I want to learn to read!

A pickup truck sat backwards, its bed level with a funny-looking porch. Identical houses, each attached to another on both sides, stretched out in seemingly endless rows. As I stood outside with my mother, my father and Uncle Bob carried our things from the truck into the house. I don’t recall the inside of the dwelling we called a “project”. I only remember the next day walking up and down the rows of front doors that all looked alike--scared, crying, and trying to find the place where I belonged. Did I find my way or did someone come for me? I don't remember. But after that experience navigation became simple. My house was the one with the red wash cloth pinned to the screen door. Starting from any place in the project and checking every door, eventually I would find the one with the patch of red on it. Home! The other children had a secret way of finding their front doors. Because they knew how to read, they understood little pictures they called numbers. I could see the numbers on doors of the houses, but could not figure out what they meant. Oh, how I longed to learn to read!