Reading Reverie: Mia Balsamo ’28, Anthony Diana ’28, Francisca Schmalz ’28

Reading Reverie: Three Personal Essays Connect Empowerment and Literature

“In the Weeds and Under the Pillow”

By Mia Balsamo

When I was a kid, I kept my love of words beneath my pillow. In the dim yellow glow of my Tinkerbell lamp, safe in my Tinkerbell-pink-and-green bedroom, I stayed huddled under my blanket past my bedtime every night. I had a severe fear of the dark, so when it was time for me to go to bed, I felt powerless. I couldn’t convince my parents of the mummy under my bed, the monster in my closet, or that my cat wouldn’t stop biting my feet. I was left to fend for myself in the shadowy depths that were so cheery during the day. My fear made it almost impossible for me to fall asleep; I would simply lie down, stare into the dark, and flinch at the sounds of our old house settling. The only thing that helped was being flanked by the bedside table with my lamp and the CD player crooning a Beatles mixtape on loop, with pages between my small fingers. To curb the fear and take charge of the night, I’d read through my favorite books until I felt safe enough to fall asleep. I’d sleepily shove the books under my pillow, where they’d stay until the next morning.

As children, we often feel small. Even with the best of adults, we end up feeling like what we want or need doesn’t matter much to anyone. We wake up early because we have to, go to school because we have to, and go everywhere our parents drag us because “they said so” and we can’t very well drive there anyway. We’re prohibited from whining and complaining, and when we point out that it doesn’t feel fair, we get the age-old “life isn’t fair.” Our lack of agency makes us feel small and our world ever smaller. I had a hard time making peace with this small world I found myself in, and decided to supplement with other, bigger worlds I found at the library.

Every week, I’d check out the maximum number of books and spend the day devouring them, chapter after chapter. Nancy Drew gave me mysteries to pour over, Percy Jackson gave me demigods to go on adventures with, and Matilda gifted me ambition that one day, I would read so many books and get so smart that I could move things with my mind. My own life was ordinary at the best of times, and I felt extremely un-ordinary (meaning, the kind of weird that makes old people want to be friends with you when you’re only eight), so I’d chase the extraordinary with fantastical stories and strong female characters. In between, I’d binge old movies and shows in my parents’ DVD collection (remember DVDs?) and keep wishing to live in any of these worlds except for my own. Not because my world was bad, simply because it was boring, and at eight years old, that was about the worst thing the world could be.

This is how I became properly acquainted with the English language. Originally, I only saw the merit in big fancy words individually, and smaller unimpressive words as part of a great story. I kick myself now as I write this, because I don’t know how I didn’t see the real beauty in words when I was younger. I never thought about how difficult it is to put the exact right words into the exact right order to keep someone engrossed in what you’re saying— to keep them turning the pages. I would spend days reading in the big green recliner in my living room, absorbed in a book before coming up for air to see that the sun had gone down. I never imagined the careful consideration that went into a story that holds you captive, there’s almost a sort of magic. I’ve felt that magic when I write. Whereas I usually get tripped up and tongue-tied is when I try to speak about a complicated feeling or situation, I paint pictures and move mountains in my writing.

Words have always come naturally to me, which is a blessing since not much else did. I could never kick a ball into a net, or dance ballet, or do complex math (I was actually pretty good at baseball, but there’s not a lot of opportunities for young girls in baseball), and no one thought I was cool, but I knew the word “fortuitous!” I knew the definition, its synonyms, and how to use it in a sentence. It’s quite fortuitous that I’ve figured out that I want to be a writer, as my discovery of my love of words was purely by accident. The affinity was easy to spot, but the love wasn’t always so clear. It wasn’t until I did a presentation on language families in high school that I realized how fascinating the history is behind everyday words we hardly think about. When you realize different languages are members of families and branch off from one another, constantly evolving, you start to pay attention to where they came from and how they got to you.

