Before reading Roald Dahl’s version of the Little Red Riding Hood, I could have never pictured this version of the “sweet and innocent” little girl that is typically portraited in media. I loved how she wasn’t given the typical treatment that young girls usually have, instead, she had agency. My jaw physically dropped open when I read that she pulled a “pistol from her knickers”. Flipping the typical script to have Little Red Riding Hood as a cold-blooded killer completely shocked me. Instead of a man rescuing her, or barely being able to slip away from the wolf, she was walking around with a wolf-skin coat and pistol underneath. The imagery of this is incredible. No longer wearing her iconic red hood but instead covered in the skin of the animal that ate her grandmother. I don’t think this tale will elicit the same reactions within every reader. Some may prefer the classic Grimm or Calvino stories, but I think the revenge in this version is so satisfying to read.

As a kid never saw myself writing or reading for fun. Instead, I remember sitting in the back of my grandma’s car while she called out words for me to spell back to her. The back of my throat would burn while tears welled in my eyes. I hated grammar and spelling, and it seemed like it hated me back. The words never became easier for me. Every time I saw her, she would torture me with words like “precise” and “announce”. Over and over, time and time again, I would fail. When she babysat me, I would stare outside while she reviewed my homework. Longing to leave the kitchen counter to go run and play with my neighbors until dusk.

 The words never magically clicked like all of the other kids in my class. Red marks still slashed across my page during spelling tests while my friends were moving forward. I was drawn to picture books and graphic novels while they were reading Nancy Drew and Goosebumps. It didn’t click in middle school or even high school. Not until I came to Wooster. Reading for my environmental classes didn’t seem like work. It was beautiful and engaging, and for the first time I read every single page. I wrote my thoughts down in the margins and absorbed every word. Writing papers became easy, even entertaining at times. Finally, I felt like was on pace with my classmates. Participating in discussion, asking questions. My exams and writing didn’t have red marker scribbled across the front. Writing and reading became part of my life, a part I had never connected with before. The deep sense of dread I use to feel in those car rides is replaced with a newfound perspective.