With a sharp gust of wind, she wakes me up. I try to place where I am: September 20th, 2017;
Caguas, Puerto Rico. I wonder why I’m laying in the middle of the hall, as the vague memory of my
parents rushing me out of my rapidly flooding bedroom sinks in. She strikes the house again, and I
am suddenly aware: it's her, she's here. She’s hard to describe: strong, relentless, violent. As I walk
into the kitchen, I’m confused at the effect the storm shutters have. The darkness blinds you to her
temper, but the sound of her anger passes through. You can hear her everywhere: smashing roof
tiles against the pavement, bending palm trees to her will, spitefully pushing the trampoline into
the pool. It suddenly dawns on me why it’s hard to say her name. It was a name I had heard
practically every day of my life, so common it’s redundant. How painfully ironic that it was the same name given to the hurricane that was ripping my island apart: “Say it loud and there’s music playing, say it soft and it’s almost like praying. María.”
The chaotic sound of the storm is followed by an eerie quiet. The people are shocked, mourning
what they’ve lost and desperately trying to restore what’s left. I helped with what I could, but as a
child in such a situation, there’s not much you can do. It was distressing, but for me the way back to sanity was literature. It was simultaneously peaceful and passionate, a constant source of warmth. Over the years this love developed, growing until it acted as both a shield and a sword. The shield, as a way to seek refuge from the world, to take comfort in the ink and paper, to dive into how another saw the world. The sword, because it gave my communication strength. It is a skill I owe truly and wholly to literature; a mesmerizing example of what it means to turn a monotonous string of events into a lively story that goes up, down and in circles. Through storytelling, I’m able to make people laugh with me, feel my pain, but most of all, understand me.
Just before I began junior year, an idea formed in my mind. I had been incredibly lucky to find literature; it was a little blessing that emerged from a chaotic time. For so long I had known how wonderful and important literature could be, but I felt alone in this appreciation. I remember seeing how run down the school library was, and wondering when was the last time someone had read one. It began as just that, I wanted to get a group of students together to help me organize and clean the library. Over forty students signed up, and from there, we cataloged around 1,400 books and were able to constantly come up with activities that would motivate the student body; from Bookmark Making Contests, to Book Secret Santas, and more.
It was a challenge, molding yourself into a leader is no easy task. But it’s the gratitude of your
classmates when they tell you that you changed the way they saw reading; it’s seeing the
preschoolers' excitement at recognizing you; it’s looking back at everything you’ve accomplished
and taking pride in what you’ve given to your school and your community. This club is much more
than a passion project, it’s a legacy I will leave behind, one that will be taken over by the next
generation of the school’s leaders, and that will impact students long after I graduate.