I remember being a teenage girl attracted to sports, theater, music, and most importantly, TV. My knowledge about literature was very narrow. I barely knew authors, or how literature could have different genres. I used to believe that books were a synonym for boring. My belief system was that literature was not a part of the life of a teenage girl, that educational TV shows were sufficient to maintain me conversant with current events.

After a hot school recess, I went inside the classroom. I was still agitated because of all the running the baseball game required. The room felt hot, humid, and the smell of everyone’s sweat and dirt was mixed. I sat in my chair below the fan waiting impatiently to get cooler, I looked around and saw a number of kids fanning themselves with their hands and a few standing by the window competing for space to get as much fresh air as possible. I put my head down and I heard kids laughing, the sound of the lawn moaner, and the distant voice of a teacher yelling at a kid who was reluctant to join the line to enter the classroom. I tried to listen beyond those voices, but my attempt was interrupted by the teacher regrouping the class. The teacher, Mrs. Inez, was holding a book as she walked to the center of the room, some kid said, “I bet that is the book we have to read.” Another kid replied, “That is too thick! No way, dude.” But we all knew that the book was for us. And as I realized this my mood changed drastically. As she passed the book to the classmate besides me, I got a better look of the book, and it was thick. Mrs. Inez finally reached me, and she placed the book on my desk. I felt pure annoyance run through my veins. I saw the title of Being a Happy Teenager by Andrew Matthews. I instantly disliked it because I knew it was a book about advice, and I used to think of those authors as “know-it-alls” that believed that they had the concept of life mastered. Mrs. Inez started explaining the chapters that will be read throughout the week and I looked at the book as if it was a longtime foe. I did not share the opinions of others of how books can be truly helpful. On the contrary, I used to believe that these opinions were banal.         

I arrived home and started to read the first chapter defiantly. “What did the book do?” said my sister with amusement, “I just don’t want to read it” I replied with hostility. Once I finished the chapter, I actually enjoyed it because it made me understand the changes I was experiencing, the self-doubt, the mood changes, questions about life, and adolescents overall. However, I did not allow myself to recognize this truth because if I did, I would succumb to the ideas that I had resisted for so long. A number of days passed, and my mother told us that we were going to move to the United States, and I felt how I slowly crumbled. The thought of my friends being thousands of miles away, not having baseball games in the backyard with my mom, no more family gatherings, and to say farewell to my Dominican life made me resentful at life. I contained all of those feelings inside of me. I was a ticking bomb.

Months passed in my new American life and it was filled with disinterest, and longing. I longed to feel the hot breeze carry things with her such as voices, smells and most importantly heat whereas the breeze in America was cold, hostile, and empty. It made me feel more out of place. One of the teachers at my new school sensed my gloomy mood and approached me during his Humanities class. His name was Ryan. He had average height, a bit overweight, blonde hair with green eyes, and his breath always smelled like black coffee.

He approached me and said “Have you ever been to the library? We have pretty cool books” and I responded bluntly “I do not like to read.” He looked at me up and down and replied, “You don’t? why?” “Because they are boring” I said and he quickly responded, “Maybe you are reading the wrong kind,” and left to attend a student that required his help. I observed the classroom and saw kids reading devotedly, but I could not relate.

At the end of the class, he handed me a book and said “Try this one. You won’t regret it. See it as an… escape.” I grabbed the book and stared at the title Night by Elie Wiesel.

At first, I was skeptical, but I was curious what made my teacher so sure that this book would change my mind. I looked the cover of the book and read the plot. I found it immensely interesting. It was about the experience of a young boy with his father in a Nazi concentration camp. I finished the book in three days. I was moved and enraged that such an atrocity could happen to a human being. Also, I never knew how much a person could communicate to someone through words, but most importantly the emotions that can be felt. I came in the next day with a purpose which is something I had not felt in a long time.

I saw my history teacher and he said “So? How is it coming along?” with pride I replied, “I finished it already” and he just said “See? You were just reading the wrong books.” I became hungry. I was hungry for knowledge. I wanted to explore what I had been missing for so long. Every book that I read made my anger and resentment fade little by little, it was as if books were a sponge that absorbed away the pain and brought life to a hidden side of me.

The heartbreaking stories that I read such as The Diary of Anne Frank, and Night made me feel ashamed when I thought I was unfortunate. Also, when I read inspiring stories such as I am Malala by the immensely brave Malala Yousafzai, it taught me the true power of education and the miracles that someone can do when fear is not as great as the need to help.

 I was introduced to a world that I was reluctant to enter and there was no coming back. Now I have read countless books, I am a true fan of novels and a true believer that books are a non-verbal way to demonstrate how the world is revolutionizing.