Fanaticism

Growing up, I remember crowding the radio as a soccer match was narrated through its lone speaker. My grandmother would sit in a chair, away from the radio which perched on the mantle above the fireplace, listening and cheering, though not as anxious as I, for her team. I don't recall exactly which team won when, but I figure they broke even over time. I was young but I could have gave my right thumb for my team to win...okay, maybe not my left thumb, but definitely my cherished bagel. What baffles me now, however, is that I liked the team because it was my father's favorite team and, I think, I did it to make him happy. To emulate the man I wanted to please and in whom I wanted to place my loyalties.
What's also interesting is that this kind of ignorant fanaticism spans many areas of life, even turning docile churchgoers into semi fire-breathing dragons (or dragos) at the slight perception of slight against their religious beliefs. My focus is not on religious fanaticism, however, but rather on the literary kind.
I profess, without misgivings, to be afflicted by this impediment. There are authors whose work I can't help but adulate in the most impudent of manners. Writers like Edgar Alan Poe, Ngugi wa Thiong'o, Mark Twain, Chinua Achebe, Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, Dan Fulani and Zane Gray. These are not the only writers whose skill I admire, but I noted these for a reason. They are the ones that nurtured my love to read and write in its infancy.
I first attended school in the English language in Zimbabwe. I was a raw, 11-year old Rwandan refugee in a foreign land doing his best to fit into his new community. Ever since I crossed into Zaire (now the Democratic Republic of Congo) and saw a fly, I had come to realize that amahanga (foreign lands) were the same as Rwanda. For some strange reason, I had previously thought garbage and flies were only found in Rwanda, as amahanga was "paradise." What these authors did for me was to bring amahanga into visions of my mind. Visions that I could understand and relate to. I could see poor Oliver Twist enduring chaos with an impressive will to survive; to see Matigari and imagine myself in his situation, trying to bring unity among my people; to see the American West through eyes as adoring as the heart that created that rugged landscape. These authors, as I was learning the new language, taught me the art of storytelling- weaving emotions, disguised as people, through a vast array of situations that, in the end, alter those emotions to a desired mold. I was mesmerized.
It's only fair, however, to point out that there are other authors I read, as I was a voracious reader, and I want to thank them for the path on which they placed my feet. Nearly every English teacher I've had has always encouraged me to write, so I would like to thank them, too. I would love to thank the writers, teachers, family, friends, colleagues, and strangers that have seen a promising flame in my work and goaded me on. I, also, hope one day I will instill a certain sense of fanaticism in a young reader as those before me have done. At least, this type of fanaticism injures no one...I hope.