by Olivia Stone
After boarding the plane, I settled into my window seat and put on my headphones. It was barely six in the morning. The sun was slowly rising outside my window, and my thoughts drifted somewhere between sleep and anticipation. Passengers shuffled past me, quickly trying to find their seats.
I noticed the seat in front of me read, “Literature only.” It was printed below the slot holding the safety instructions. I had flown many times before and surely those words had always been there. Or maybe I simply never paid any attention to them.
I read it again.
Literature only.
Those two words repeated over and over in my head. It inspired the thought of literature as a form of transportation.
As the plane prepared to depart for Las Vegas, a place I had never visited, I realized that literature had taken me places long before airplanes ever did.
I like to see my literary journey as the book, “The Very Hungry Caterpillar.” A small green curious caterpillar, growing slowly, unaware of what it was becoming. I have never been the kind of reader who devours books by the dozen. I take the time to understand the story and how it can shape me. I put myself in the shoes of the characters and imagine who I might become when I step back out.
As I started the beginning years of school, I met Junie B. Jones. She was dramatic, loud, imperfect, and completely herself. At the age when fitting in felt like the only thing on my mind, Junie B. Jones challenged that idea. She made mistakes. She said the wrong thing. She felt big emotions. But she was still enough. She taught me that the best version of yourself isn’t the most polished, it’s the most honest. Life can be challenging, confusing, and even embarrassing. But sometimes humor is the best solution. Watching Junie B. Jones own her personality so boldly made me question why I worked so hard to fit into a perfect frame.
The truth is, literature has not always been my strong suit.
I grew up struggling with dyslexia. Words sometimes scrambled around in my head. Reading aloud filled me with a quiet panic. For most of my schooling, I hid it. I memorized and prepared passages so no one would notice. I avoided situations that would expose me. I did everything to fit in.
Then, in 7th grade, I read “Fish in a Tree.” I placed myself in the shoes of the character Ally. A girl who thought she was broken because she learned differently. That story stayed with me, so much so that I continue to wear Ally’s shoes. I now understand that my mind wasn’t slower, just wired differently. I wasn’t meant to consume words quickly. Instead, I was meant to imagine them deeply.
Stories taught me not to take any wooden nickels. Characters who knew their worth reminded me to know mine.
Years later, in college, as I packed my suitcase to begin my adventures abroad, I made sure to pack the shoes of Jo March from “Little Women.” Jo left home to chase something larger than comfort. She imagined a life beyond her small town long before she lived it. In many ways, so had I. Literature had already stretched my imagination far past the borders of my small hometown. Boarding my flight abroad wasn’t an escape from reality; it was about continuing to build my storyline. As if the stories I read throughout my life prepared me to step into something bigger.
Literature does not simply entertain me, it expands me. It teaches me valuable lessons. It reminds me that growth is not always visible at the moment. Like the green little caterpillar, I am becoming myself even if I can not yet see my wings.
While I sat on my early morning flight, staring at the words, “Literature only,” I realized something simple. The pocket that held safety instructions, guidance for what to do when things shake or tilt unexpectedly. In its own way, literature has done that for me. It has steadied me. It has stretched me. It has asked me to imagine beyond what I can see.
Literature didn’t just show me the world. It quietly showed me how to belong in it.
