I Learned How to Read in High School

I thought I knew how to read until I read Toni Morrison's Bluest Eye.

From elementary to high school, I always tested at 98% + when it came to English, English composition, and English literature. I had enough academic awards to wallpaper my childhood bedroom. I attended more award ceremonies than birthday parties and sleepovers (which my Haitian parents would never allow).

Reading and writing was my forte. So, imagine my sheer embarrassment when in 10th grade, I picked up The Bluest Eye, read the first paragraph and struggled to understand what Toni Morrison was saying. Something was wrong. Let me review this summer reading list again:

- The reading list was up to date. 2002 to be exact. (Check)

- The title was on it (check)

- The author was correct (check)

- It was supposed to be 12th grade level, but what did that have to do with me, the reading guru? (check)

Now that I confirmed the details, I had to clear my throat, straighten my spine, and try again. I reread that first paragraph. Nothing.

Cool. No sweat. I continued to the second and third pages hoping that something there would provide reference for understanding. Still nothing.

The sentences became more complicated, and the words eventually faded to hieroglyphics afterward. So, what did a bold Brooklynite like me do?

Returned the book, avoiding eye contact with the librarian, hoping she would not question me about how the book was. Don’t judge me.

Unfortunately, it didn’t end with a simple library return. That book haunted me for weeks. Every time I visited the library and scoured the 'African American' interest section, there it was laughing at me. I was so tempted to scream, "Shh! We're in the library." But I was the only one who heard the ridicule and I would risk getting kicked out. ?

Finally, after a summer of shame, I decided to try again. I returned my stack of books and in the history of me going to the library, I checked out ONE BOOK! I got home in a frenzy, whizzing through Eastern Parkway like I was hiding an illegal substance in my Jansport backpack. I made my coffee (yes, I was drinking coffee at 15 - bold at that too), and opened to the first page. Let's do this.

I read the first paragraph again. Nope. Too much. I had to scale it back to the first two sentences.

Then like a computing AI, referenced every lesson on metaphors my teenage brain could recall. Slowly and to my surprise, I began to unveil the mystery in the words. ?

Over the next few days, I read and reread the pages, absorbing every metaphoric depiction until I got to the last page. Then I read the entire book all over again. This time with more ease.

This Toni Morrison woman was pleasantly complicated. She intrigued me as much as she put me to shame. I was obsessed. Every library trip was a beeline to the M-ending authors just to find her last name. It was Sula, Beloved, Jazz, Song of Solomon, and every other delectable reading tied to her name.

My infatuation with her foreign language unlocked new levels of composition that I didn't even know my brain could conjure. Toni Morrison taught me how to read and I never met the woman.

As a young English literature enthusiast, I was confident - rightfully so. I put in the work to be an A student and my Haitian parents bought enough books to make sure I had no excuse. The challenges that I accepted from Morrison's stories were the hurdles I needed to jump to get to the other side of great storytelling. And coming from a non-athletic person like myself – it was as much a mental challenge as it would be if I were training for the Olympics.

The truth is, although I initially declined, my desire (or maybe pride) pushed me to dig deeper to understand the meaning behind every allegory to learn that: what I learned:

?- Stories didn’t have to start once upon a time or end happily ever after.

?- A chronological narrative structure was not always the best way to tell a story.

?- Imagery was meant to be painted.

?- Open endings were more thought-provoking conclusions.

?- Tragedy was as much a beautiful storyline as triumph.

?- Humor can be dark.

?- And pain was almost always a necessary component.

?

Today, I'm a brand storyteller - Ironic, huh?

Basically, I work with different brands, across several industries, to help them talk to their audience. I craft messages that will best communicate their ideas to their target ?demographic. I have to do that regularly for a variety of brands in their specific voices and tones.

I have to channel my inner Toni Morrison to highlight the value proposition of every brand I work with – even when the products are similar. Even when the market in their industry is saturated. I can’t tell their stories the same way. Even if I wanted to, it would be impossible because every brand has their own story – and It’s my job to tell it uniquely.

It was a teenage book fight that positioned me on the path to do this. At an early age, I was propelled to become a more in-depth thinker and writer. Don’t get me wrong, I am not even close to where I would like to be. I’m still boxing in the ring with all the copywriting challenges I face. I have career bruises that I still nurse with a smile. The pain became profit. ?

My question to you is: what challenges are you facing in your respective career or even personal development journey? Have these hurdles embarrassed you? Took a stab at your integrity? Questioned your expertise?

If so, what are you going to do about it? I’ll help you out:

You can either, put it back on the shelf and avoid eye contact with the librarian, or go back to check-it out, sit with it for weeks (strong coffee in hand), mulling over line by line until your pride turns into humility and you begin to read it with ease.