Learning to Read

As a boy born into slavery, I never knew my exact birthday; such small facts were simply not kept for children like me.When I was sent to Baltimore to live with the Auld family, my new mistress, Sophia Auld, had never owned a slave before.She was kind, and one day she began teaching me the alphabet, delighted at how quickly I learned each letter.

But when her husband, Mr. Auld, found out, he ordered her to stop at once, saying it was unlawful and unsafe to teach a slave to read.He said that learning would make me discontented and unfit to be a slave, for it would show me a world beyond my condition.I was standing nearby and heard every word, though I do not think he ever knew it.

In that moment, I understood something my master had not meant to teach me: that reading was exactly the pathway from slavery to freedom.From then on, I was determined to learn to read, whatever the cost, though my lessons with Mrs. Auld had ended for good.I made friends with poor white boys I met in the streets, and turned as many of them as I could into teachers.

I carried bread in my pocket, plenty of it, and traded it for small lessons, since those boys often had less food than I did.When I was sent on errands to the shipyard, I copied the letters painted on the timbers there, and practiced them on fences and pavements.I would challenge a boy to write a letter better than mine, and in trying to prove me wrong, he would teach me exactly what I needed to know.

I also found my young master’s old spelling book, and when the house was empty, I practiced from it in secret for hours.Bit by bit, letter by letter, the world Mr. Auld had tried to keep closed to me began to open.I did not yet know how I would ever be free, but I knew now, with total certainty, that reading would be the way there.