It’s clear to me now, how words have been following me my whole life. The power they hold; to entertain, to instigate, to hurt, to heal. They swirl around me while I narrate my walks to class to fight against boredom and the heavy weight of my backpack. When I pack up for the day, words follow me home, forming ideas and scenes before I know what’s going on. Like milkweeds I pass on the way, their seeds float and surround me until one becomes a memory of a character whose name I don’t know yet. It follows me as I pass by trees that look like hands reaching out towards me —the same trees I want to reach back out to during the day but look more like they want to grab me at night. The seed keeps following me until I sit down and realize there’s one stuck in my hair, and now maybe there’s a seed in the character’s hair as well. Maybe she talks to someone who reaches out to take it. I still don’t know her name, but my world has become a little bigger.

“Wonder”

By Anthony Diana

One night when I was nine, I started a book for class. I chose the book, Wonder by R.J Palacio, and I don’t remember why; I doubt I put much thought in it. The assignment to read in the first place came from my teachers. 

I was lying in my bed, a fluorescent reading light illuminating the freshly opened pages, and dreading what I considered to be a chore. Maybe I can just lie and say I read… but I’m sure there will be a writing assignment to do. My eyes scanned the first page unenthusiastically. I knew I had to read for thirty minutes, as per the assignment, and that time frame was all that filled my mind. The words on the pages were my enemy and I was severely outnumbered. Every letter stretched out passed the page. Every sentence to infinity. Glancing at the clock, I noticed a mere minute had passed and I’d barely read through the first page. Sighing,  I refocused my efforts on the story in my hands.

Wonder is about a young boy born with a facial deformity, and the challenges he faces going to school for the first time. At least we can both agree that school kinda blows. I read on, my eyes glancing less and less at the clock. Thoughts of time and school began to sneak out of my head. This isn’t as bad as I thought it would be… but reading is still lame. The book moved between multiple different points of view, each character engaging. The characters and scenes began to occupy more space in my head, forcing any last thoughts of boredom or wishing this would end fully out. Had I been conscious of this, I may have resisted in a feeble attempt to preserve the idea that I could never enjoy reading, but I was preoccupied.

Thirty minutes had passed. The book monopolized my thoughts, leaving me oblivious to the passage of time. At this point, my eyes adjusted to the light, and I was unable to make out anything in the darkness except the book I’d resented not too long before.

The protagonist was so sincere it became impossible to not root for him. I felt pain when he was ostracized and joy in seeing him find a place to belong. What were once just names on a page had become people who I cared about. August was a sweet boy who wanted to feel accepted. Via, a supportive older sister, is wrecked with complex feelings about her brother. The characters had come to life in my mind and I wanted to know more about them, their lives, and the emotions that drive them forward. I saw parts of myself in each character, which only strengthened my connection to the book. I was putting myself in the shoes of the characters and getting worked up, as if this was my life. Why would he do that? That’s such a mean thing to say! If I was there I would stand up for him. I was boiling over with passion for characters in a book, an act I would have found absurd had I not been experiencing it.

As the night went on and my eyes struggled to remain open, I no longer wished the time would pass faster, I wanted to keep reading, for my exhausted body to hold out a bit longer. I can stay awake for at least one more chapter then I’ll go to sleep for sure. The light hum of the AC drew me closer to sleep and further from the world I’d newly discovered and the characters I was entirely invested in. The cold air forced me under the blankets with only my hands exposed to continue flipping pages. In the back of my mind, I knew I would have to be up for school soon enough, but that worry became secondary to the pages. The words I’d initially dreaded became all I cared about, just one more page before my body gives in. Just one more page… or two… maybe three. The book had become much heavier, and flipping the pages felt like prying open a door. My eyelids were quickly losing their remaining strength. Even the bulb from my reading light seemed tired. The book fell to the floor, the reading light illuminating the spot on my pillow where it had been and just beneath that I lay asleep and content having experienced the joys of reading.

“The Power of Nonfiction”

By Francisca Schmalz

My love for life came two months after my Oma passed away. I was cold, lying in bed and staring at my computer. The air in my room smelled of faint, stale McDonald’s. My father and I went to McDonald’s a lot those first two months, too depressed to cook. The soft blue light from my screen was straining my eyes. I was doom-scrolling on Max. At this point in my life, I was supposed to be a film major and was (still am) a huge film geek, so it felt like I’d seen every movie possible. My tired eyes flashed over the same titles over and over again until finally, they landed across Into the Wild.

