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Amidst this solitude, one needs an escape in the form of a crime thriller. The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, the finale of an amazing trilogy had me immersed in the suspenseful plot from cover to cover. It offers suspense, buildup, plot twists, resolution, and the aforementioned level of escapism by virtue of it being so engrossing.

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Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, my second choice, is a supremely written love story with beautiful character development, as well as references to areas I sorely miss as a stranded person.

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If stranded, I would want something conducive to rereading and continual discovery, something a bit hard to follow. A Brief History of Seven Killings by Marlon James comes to mind, as it is complex and comprised of 54 characters. The writing style, dialogue and dialect continually shifts, as each chapter offers a different vantage point, the story as seen from a multitude of eyes. (from a ghost to The Singer, a representation of Bob Marley)

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Despite the struggle to recall specific authors and titles (there have since been many trips around the sun), I distinctly recall having a series of encyclopedias, called the Book of Knowledge. I spent lots of time looking through, reading through, following my sense of inquiry. At S.A.N.D., my elementary school teachers, Mrs. Dantley, Mrs. Celadon, and Ms. Reed, my first, third, and fourth grade teachers, respectively, fed me encouragement during my formative years. The classroom culture was risk-free, engendering confidence and security as a reader and student, markedly different from what I was to experience in suburban private school.

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While at Watkinson (just next door), which felt like a sanctuary, my affinity for reading and writing, my appreciation for the written word and its unique, expressive power, blossomed as would a garden tended with nurturing oversight. Supplemented by a foundation of classics within the canon, embraced by supportive teachers, I was also, more exposed to poetry and prose written by people who look like me. I felt encouraged to craft my creative voice, emboldened to make my opinions public. These years truly reflect my coming to reading, as I was able to participate in the process, something larger than myself.

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As an only child, books afforded me an escape of sorts, a readily accessible gateway to heroes, plots, and during potentially lonely times, a kind of companionship. I stuffed many of them into a straw basket, where I also kept some toys.

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I did not keep a dedicated journal, per se, but I enjoyed adding captions to my drawings, in comic book-like fashion.

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My late mother recalled that as a toddler, I brought books to her, silently (and occasionally, not so silently) prompting her to read them to me. This was a soothing time, unstructured, but often before a nap or bedtime. As I made connections, building awareness of how books conveyed information, I developed a voracious love for reading, as it was prioritized within the home. This afforded me a distinct advantage at S.A.N.D., an urban public school in the north end of Hartford, where I was better prepared than most and ultimately skipped out of kindergarten.

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As I referenced, precociousness (being nerdy) within urban public school, effectively punched my Project Concern ticket to Talcott Mountain Academy of Science and Mathematics, a private, suburban school two city buses, a transfer, then one school van away from home. No longer a big fish, my struggles with navigating a drastically different environment were concurrent with struggles in reading comprehension. I recall having to read passages several times before they 'stuck.' The words, as individual pieces made sense, but the greater ideas escaped me .