Téa Sunahara
High School Junior
August/ September 2024
Sitting in the back of my third-grade classroom, I pressed and rubbed my nail against the desk, a nervous habit I developed. The familiar talk of my classmates, their voices a mixture of excitement and dread as we prepared for our daily reading exercise, filled the classroom. In class, we played a game called “Popcorn,” where the teacher would choose a student to read aloud. After reading for a bit, the student would “popcorn” the reading to someone else. It was supposed to keep us engaged, but it was a game of nerves for me. Even now, years later, some of my teachers still use this method, believing it helps students stay focused. For someone like me, though, it constantly reminds me of how different I felt. I struggled with reading aloud. I understand the words; it was the fear of how I spoke them. My voice would catch, stutter, and stumble over the words, making me hyper-aware of every misstep. I could hear my peers’ confident voices, emphasizing my self-doubt. How do they do it so easily? I felt isolated, like I was the only one struggling. My heart raced every time it was my turn, and today was no different.
As I sat there, I could feel the sweat pooling in my palms, my fingers trembling as they clung to the edges of my book. Please do not pick me, please, please. Then it happened. A friend called my name. I slowly stand up, my legs feeling like jelly beneath me. I cannot embarrass myself. Why do they make me do this? My hands shake so much I can barely see the words on the page, the letters blurring together. I took a deep breath, my voice barely above a whisper, and I began to read. Each word felt like an obstacle, a hurdle to overcome. I was too scared to mess up, too terrified of the judgment that would follow. I could feel every eye in the room on me, waiting, expecting. The silence was deafening, and with each passing second, the weight of expectation grew heavier. Why is it so quiet? I continued to read, my voice trembling. Suddenly, another student shouted, “I CAN’T hear you,” his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “Talk louder.” I despised these words — ones every shy eight-year-old feared. Tears formed in my eyes. My heart pounded as I looked up at my teacher, Ms. Lindgren. She met my gaze; her expression calm, but her nod firm, signaling me to raise my voice. The message was clear: Speak up, be louder, be better.
I felt the cold air tighten around my throat, almost choking me with each breath. I forced myself to comply, attempting to read at a louder volume. My voice cracked as I tried to project, the words escaping in uneven bursts. They think I am stupid. The sterile air carried my voice away before it reached the front of the room, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable, but I kept going. Each word was a battle, each sentence a struggle. I wanted to sink into my seat and disappear, but I could not. My teacher and fellow students expected me to persevere, to push through the fear and doubt. So I did. My voice wavered, but I kept reading, clinging to the hope that soon it would be over.
After what felt like an eternity, I reached the end of the passage. The room was quiet again, save for the sound of my ragged breathing. I quickly passed the reading to another student, eager to retreat to the safety of my desk. The tension slowly drained from my body as I sat down, leaving me exhausted and relieved. But it was short-lived, replaced by the familiar sting of self-criticism. Why could I not read with ease like the other students? What is wrong with me? For the rest of the day, the memory of that moment played on a loop in my mind. I will never get better at this. Why do I have to read aloud? I did not want to talk to anyone; I did not want them to remind me of failing. Exhausted, I closed my eyes and prayed to God for an answer.
As the years went on, the tremble of my hands began to disappear. Gradually, I became more comfortable reading aloud. A place that helped me find my voice was Sunday School. Often, on Sundays, I stood before my peers in a caring environment, reading Bible verses in front of a room full of people. At first, it was daunting, but the repetitiveness helped me gain confidence over time. The words that once felt like obstacles became stepping stones, and I began to navigate them more easily.
But with this newfound comfort came a twist — I had a deep-seated hatred of reading. As I grew older, reading began to feel less like an exploration and more of a chore. The pressure of academic assignments overshadowed the fun I once found in stories. Books became synonymous with work, with tasks that needed to be completed to avoid falling behind. The progression of standardized testing only made it worse, turning reading into something I did out of necessity, not pleasure. It used to be fun. I found myself yearning for the simplicity of picture books, the ones that used to captivate me with their colorful illustrations and easy-to-follow narratives. They were fun, engaging, and, most importantly, did not feel like a burden.
I often complained to my mother about how much easier life was with picture books. They were not just stories; they were experiences that did not demand anything from me except to enjoy them. I missed that simplicity, that effortless joy. So, on my 10th birthday, my mom, always attentive and thoughtful, surprised me with a gift: a book called Roller Girl. I nearly laughed myself to tears at the irony. Here I was, professing my dislike for books, and what did she give me? Another book. But this one was different. It was not just any book; it was a graphic novel — a picture book for someone older, like myself.
I remember flipping through the pages, the beautiful illustrations catching my eye. Something about the way the images and words worked together made the story come alive in a way traditional books had not in a long time. I found myself absorbed in the story, and the pictures helped me understand the words better, making the experience feel less like work and more like fun. Maybe this is what I was missing. It reminded me of the comics I used to devour when I was younger, the way they allowed me to escape into different worlds without the pressure of getting everything just right.
To my surprise, I really liked Roller Girl. It rekindled a tiny spark of the joy I used to feel when reading. The discovery of graphic novels opened up a whole new world for me. They were like a bridge between the picture books I loved as a child and the more complex stories my teachers and classes expected me to read as I grew older. And so, a new routine began. My mom and I would often go to the library, and I would head straight to the section for graphic novels. I sifted through the shelves, looking for the ones that caught my interest and promised not just a story but an experience.
Graphic novels became my haven, a way to enjoy reading again without the weight of expectation. They allowed me to find stories that resonated with me and that I could connect with on my terms. It reminded me that reading did not have to be a chore but still something I loved. Although I never entirely shook the feeling that reading was often a forced academic exercise, graphic novels were my way of reclaiming a little piece of the enjoyment I lost. Though I am still not the biggest fan of traditional reading and usually opt for audiobooks instead; graphic novels remain a cherished medium, offering me a blend of visual and narrative storytelling that continues to captivate me.
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