Literacy can present itself in many varieties. Diverse styles and genres provide a wide array of choices to appeal to differing readers. Although, literacy can be defined as a means to communicate an author’s individualistic experiences to a wide audience in the hopes of finding others that relate to them. Literacy is not only the words that we read on the pages of books or the essays we write in class; it is an instrument used to form relationships with others through our self-expression. Today’s approach to literature classes is often focused on analysis and the ability to write formally. I learned to write thesis statements and analysis papers in eighth grade, yet I did not learn to write with my own voice until junior year. While the formalities are important, teachers then do not allow students to explore what makes them flourish within writing. By confining literature classes to regurgitation without creation, schools are hindering students’ abilities to explore their personal voices, therefore diminishing their capability to form relations through literacy.

Authors often write about their personal experiences with literacy and the school system. One of those authors is Jimmy Santiago Baca, who dropped out of school in ninth grade only to discover his love for writing years later (Baca 574). He mentions when discussing his writing, “My words did not come from books or textual formulas, but from a deep faith in the voice of my heart” (Baca 578). Baca’s passion for literature came not from strict curriculums, but from “a deep faith in the voice of [his] heart.” He found passion within the freedom writing for himself provided. Students who become confined inside academic standards, alike to Baca, are stunted in the development of their personal voice that projects through their writing. Baca also states once he grew to appreciate literature, “Suddenly, through language, through writing, my grief and my joy could be shared with anyone who would listen” (Baca 576). His ability to use literacy developed as he wrote more and more. Writing was no longer a long list of assignments that he held no attachment to. It translated into a manner of communicating his emotions, a way to connect to others. Strict literature curriculums push narratives that literacy is nothing but reading and writing, that it cannot be more than a simple definition. However, through stories like Baca’s and my own, we can learn that regurgitating information and analytics onto a document is not literacy. And, this kind of “literacy” is the reason students struggle to find their personal voice, denying them connection with the world around them. 

Throughout my academic career, my experience with literacy has been largely affected by the limitations placed upon me by the curriculum being taught, leading me to feel disconnected from it entirely. In eighth grade, I was first taught to analyze literature. It was as if a magnificent portal had been opened for me, one that helped me rip apart every book and movie I had come to love up to that point and every one I would come to love after. I was taught to write thesis statements and analyze a single quote to mean exactly what I needed it to mean. I enjoyed learning, but when it came to writing longer pieces, I could not find the ability to care about what I was writing. Writing was never important to me – to put it simply. However, what I did find important to me were the grades I received on those assignments. I always cared more that I got an A rather than enjoyed or understood what I was doing. A need to succeed academically in a household with two doctors as parents and an insanely intelligent and hardworking older brother trumped anything else. During most of my essay writing, I went into a state where I “blacked out” and re-emerged from the darkness four hours later with a finished product. I can remember writing my creative nonfiction essay about Hamlet my sophomore year. Sitting in my basement, on the ground, back against the couch, ears ringing as a result of my music’s volume; I hoped to work as fast as possible. After I finished what I was working on, I forgot what I wrote almost entirely, closing my laptop and leaving revisions as a problem for another day or never. I was never proud of my work, and I never cared to try to do so.

In the following two years, my freshman and sophomore years of high school, my perspective had not changed much. The only difference–I got put in an additional honors course, above my other classmates, both years. Not only did those courses boost my academic superiority complex, but they also allowed me to explore outside of what the class was learning about. In my freshman year, I studied Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and in my sophomore year, I got to completely design my course with little input from my teacher. I chose to study three apocalyptic books: The 100 by Kass Morgan, The Sword of Shannara by Terry Brooks, and Cat’s Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut. My study was focused on how different authors imagined how the end of humanity would look, each in a different genre. Here, I was able to explore literature more. I learned literature could take many forms while all centering around the same topic. That literature could be more than a strict curriculum of essay writing and classic novels; The 100 was modern and sci-fi, The Sword of Shannara was fantasy and lyrical, and Cat’s Cradle was humorous and commentative. Literature had no boundaries: you could write any topic, any style, any way you wanted to. 

Additionally, in the spring of my sophomore year, I discovered a website called Ao3, otherwise known as Archive of Our Own: a website where anyone could post their writing for others to read. Some authors I discovered had a large audience, and some did not, but they were similar in one way–they received no financial income from anything they wrote. The concept of writing for nothing in return seemed a little strange. These people enjoyed writing enough to do it for fun. Then, I started reading what they were writing: unconventional stories with characters that I could relate to more than ever before. Best of all, the personalized voices of these writers were so fine-tuned that they begged you to fall in love with the story. I experienced the world from their perspectives, and I could find others with similar experiences to myself. Soon enough I was not as alone in my personal struggles. I had bookmarked twenty things to read and was quickly loving to read again and an urge to write came along with it. But I did not want to write essays, I wanted to write my story – just with characters that mirrored myself and a world that could be anything I wanted it to be. 

Luckily for me, in my junior year, my class schedule got jumbled, and the dual credit English course I was preparing to take transformed into a creative writing class. A class I was excited to experience, quickly turned into my favorite class. The curriculum was loose, yes, I had to follow what the class was doing, but I was also allowed to explore what I wanted to write, developing my own voice. For the first time, I was writing by choice on my own time. These pieces were not assignments or to see an A in the grade book. They were just for me, and I was finally proud of my writing. I understood whilst writing in the class what Baca speaks about: “Suddenly, through language, through writing, my grief and my joy could be shared with anyone who would listen” (Baca 576). I wrote short stories and poetry. I flooded my work with all my experiences in hopes one of my classmates would read my work and say, “I know how you feel.” I formed relations through my writing with those who understood me, with “anyone who would listen.” My writing transformed from mindless regurgitation and repetitive quote integration to immersive confessions of my life experience. Literacy was no longer reading and writing; it was telling my story. 

Now, I have love for my writing. I was given opportunities to explore what literacy could truly mean to me. Through the ability to go beyond the given constricting literature curriculums, I learned what my voice sounded like. Like Baca, I was able to find love for literacy outside thesis statements and essay writing. I learned pursuing my own passions and writing can be the same, and that the grade on my paper is not the only thing that mattered. Schools should improve literacy curriculums to include aspects of creating, not just stating, so students can work to develop their personal voice from an earlier age. Consequently, this would allow them to form relations through their literature, helping them find belonging in a world that feels so isolating. Students would be able to use literacy to connect with the people around them, wielding it like the power it is. 

Work Cited

Baca, Jimmy Santiago. “Coming into Language.” Working in the Dark. Red Crane Books, 1992, pp. 573-578.