ATM Rahat Hossain
English 110
Professor Brittany Vicars
Narrative Essay
Oh my lord, I had to read in front of the class AGAIN. There were only 6 people ahead of me and 15 minutes left till the period ended. In the best-case scenario, I had to read at the very end, but even then it would be like the worst for last.“OK class we will be doing read-aloud now so please get ready and turn to page 34,” the teacher said. I looked frantically across the room as the blood began to rush through the top of my head. Then looked up at the ceiling praying God would accelerate time itself but alas nothing happened. I knew what would happen if I was called and it wouldn’t be good. The first to start reading was my friend. He read the words with eloquence and grace, every word seamlessly flowing into the next. The sudden stops at the periods and the short pause at the commas. The words combined create perfect harmony. However, I did not understand a single sentence that he spoke as I was more focused on how he was reading rather than the ideas being conveyed.
“Ok. nice work Jim, next person please read the next paragraph ” – my teacher said.
The combination of those words had me shaken to my core as I completely forgot where in the reading I was supposed to follow along to. Frantically looking to see which page everyone was reading along, I quickly realized that the class was reading one page ahead of me. Gasping for air I analyzed every word that the next reader was spewing out and with a stroke of my finger zigzagged through the paragraphs looking for keywords. “OK, stop next person please read…. Ok, now the next person…. and on and on. Alas, my heart stopped after hearing the words “Rahat you’re next”. My teacher giggled to herself a bit as she knew what was about to unfold. “Umm Mrs.Teacher can you repeat the page we were on again?” I silently whispered. With a frown on her face, she said “page 145, paragraph 3 ”. At those magical words, I gazed across the room and remembered where I was.
It echoed like the sound of caulk scribbling on a blackboard. The kids were stunned by what they were hearing. My ability to read aloud was abysmal as every 4 words I would have to take a deep breath and rejuvenate myself. The words kept escaping my grasp continuously, like a never-ending cat-and-mouse game. “And … then … the … bear … was …” were some of the words spoken as my speech resembled that of Shakespeare’s iambic pentameter. At a certain point, the words themselves lost all meaning to me as the phonetic sounds themselves became more important than the message of what was being read.
“Ok, ok stop, the class is dismissed,” the Teacher said with a slight hint of misery written across her face. Even my “homies” giggled a bit after I finished my presentation, and it left me shell-shocked.
Only five minutes, that’s all it was, only five minutes of reading aloud was enough to shatter any faith I had in my ability to comprehend and communicate through the English language. This wasn’t my first read aloud but it was the defining moment that soured any love I had for the English language arts. Coming from an immigrant family, and being an immigrant myself the English language did not come naturally. My parents being new to the language themselves were not able to help me with learning English. Like many immigrants with similar backgrounds, I had a rough time adapting to a highly advanced English class relative to my own abilities. However, even then my handicap in English always followed me like a ghost as with every formal and standardized exam my ability to comprehend the language always hindered my overall performance. My ability to communicate and make friends was also mitigated by the language barrier as most kids simply did not understand my Bengali English (I would speak Bengali in the middle of an English sentence. ) This difference in understanding made me feel like an outcast for most of my early childhood.
It was not until many years later in my high school English class that I discovered the true power of language. We were reading Frankenstein’s monster,( one of the greatest novels ever written) and our teacher had us arranged in a seminar-like circle to discuss our interpretation of the events that occurred in the story. At first, I was shy to participate knowing I would probably be wrong, but to my surprise no matter how strange my interpretations of the story were the teacher found them deeply insightful. There was no right or wrong answer, there was only my own answer. The more I participated, the more I interpreted the story and made connections to other works of literature like the Bible and Paradise Lost. We discussed ideas of fallen angels and monsters, morality, and human suffering. At the end of the discussion, we were all confused as to who the real monster was, Frankenstein or his monster. The discussion led me to the idea that the monster was not Frankenstein or his monster of society but the indifference and disregard people in society have for those who are simply different. The monster himself was an immigrant to the world we call home and was treated unfairly for his differences. The actions he carried out because of the unfair treatment perpetuated the hate he received from society and created a cycle of mistrust and hatred. The giggles and yawns, my teacher and classmates made when I was reading out loud ran parallel to the frustration and embarrassment I felt when my parents spoke in their regular Banglish (Bengali and English). Nowadays every time my mom asks me to translate what she’s trying to read or write her an email, I think twice before showing any signs of frustration. The moral and ethical questions raised by the novel made me think deeper about myself as a person. This analysis of Frankensteins’ monster allowed me to appreciate the true power of literature and language. It allowed me to see what writing really was: an extension of myself through my ideas.
The ideas expressed by the use of language are what gives it meaning, beauty, and power. It didn’t matter if one was the fastest reader, best speller, or the best writer, what truly mattered was ideas conveyed through the use of language and how those ideas help us better understand ourselves. This realization extended to all other areas of my academic and home life. From art to physics to even coding, the languages used in each are only the tool from which creative ideas are forged. In physics, for example, the semantic mathematics of Newton’s calculus, a mathematical language, was of less importance than answering why the apple doesn’t fall on the earth with the moon. In computer science, the syntax of a coding language is less important to a programmer than the applications (games, apps, and artificial intelligence) that can be made through the use of the language. Language itself is the paintbrush, not the painting itself. The painting is the ideas and connections we make, how we communicate with one another, and how we express ourselves. Some people say language is power, but I say you all are what gives language power.
