My dad loves reading. He brings a book everywhere. I’ve always tolerated reading. Don’t get me wrong. Overall, I really like the books I’ve read for school—I have a soft spot for Shakespeare in particular. You’d just be hard-pressed to find me reading a physical book if it wasn’t for class.
When I was 2 years old, my dad tried to teach me how to read. He had one of those books with cardboard pages and a little animal finger puppet in the middle, and it was full of rhymes. There were only a few words: “fun,” “run,” “sun.” Apparently, I found the book super boring, but my dad persisted. When the book ran out of words, he started coming up with his own: “bun” then “pun.” In a desperate attempt to regain my interest, my dad promised that I could leave after answering his question. He asked me, “What word do you get when you put a t at the end of pun?” With a pout on my face, I grumpily grunted “puntun!” before toddling off to my mother.
According to my dad, that’s when he knew that I wouldn’t share his love of words and reading. According to my mom, that’s when she knew I wasn’t going to be “good” with words and reading.
Four years later, I was a bit of a know-it-all. I’d try and correct everything my parents said. Our conversations usually went like this:
Mom: “Baobei, could you pass me the spoon?”
Know-it-all: “Typically it’s a spatula.”
My parents were always a little confused by what I said, but I think they were amused enough that they didn’t question it. But, one day, their confusion hit a breaking point.
Dad: “Miley, could you hand me my jacket?” Know-it-all: “Typically it’s a sweater.”
Mom: “…what?”
Know-it-all?: “Typically it’s a sweater!” Dad: “Could you say that again?”
Thought she knew-it-all: “T-Y-P-I-C-A-L-L-Y” Mom and Dad: “Do you mean technically?” Doesn’t know-it-all: “…what?”
My parents burst out laughing, and I had no idea why. My dad told me that I had the funniest expression on my face: eyebrows scrunched, lips pressed together, and cheeks puffed. When my parents finally reined in their laughter, we had a long conversation about how “typically” did not, in fact, mean what I thought it did.
I thought I left all of my troubles with words behind in middle school. I did not.
During the spring of sophomore year, I was lucky enough to be a part of the play, “Collected Stories.” I portrayed Lisa, a college student studying English. In the early days of the production, we did a read-through of the play. In one scene, Lisa lists a bunch of publications that she’s read her mentor’s work in: “the tree in The New Yorker?, the ones in Mrs. like from the early eighties? that amazing one in that Ess, uh, CHOIR.”
“…what?” Asked my director.
Oh no, I thought.
After a long, long, long conversation about syllabic emphasis and the
apparent weakness of my ears, I discovered that I was pronouncing the word “esquire” wrong. The word could be said with an emphasis on the first syllable (ES-quire) or the second syllable (es-QUIRE). I couldn’t (and still can’t) hear the difference between the two, but apparently, my pronunciation was so wrong that my director made me practice. I swear, it felt like I spent five to ten minutes every rehearsal just saying “esquire,” and the entire cast (including myself) would laugh at my feeble attempts.
Evidently, I am not great with words. Originally, I thought that something must be wrong with me. I must be wired. As time has gone on, I’ve realized that I have minimal interest in semantics or details.
Some details really matter like names and birthdays. Traditionally, I haven’t been the best at remembering those, and it’s been a problem. But I’d like to think I’ve gotten better. I repeat names over and over in my head now, and I put birthdays in my phone.
Other details still matter, just less. My third-grade teacher told my parents in a conference, “Miley’s doing great! Her spelling could really use some work, but that’s OK. They have spellcheck now.”
I don’t think my reliance on spellcheck is great (sometimes I have to really think about which vs. witch). But I manage, and I’m happy to laugh with others at my troubles.
I approach my life with a crushing, overwhelming, all-consuming optimism, and sometimes it brings joy into other people’s lives. So, if you ever need something to brighten your day (like “puntun” brightens mine), just ask me to say esquire, because I’m still not sure witch pronunciation is typically correct.
