Madison Martin

Professor Marcum
UWRT 1103-052
Feb. 10th, 2015

Literacy Memoir Draft Three: I am a Writer

Many things play a role in a persons literacy, whether that is people who sponsor
it, people who try to change it, or people who make you realize what you wanted to say
or write all along. Each person is different, and their literacy history tells their own
unique story about what made them into the person they are today. Some people love to
read, and some people may not, much like in Gerald Graffs Disliking Books, but that
doesnt make their literacy any more or less important than anyone elses. People are
judged everyday because of the way they speak or write, just like in the selection we read
Mother Tongue by Amy Tan. Although, all of these things play a role we must learn to
accept everyone for who they are and respect the literacy backgrounds they came from.
When I began writing about myself I struggled to remember what all played a role in
leading up to today, but I as continued to reflect and study my own history it all became
clear. My literacy story would have to start in elementary school at Gaston Christian. It
didnt take me long to discover my love for reading; some of my favorites were Junie B.
Jones, The Magic Tree House books, Judy Moody, Warriors, and The Boxcar Children. In
all honesty the only reason I liked that last selection is because my first grade teacher told
me I was advanced, and one day every week she would let me read out loud to the class

instead of her. By the summer after fifth grade I started writing my own short stories; I
suppose this is where it all began.
In sixth grade I read the Twilight saga in its entirety in less than a couple weeks,
along with several other novels that I no longer remember. My reading took a turn in
seventh grade when my teacher required us to write eight different papers on prompted
topics, and I was never one to like feeling forced to write something I didnt care about.
In protest I gave the papers little thought, and made the first F Id ever made in my
schooling career. It was short lived, because Mrs. Harrison called my parents saying she
knew I could do better and it was so unlike me. Long story short, I had to write the
papers again; I got an A. I have no idea what about writing the papers again that
inspired me to care about what I learned to call school writing, and in fact it was all I
cared about. To no surprise to my teachers I became one of the highest scoring English
students in my grade. I had become an essay writing machine, five paragraphs, thesis
statement, introduction, three topics of discussion, conclusion. I couldnt write any other
way, and by that point I realized I had been striped of my creativity, and over the course
of the next couple years believed I had lost it completely. It made me angry at not only
the school system, but at myself for letting them control who I was. It was nearly
impossible for me to think outside of the box, because every time I did I forced myself
back into in fear that I may be wrong.
My career as a cheerleader by now had long since taken off, and I begged my
parents to let me go to pubic school in eighth grade. My private school didnt have a
football team, and my dream was no other than cheering under the Friday night-lights at
Forestview High School. That is where I would go next after I had one year of middle

school under my belt. My parents gave in, and I started my last year of middle school at
Cramerton Middle. The first day I was in what public school deemed as regular classes,
and I felt like I had went back in time at least three years; I was so upset. The next week
the guidance counselor had me take a placement test; administration apologized to my
parents and I was moved to AIG classes the very next day. They were better, but the
science was still a review, and I assumed that it was because Gaston Christian was a
college preparatory school.
After seeing to the fact that my classes were now all in order, and sorted out by
the school administration. I was finally in classes where I felt at least a bit more like I
belonged. I began noticing other things that were different in my new environment and
literacy community. Not only were my classes different, but also were the kids in them. It
seemed like everyone was split up, and not allowed to converge at any point. Smart,
dumb, rich, poor, popular, and not so much; the lines didnt cross. Except for mine, and
so maybe thats why I never had a group or fit into a mold, some would say. I had already
made friends with kids in the first lower classes I was in; they were gothic or skater or
punk or whatever you wanted to call it. Anyway, they said I was different, that I was the
least stuck up preppy person they had ever met; that term was new to me, because I
guess at GCS everyone was preppy. I didnt like the word. I wore black for a week; I
was still preppy, but the wall was gone. They accepted me regardless, because they said
I wasnt the same as the others. At the same time I was fighting an entirely different battle
on the other side of the tracks, with people like me, but not like me. They were preppy
too, but they fit the stereotype given to them by the other kids. They only talked
exclusively to each other, and anyone that strayed outside of that simply wasnt one of

them. I was pulled both ways, the kids who liked me for me saying they were fake and
stuck up, and them saying that the others were stupid and trashy. I stood in the middle.
The rest of 8th grade I gravitated between far more groups that just those too, I looked
preppy, but I didnt act like any of the groups. I said ever since then, that Im a group
of my own, a floater. I didnt like the idea of being tagged, so I never let it happen. I
never claimed a group as my own, and not all the groups accepted me either. I had friends
from all the groups, and they fought their own battles with their friends who didnt think I
was enough like them; it didnt matter though, because I knew at least a few understood.
Needless to say, I had a lot of friends, but not a group of the same cookie cutter people. I
could talk to anyone because of where I came from I never saw lines from the start.
Over the summer things began to come back into focus when I tried out for my
future high schools cheer team, and I was almost in tears when I read my name on the
roster on the outside of the gym door. I cannot think of another time in my life that I was
more trilled than in that single moment; it was the beginning of an amazing journey. That
was only one of the many things that went into starting high school though. It was saying
goodbye to some middle school friends, and hello to registering for classes all on my
own. I took 9th grade English Honors, where I met on of my very best friends, Alec
Privette. When it came time to review for EOGs, the two of us argued on nearly every
answer; I was usually right, and I thought that was funny. From there on out we became
super competitive grade wise. We also ended up in the same English class for the next 4
years.
I still cant remember what made me decide to sign up for Creative Writing I, with
someone with a name as intimidating as Dr. Griffin. I hadnt yet had time to hear the

