot in my stomach released and I felt at ease. I began to love learning the English language. Diagramming sentences felt leisurely to me, not because it was easy, but because it was so good. During the semester, Mrs. Cornelius announced that she would be creating an early morning grammar club. She proposed that she would offer a short class before school began for those middle school students, sixth through eighth grade, who would like to practice their diagramming skills. When I heard this, my little heart was filled with joy! I spoke with my parents about the opportunity, and they warmly encouraged me to do it. The next day, my friends and I signed up for early morning grammar class.
The year grew on, and along with it my affection for words and grammar.
The early morning grammar classes were full of students, eager to learn from our teacher who radiated a particular joy when she spoke about the depth of our English language.
The next year, my eighth-grade year, my love for English continued to blossom as we read challenging novels and continued our grammatical studies. One morning Mrs. Cornelius said,
“Well, you are all in eighth grade now. If you would like to have a cup of coffee in the mornings with me, feel free. I will always have a pot ready in the back and there will be creamer in the small fridge near the sink. Help yourselves! It’s Baileys Irish Creamer, and no—there is no alcohol in it.”
With this she let a little laugh and quickly pulled her glasses from atop her chestnut brown hair, there was no delaying our lesson any further! That coffee was the smoothest, lightest coffee I had ever tasted. It was delicious. There was something so comforting about slowly sipping a warm cup of coffee on a cold winter day as I studied English and worked through my grammar and literature homework.
Mrs. Cornelius had a way of exuding a sentiment of warmth. She wore a luxurious woolen shawl, and its warmth was not confined only to her who wore it. The large, olive-green shawl was brought to life by the small and warmly colored burnt-orange stripes atop it. When I saw her shawl, my heart felt as though I had been wrapped up next to a fireplace in a small, English cottage. There was something about the colors’ richness that awakened in me a sense of safety and warmth.
I could both read and write from a young age, but it was not until I experienced the depth, richness, and warmth of sentiments surrounding words that I fell in love with the English language and its syntax. Mrs. Cornelius inspired me to love language beyond the word itself. She taught me that to be literate is to know the great things of life and to bask in the glory of them. I believe it was just as important for me to know the feeling of drinking a warm coffee on a cold winter morning or to know the joy of seeing a beautiful painting in an ornate golden frame, as it was for me to learn how to diagram a gerund or understand the plot in Rocket Boys. She taught me primarily through her grammar and literature lessons, but I would be doing an injustice to her if I did not admit that it was Mrs. Cornelius who sparked a love for the finer things of life in my soul. I still write stories by candle light with a warm drink in my hand—just to enjoy the leisure of literacy.
