Childhood

In the early stages of my reading career. I had the basic struggles that most have when learning how to read. Mispronounce this, mispronounce that until there were too many to count. As my classmates and I read the more I saw those around me improve and move forward as I stayed put. I still couldn’t read a single sentence without mispronouncing one word. One letter. One sound. This was preschool for me.

As the years progressed so did my struggles. Sure I had a broader vocabulary but that still didn’t outweigh those of my classmates. I still couldn’t pronounce a single sentence without a single mispronounced word.Letter. Sound. I would often hear students snicker in the background. It would start from when a teacher would call on me to read until I was finished reading. Which usually made reading more difficult than it already was.

Sometimes I can still hear the snickers, feel the blood rushing to my face, and the clench in my fists. I remember how upset it would make me throughout the years. There was never a time where a teacher would make the snickering students stop. I never really realized this until now.

Second grade couldn’t have come any sooner. Finally they (my teachers) figured out what was wrong. I, Hanna Bishop, had a speech impediment. It took three years of horrid readings to myself, in front of my teachers,and my peers; for them to figure this out.

It was a Tuesday afternoon I was pulled out of P.E., by my Mom and the vice principal. Once we left the gymnasium we headed towards the teacher lounge. On our way to the teachers lounge my Mom was asking quite a few questions.

“Do you really think this will help?”

“Are you sure this will help?”

I just tagged along sorta confused. As my mom continued to ask questions, eventually we were at the teachers lounge. As we entered the room it had other occupants. My sister, her mother, and an older red-haired lady. There was also a powerpoint titled “speech impediment and what that means!” Or something like that.

Later on, we discovered the red haired lady was named Mrs. Robinson. She was really sweet and understanding. She helped our mothers create a greater understanding of what this speech impediment would entail for us later on. Such as the prestigious care we would need to further our education.Such as speech therapy, reading practice, and much more. In all honesty, the rest of this meeting is really fuzzy to me. After all, I was only seven.

We began our speech therapy sessions on the following Tuesday and Thursday. We would usually start the sessions with coloring. Finishing our reading assignments from both her and my classes together. The sooner we were finished the more time we would have to play a game. Eventually, I became more excited about the assignments than the games.

As a few months passed the easier the assignments would become. The more I was eager to learn. The more I was eager to read.

So I began to adventure out and read some books that were not assigned. Such as A-Z mysteries, Winx Clubs, and Dr, Suzes books.

Eventually a few more issues began to arise. I was now in the fourth grade. I had just graduated from speech therapy. Sure I still stutter but I read more fluent than most of my peers. I was finally starting to excel.

Then that day came… the day Mrs. Robison had told my mother she was diagnosed with Breast cancer. I didn’t know what to think. My hero had a weakness? She was sick? I remember asking “she’s going to be alright, right?” And my mother giving me a grimace of a smile, her eyes full of worry, and sadness. She knew how much I looked up to her. How much this women has helped me. Let alone with my speech problem she would give me rides home from time to time. She was really helpful when I needed someone to talk to about how others were treating me. She was my shoulder to cry on. My Mom couldn’t bare to lie to me knowing that. She gave me a squeeze on the hand and pulled me into a hug. That was when my tears had a mind of their own. They wouldn’t stop.

A week had passed since then. And Mrs. Robison wasn’t around anymore. It happened all too fast. I started to struggle when I came time to pick up a book. I have lost my love for reading. I have lost my inspiration for reading. I had lost the thought of reading.

Now that I am older I have been reading more often. I have begun to find the joy towards it I had lost. So far I still seem to struggle with feeling inspired to read. Yet I have found some joy in reading. I have found joy in the little things (poems, graphic novels.) I still think about where I would be now if she hadn’t passed like she did. Would I be reading daily? Hourly? Would I be reading everything under the sun?