What Reading is Like … Gabriella Orozco

by Gabriella Orozco I loved the smell of books. No page looked identical to the other, and each book had a different hue. I even enjoyed adding a doodle to the colorful art as a child. Books such as Biscuit the Puppy, If You Give A Mouse A Cookie, Click-Clack-Moo, and Alvie Eats Soup are not only part of my core memories, but my experience. I enjoyed it when the teacher would pick my book for “Reading of the Day!” and everyone would nod and agree that the book I chose was “The best!” In all honesty, it fed into my little ego and gave me a sense of empowerment. After learning the basics, I moved on to more extensive books: Wait Till Helen comes, the Goosebump series, Nancy Drew, and Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark. My taste only got morbid, yet I found joy in reading everything I could get my hands on, learning about what comes out of other people’s imagination. There was nothing that could harm my bundle of imagination. It always felt safe in my mind. It wasn’t until now, as an adult, that I wished I didn’t know how to read. Not in a way that’s insensitive to people who don’t have the opportunity to learn to read; I mean it in a way that, if there were a possibility to turn it On and Off, I would use it. When I was 12, I read “From the State Penitentiary” in bold red letters. It was a letter from my older brother, who had disappeared from my life when I was nine, and I never asked questions about where he was, since it was always “far away.” When I tore the letter open, it was a hand-drawn card for my upcoming thirteenth birthday. On another occasion, when I told someone, “I never want to see you again,” they dared to leave a letter on my car wind-

Creative Works… 213 shield, claiming I was the best to have ever happened to them, and regardless of where we are in life, they’d always be there. Pathetic. Nothing compares to the recent text my closest friend sent: “Send a prayer for my family; my Papi isn’t doing well,” only for the text hours later to be: “He passed a few hours ago, we’re trying to be strong.” It was moments like those that I hoped I had read it wrong, or maybe I’m illiterate. I can’t quite grasp the idea of words. Reading is excruciating in moments when you’re choking up and can’t seem to speak a word. Reading is beautiful when trying to express your most profound thought of compassion. I could tell you about the ways some pieces make me cry. Anything by Sylvia Plath will bring a gloss to my eyes. Books such as Pride and Prejudice will cause my heart to flutter, and, on the other hand, Lolita will make my heart drop. However, reading love letters, lines for my friend’s short films, my favorite brownie recipe, the subtitles to a movie that almost sounds like gibberish, and the instructions to a brand new Lego set, are why I can never possibly consider the On and Off Switch. The little things that make the corner of my mouth curve upward are worth every word. No matter how hard it is to read the obituary left on the table, the letters that say goodbye, the nasty reviews on your favorite restaurant, the hate comments, and the words to this paper are all worth reading. No matter what it might be, it’s a milestone to something new, good or bad. I always hope to read the best there is, to live vicariously through a fictional character – or even someone who lived the life I hope to one day have. You never know where your eyes will wander, and subconsciously read whatever’s in front of you.