I grew up in a typical suburban town in the Southeastern part of Virginia…. (more about my context)
My mother was a reading specialist who worked in an elementary school in the downtown part of the city, where the only thing higher than the illiteracy rates was the poverty line. She went to work every day with children who read dangerously below their grade level, spending hours with phonetic pronunciations in her trailer with the hope that the 6 year olds she worked with would make it through elementary school at the proper reading level. Deeper than this intention, though was her desire to give lower class, black children the opportunity to succeed in a society that was going to attempt to define their lives for them. It was with this passion for language and reading that she brought spelling into my life when I was three years old. I remember sitting on her lap in our rocking chair, while my dad vacuumed our living room, drawing the loopy letters of my name across pages, trying to mock my mother’s big, perfect elementary school teacher handwriting. This opened up the door for my learning experiences.
Language became my intervention into the world around me. I developed a complex syntax and understanding of the world around me because of my ability to speak about anything I wanted to. My father loves to tell the story of how when I was three years I was sitting in my child seat in the backseat of our van and I said to him, “Dad, aren’t clouds just balls of moisture in the sky?” My parents raised me with this passion for learning and always instilled in me two very valuable ideas that I would carry with me throughout my life: I can do anything I want to do and that my education is the most important thing I will ever invest my life and time into. I think these concepts made me a bit more boisterous and arrogant than I should have been for such a young child, but they allowed me freedom, even before I entered school, to challenge the world around me. This firm grasp of language as a way to inquire into the world and astonish those around me had left its indelible mark, and because of that I wanted to succeed in everything I did. I loved to be the best. I remember clearly in first grade, when anyone needed a word to spell the said “Go ask Simone”, and called me the Human Dictionary. Our teacher encouraged us to help each other find conclusions and would never directly tell us how to find the answer that we wanted. So, as we all sat at our desks writing stories on paper that was filled with dotted lines and empty space for us to color the pictures of our imaginations, people would march over to me and ask me to spell words like “first” and I would sound out each letter as though I was answering for a spelling bee. These small moments still stick clearly in my mind because I remember them as ways in which I was able to etch out a presence for myself in the context of my education, my friends, and my successes. I always had the authority of words, literally and metaphorically.
The way in which my command of language grew was not as much through writing, as it was through readings. I spent my childhood blanketed by books of fiction. Because my mother was a reading teacher, the value of books was never lost to me. She not only read to us for as long as I can remember, but she encouraged us to read and made it seem like it was the most exciting thing we could participate in. At the beginning of every summer, we would sail over to the library to participate in their Summer Reading Program. We would enter and receive our blank lists waiting to be filled with the titles of young adults books. My brother and I would check out 20 books each and go home and stack them in the order we would want to read them, while we carefully examined every reward we received for each five books we were able to add to the list.