In my junior year one of my favorite teachers, Mr. Ubriaco, tried to get us to read the book, but we started it too late and ran out of time. He said, “If you want to be a better human, read this book.” I thought watching the movie would suffice. It didn’t; I finished the movie around 2:00 am on a school night, and that same day went to another one of my teachers, Mrs. Gallagher, and begged for a copy from the school’s bookroom. Of course, she handed me her keys to the bookroom without a second thought.

I must confess one thing before I continue. My Oma and I were not close. Nearly a decade ago, my grandparents got into a bad car accident; I thought my Oma would die soon, so I taught myself to be accustomed to the thought. I’ve had a rocky relationship with my mother my entire life, and when I was fifteen, I realized things were never going to get better with my mom. I realized my Oma was one of the most prominent mother figures, and I couldn’t waste any more time with her waiting for her to die. So, for prior two years, I’d spent time getting to know my Oma for who she was, outside of being a grandmother. We spoke about her childhood during World War II in Europe. I learned so much from her in those last two years. The last time we spoke she was in a hospital bed. She had fallen the night before and wasn’t improving. During our last visit, I was wearing a baby pink coat, one that she’d already seen a few times, yet she turned to me, reaching out with her safety mittens, and grabbed for me. “Francisca, I like this color, it’s very nice.” It was the first and last time our conversations would be so simple. She passed a month later.

I started reading Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer on Valentine’s Day, and out of the many books I’ve read, it has had the most enduring impact on me. This book ended up giving me a new perspective on reading, that I didn’t think was possible. I always said I didn’t like nonfiction books. This was ridiculous, considering the only nonfiction books I’d read at this time were my history textbooks. Books to me were always an escape from a world I could never rationalize. Reading Into the Wild introduced me to a different kind of escape, one based in experiences and realities I might’ve never known about. I realized while reading that there is so much I don’t know. I always thought I was aware that I didn’t know everything, but it didn’t hit until I finished the book. At the time I was reading the book, I was waiting for my last college admission from my ‘dream’ school. I wanted to be a filmmaker, and in my mind, the key to that was at my ‘dream’ school and only there.

My read of Into the Wild ended up changing my outlook on life. The book follows a young man named Chris McCandless who, after graduating from Emory University, drained all his savings, donated them to charity, and disappeared. He decided to live with very few possessions and no property; making his way to the Alaskan wilderness was his life’s purpose. In a way, I found his determination to live so humbly, use nature as his home, and work with his hands to make it Alaska, inspiring. Seeing him succeed insofar as he did made my uncertain future reassuring. Even though McCandless met his end, I realized he lived his life to the fullest, and so could I.

Fortunately, I was rejected from that school the same weekend I ended up finishing Into the Wild. When I was rejected, I felt like a failure. I had dreamed and fantasized about going there for years, I worked myself to the bone for years so I could afford to go there. I did everything I could, and getting that rejection email was soul-crushing. I finished the book a couple of hours after my rejection came through. I was sitting in my room; I had been crying for the better part of the hour, and Into the Wild was staring at me. The same stale air of McDonald’s lingered in my room; the smell was making me sicker at this point. I remember picking up the book and thinking I would do one act of self-care and finish before I would continue wallowing in what felt like eternal sadness.

When I finished Into the Wild, a few things occurred to me. Chris McCandless gave up his entire life to pursue his goal of living in Alaska, and he died. I was rejected from my ‘dream’ school, and I’m alive. (And, I hate the smell of McDonald’s.)

Krakauer’s book managed to pull me out of the puddle of grief and self-pity I’d been melting in since my Oma passed. Chris McCandless’ story on its own was tragic. Krakauer’s handling of McCandless’ story was what made it inspiring. If this kid could find his way to Alaska on his own, after renouncing all worldly possessions, surely, I could survive college rejection and the death of a grandparent.