The Foundation Scholars Program Scholarship Essay: Luke Miller
Surrounded by ten screaming third grade children, I find myself in the library of the elementary school I attended, tutoring children for a class offered by my high school. Each child in the library has some sort of work to do. This involves everything from basic math, an arts and crafts project, or a writing assignment. It’s my job to help them complete these tasks before they can go outside for recess.
The children are rowdy, if they have a question they just shout my name, which annoys the librarian; or they run up to me while shouting. Their questions range from the subject matter they are studying to personal questions about me. Oftentimes, the questions begin with a tap on the arm and a little finger pointing to a problem on the paper.
Once I have taken their questions, split them up, and get them working on top of the table, instead of under it, the children finally start to concentrate. The questions begin to pertain to their work instead of the length of my hair. Some children finish earlier than others and I send them out to recess.
One by one, the group of children begins to thin out, until I am left alone in the library with one little boy. He is working on a writing assignment and is on the final stage of the writing process. I remember helping him with the previous steps, now all he must do is type an eight-sentence paragraph, which his teacher has written on his paper in her hand writing, because his was illegible. He is sitting there staring at the computer screen. I sit down and ask him some questions about his progress. He mumbles something about his inability to complete the assignment. I sigh, not knowing what to do next.
As I gaze across the bookshelves thinking about how to inspire him, my eyes land upon a book I remember from my childhood. I go over to it and leaf through the pages. The book, Guess How Much I Love You , reminds me of my struggles to read and write in elementary school. I am reminded of my parents reading to me before bed and how much I loved it. I remember struggling to read and write and being embarrassed that my peers were able to read and write better than me. I remember my parents and their attempts to help me become a better reader: getting me a tutor, reading to me, and helping me on school assignments in the same way I’m helping this little boy. It makes me sad to think about my childhood in those terms, and to think about the boy sitting at the table in front of me. Then, I remember discovering the Harry Potter novels during my last two years of elementary school. I remember devouring those books. That was when reading clicked for me. I no longer struggled with reading, and I was able to read almost anything. Now, I am able to comprehend William S. Burroughs and Thomas Pynchon novels. My struggles and embarrassment are faded memories. Someday, the boy sitting in front of me will find his Harry Potter novels and reading will click for him, too.
I sit back down and pick up the piece of paper and look at the blank document he has pulled up on his computer screen. I tell him the first word, spelling it for him slowly, then I help him find the keys on the keyboard. I know that this will be a long and tedious process, but I am willing to stick it out, because by helping him now, hopefully, it will pay off for him later. I am the proof that if adults are patient and help a struggling reader until he gets it the result can be a passionate reader.
