I remember teaching myself how to read and write at 4 years old. My grandmother raised me, and we used to sing the ABC song together. One day she brought me a chart that showed what the 26 letters of the alphabet looked like. Once I memorized the song and sang it following the chart, I knew the alphabet. Then, with the chart in hand, my aunt taught me how to pronounce the letters, and I would repeat the sounds of the letters, alone in my bedroom, over and over, until one day I learned how to print words just from their sound. My grandmother was old, and I spent a lot of time alone in my room, so I taught myself how to print words, and couldn’t wait to go to school to learn cursive. Since that time, writing has been my passion.
I never shared with my aunt or grandmother what I learned, based on the small amount of information they passed on to me. When my grandmother registered me for school, she did not tell the teacher that I was four years old. In those days one had to be five years old to enter kindergarten. She lied, why I don’t know, and though it was unlike her, she did it anyway. My first day of school was rather interesting, and following my day, my grandmother received a phone call, from the principal at the school, asking why she didn’t tell them that I could read and write. They said, because I could, I should be in first grade, not kindergarten, and asked if they had her permission to bump me up. My grandmother, surprised to hear that I could read and write, asked, while still on the phone, why I didn’t tell her that I could write, and my answer was, “I can only print, I don’t know how to write in cursive”. She fell into her chair.
I didn’t accept the invitation to enter first grade, because I told them, I would learn how to read a clock and calendar in kindergarten, and I didn’t want to miss that. So I remained exactly where I was originally and they boosted me to second grade at the end of the school year.
JUST THINKING 
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