It is weird how time changes us and I am not talking about aging damage here. I was reading “The Help” yesterday in my bed before going to sleep, fighting my sleepy self and trying to get over as many pages as I can. The language of the book didn’t help either. I don’t like it. It feels weird and I have much difficulties understanding that an “at” is an “at” when it is written missing a “t”! In-spite that, I still intend to read it all, even-though it didn’t hooked me yet. Maybe it has to do with a recommendation of a friend who said that this book is amazing, along with the fact that it has been a best seller in the past months and was made into a movie.

The minute I put the book down, it hit me how much I enjoy reading novels now in comparison to my old school days. Back then, language was even a bigger barrier to me but it was not the only reason I hated that part of the English curriculum. I guess that at that age I failed to see the beauty words alone can carry. I failed to see  the art of putting words next to each other to form a story of another imaginary world that carries many of the emotions I face in my daily life in those few lines.

In class, we used to do a simultaneous readings. One in turn to read several paragraphs with stops in between for a short explanation by the teacher, or a question from her to generate a discussion about the issue presented in that part. I always shied of participating in these discussions as it wasn’t my thing. I focused more in trying to keep track of which line they stopped at so that I can pick up from there if my turn to read comes next and save myself the humiliation. Well, I kind of enjoyed the moments of hearing my voice read for I thought that I was fairly good at it and thus it would be a fair enough participation from my side in the class.

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