Mollie K.

McClanahan
RDG 597
Personal Literacy History
July 16, 2016
My literary genealogy is mixed, as were other influences on my literacy history. Although
college educated, my father is a functional reader: he reads only for informational purposes,
does not particularly enjoy it, and is somewhat slow and methodical. Yet he scours the paper
daily, never missing an article or a classified ad. Conversely, my mother is an avid reader, both
for pleasure and work. In fact, she is also a published author. Growing up, I often felt two
opposing forces pulling me in different directions. My mother supported reading, while my
father felt that it was a waste of time, and that we should be doing something productive
instead.
Some of my earliest memories center on bedtime stories read to me by my
mother. I still have my worn copies of some of those books, and have shared
them with my students: Miss Suzy by Miriam Young, and Virginia Lee Burtons
The Little House. The first book I remember reading independently was Sammy
the Seal by Syd Hoff. I must have been about four. I know
it was before I started school. I remember sitting in bed
with my mother next to me, and the flush of pride I felt
upon reading it to her, all by myself. I also have a vague
memory of my father commenting that I probably had not
read it, only memorized it.

As I moved into elementary school, my reading interest and ability continued to grow. I
remember very little about reading in school, except for the actual reading groups I was in were
awful. The Dick and Jane books were beyond boring, and listening to other students struggle
through words I could read with one eye closed was pure torture. For the second semester of
first grade, Mom got a job teaching at a private school, which allowed my brother and me to
attend. The school must not have had its own library, because once a week, our class trekked
about a block down the street to the public library. I got a library card, and was able to check
out books on my own. Whoopee! The most special book I remember from this time is E.B.
Whites Charlottes Web. I also remember a set of reading books in a box near my desk that we
could work through at our own pace whenever we had extra time. I plowed through those
books like a mule.
Second grade brought me back to my neighborhood public school. A
couple of memories stand out. In second grade, my teacher liked my
mini-acrostic so much that she made a large copy and put it on the wall
for everyone to see. I was so proud. I still have my copy in my scrapbook.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, my third grade teacher was brought to convulsions of
laughter by my pronunciation of colonel. I was mortified. How was I supposed to know it
was pronounced <kur nl>? During this time, however, I made good use of book fairs and the
school library, and Mom took us to the public library in the summertime. I discovered Judy
Blume (cursing in books, oh my!) and Beverly Cleary.
The first book that made me cry was Where the Red Fern Grows by Wilson Rawls. Until then, I
had read sad stories, but never made such a strong emotional connection with the characters. I
finished it while lying on my bed, and stumbled out of my room, bawling.
Whats wrong? my mother asked. I am sure she thought I must have severely injured myself.
The the dog died! I managed to blurt out between great heaving sobs.
She took me in her arms and comforted me. As a lover of books, she understood the agony a
bittersweet story could impose.
As I moved into upper elementary and middle school years, I read even more
voraciously. C.S. Lewis The Chronicles of Narnia, Scott ODells Island of the
Blue Dolphins, I read anything I could get my hands on. My friends would get
angry with me because I ignored them during lunch, preferring to read. I
went through Laura Ingalls Wilders books three times each (except The Long
Winter; that one was just too depressing to read more than once). Oh, how I
wanted to be Laura! I was so disappointed that the pioneer days were over.
I also discovered S.E. Hinton, starting with Tex, and then The Outsiders. Like
many teenagers, I strongly related to the themes of being alone and outside of the group that
these books portrayed.
It was in Sophomore English that I began to write. I am sure we must have had some small
writing assignments in elementary and middle school, and in Freshman English we wrote the
five-paragraph paper ad nauseam, but Mrs. Stodghill made us write in our journals every single
day, and for that I will be forever grateful. Regular journaling is a habit that I continue to this
day. She encouraged us to try poetry, and I still dabble in verse occasionally. I would not have
the courage to do so if not for her guidance and support so many years ago.
As I worked through college and into my adult years, I continued my tradition of reading a wide
variety of material and occasionally writing. For a couple of years, I kept a personal reading log,
and at that time I was reading at least a book a week. Alas, it was on a 3 floppy disk, and has
been lost.
The older I become, the more I transition from reading to doing and writing. Every now and
then I even polish up a journal entry that I think is particularly good and post it on my blog.
Other hobbies have taken the place of the constant book I used to carry around. I have not,
however, forgotten my literary roots. I plan on getting some chickens soon, and intend to

name them after my favorite authors: Laura, Jane, Agatha, Louisa May, and so on. While at
times I miss reading and having time to read, in general I find my transformation very exciting.
I believe my personal literacy history affects my teaching in the following ways: I clearly have a
love of both reading and writing. There are many stories that have touched my heart and
imagination, and I see the potential for stories all around me. Because I read so much, I tend to
be somewhat indiscriminate in my personal reading choices. Likewise, I am excited about
almost every story we read as a class and every scrap of prose my students write. Overall, I
believe this has a positive effect on my teaching, as my enthusiasm for all kinds of literature is
evident to my students. This makes it easier for most students to become excited as well, and
motivates them to do their best work. Some students, however, who do not have the literary
support that I found in my mother and certain teachers, may have the opposite reaction to my
enthusiasm. Especially as I approach a new teaching assignment in fifth grade, I imagine eye
rolls and groans in response to things I find to be motivational.
My literacy history also makes me sensitive to how distasteful round robin reading is for
everyone involved. While I recognize the need for teachers to hear students read aloud, to
have the whole class listening to one student struggle to decode is boring and a waste of time.
Comprehension is lost for everyone, and students do not get a good example of what fluent
reading sounds like. I work diligently to find better ways to read aloud in my classroom, such as
echo reading, partner reading and Readers Theater.
Due to my literacy history, I will need to be extremely careful in selecting texts and assignments
for my classroom. I will need to ensure that each selection is of high quality and appropriate for
the instructional reading level of my students. I will also need to build a classroom library full of
books that students can choose for themselves, and which are of interest to them, although
they will not necessarily be to my liking. I think this can be accomplished by keeping a list of
most frequently ordered items from the Scholastic book orders.
In addition, I will keep a sharp eye on my criticisms in the classrooms. Until writing this
memoir, I had not realized how many times my small child-ego had been crushed by a simple
word or laugh from an adult. I hope that I have not done the same to any of the students in my
care, but reviewing my literacy history makes me realize the necessity of redoubling my efforts
to build up my students. Would I still remember my mini-acrostic if my teacher had not praised
it so much? I doubt it. As teachers, we often forget the awesome power we wield.