rumors of how she was the hardest teacher in the school, and so I walked into my first
high school class with her completely unbiased. She was intimidating, and outspoken,
and sarcastic, and rebellious, and she was non other that my favorite teacher. She was the
type of person youd never imagine as a teacher, but she had captured my attention. At
the beginning of every class we repeated the mantra I am a writer, and I didnt
understand. Our first assignment was an essay about writing, and I assumed nothing less
than a five paragraph standard paper. When she used my term and said that we werent
going to be doing school writing in her class I was excited and then kind of scared. I
couldnt let go of the structured safety of standard essays, and every class she told me I
had to find myself. This confused me, because for so long I had thought school writing
was myself, and I had long forgotten where that younger version of myself had gone. The
next sections we covered were short stories and poetry. I started to notice the walls I built
start breaking down with each piece I turned in, and when the semester came to a close
she asked me personally to come back next year in CWII. I did, in fact I came back the
next three years.
I came back because she saw in me something that no other teacher ever had, and
she didnt want me in her class because I was good at grammar; she wanted me there
because she knew I was a writer, even though I didnt. My sophomore year I started
writing poetry in my free time, but I didnt tell anyone that except for my best friend Alec
who had been in the same English class as me since freshman year. He was always who I
shared me work with, because I was incredibly shy when it came to sharing a piece I had
been writing. Mr. Thomason, my honors English teacher at the time, assigned an essay
about something no one knows about you; I wrote about poetry and how I hated that I

wrote it because most people who did were dark and depressed. When I turned it in I got
an A, but my teacher seemed so offended that I didnt take pride in poetry writing. I
later found out that he too wrote poetry, and he asked to read my work. By the end of the
semester he had read almost every poem I had written that year, and he said he was
impressed. He had been one of my favorite teachers that year, and at the end of the year
when he returned all of our papers and projects a note was paper clipped to mine. It said,
You were a pleasure to have in class, but you belong in AP. Please take it next year. and
I did.
Junior year I worked for the yearbook as one of the copy writers and
photographers as well as editing some of my classmates articles. By now I was in CWIII,
and was given one of the most wonderful opportunities Ive ever had. A group from my
creative writing class was asked to volunteer at an under privileged elementary school,
Forest Heights. While at the elementary school we would be assigned children, and we
would teach our own writing groups. We would always have the same group of kids, and
as a result they would always be looking forward to seeing and learning for you
specifically. Ill never forget my group of all little girls called me Miss Madison and
constantly asking for my approval of their writing, but more importantly than that I will
remember how I watched their skills improve each week that I saw them. I feel so blessed
that I was able to inspire a love for writing and a passion to learn in those girls. I tried to
teach them as much as I could about writing and my experiences with writing as I could
in the time that I had. One day I took them to the play ground to write poems about
nature, and one of the more shy girls sat next to me on a bench the entire time asking me
questions about rhyming words how to spell certain things. I was so happy that she had

become so interested in it. At the end of the day that same girl handed me a folded up
piece of paper, and inside it said Someday I want to be just like you. At that moment I
knew I had greatly impacted someones life through writing, and Im so grateful for that.
Senior year, and my last year in CW, Dr. Griffin challenged me to participate in
NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), which takes place the month of
November. We didnt have to participate, but I was one of the few who did. She told us
that we probably wouldnt finish an entire novel in one month, but the idea was to be
devoted to a piece and to extending it further. I worked diligently the whole month, and
realized along the way that it was a lot harder than I first thought. I learned that having an
entire plot in your head, and having on paper were two completely different things. I
struggled greatly with connecting point A to point B; Dr. Griffin called it The Middle,
and she said it was always like that at first. Eventually, November came to a close; I
didnt finish the novel, but my take away was far more valuable than the story would
have ever been. I owe that experience for teaching me diligence, trust in my self, and the
knowledge that everything doesnt always come at once. I remembered the mantra I
repeated three years ago, and now I finally believed it. I was a writer.
Not only was Dr. Griffin my CW teacher that year, but she was also my AP
English 12 teacher. I thought that in an English class she would be different, but I was
pleased to discover that even in that class she encouraged her students to write outside of
the boundaries set by previous courses. She involved us in several hands on projects
where we transformed literature into art, and she also held seminar in her room where we
discussed and debated on a piece. I had never felt so engaged in a school reading.

That same year I was also given many other opportunities brought on by writing
and furthering my literacy. I was asked to attend poetry readings, write spoken word
poems for writing contests, write a graduation poem, and lastly, receiving the CW award
for that year. I also began dating my four yearlong best friend, Alec, and was a captain on
our varsity cheerleading squad.
That brings me to today. I still write all the time, including blogging, poetry, and
occasional short stories. I dont cheer anymore, but I am looking for coaching
opportunities for little girls. I keep in touch with Dr. Griffin on Facebook, and I hope to
visit my high school soon. Alec and I have been together for over a year now and are still
going strong. Im glad that I can look back to study my literacy and see how much Ive
grown as a reader and writer.