Read the introduction and the prologue of the online comic book Oddity Woods. Write a summary (tóm lược). Don’t tell me everything that happens. Just

books in the car when my family traveled to powwows or basketball games. In shopping
malls, I ran to the bookstores and read bits and pieces of as many books as I could. I
read the books my father brought home from the pawnshops and secondhand. I read the
books I borrowed from the library. I read the backs of cereal boxes. I read the
newspaper. I read the bulletins posted on the walls of the school, the clinic, the tribal
offices, the post office. I read junk mail. I read auto-repair manuals. I read magazines. I
read anything that had words and paragraphs. I read with equal parts joy and
desperation. I loved those books, but I also knew that love had only one purpose. I was
trying to save my life.
 Despite all the books I read, I am still surprised I became a writer. I was going to
be a pediatrician. These days, I write novels, short stories, and poems. I visit schools
and teach creative writing to Indian kids. In all my years in the reservation school
system, I was never taught how to write poetry, short stories or novels. I was certainly
never taught that Indians wrote poetry, short stories and novels. Writing was something
beyond Indians. I cannot recall a single time that a guest teacher visited the reservation.
There must have been visiting teachers. Who were they? Where are they now? Do they
exist? I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian kids crowd the classroom.
Many are writing their own poems, short stories and novels. They have read my books.
They have read many other books. They look at me with bright eyes and arrogant
wonder. They are trying to save their lives. Then there are the sullen and already
defeated Indian kids who sit in the back rows and ignore me with theatrical precision.
The pages of their notebooks are empty. They carry neither pencil nor pen. They stare
out the window. They refuse and resist. “Books,” I say to them. “Books,” I say. I throw
my weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am arrogant. I am
lucky. I am trying to save our lives. books in the car when my family traveled to powwows or basketball games. In shopping
malls, I ran to the bookstores and read bits and pieces of as many books as I could. I
read the books my father brought home from the pawnshops and secondhand. I read the
books I borrowed from the library. I read the backs of cereal boxes. I read the
newspaper. I read the bulletins posted on the walls of the school, the clinic, the tribal
offices, the post office. I read junk mail. I read auto-repair manuals. I read magazines. I
read anything that had words and paragraphs. I read with equal parts joy and
desperation. I loved those books, but I also knew that love had only one purpose. I was
trying to save my life.
 Despite all the books I read, I am still surprised I became a writer. I was going to
be a pediatrician. These days, I write novels, short stories, and poems. I visit schools
and teach creative writing to Indian kids. In all my years in the reservation school
system, I was never taught how to write poetry, short stories or novels. I was certainly
never taught that Indians wrote poetry, short stories and novels. Writing was something
beyond Indians. I cannot recall a single time that a guest teacher visited the reservation.
There must have been visiting teachers. Who were they? Where are they now? Do they
exist? I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian kids crowd the classroom.
Many are writing their own poems, short stories and novels. They have read my books.
They have read many other books. They look at me with bright eyes and arrogant
wonder. They are trying to save their lives. Then there are the sullen and already
defeated Indian kids who sit in the back rows and ignore me with theatrical precision.
The pages of their notebooks are empty. They carry neither pencil nor pen. They stare
out the window. They refuse and resist. “Books,” I say to them. “Books,” I say. I throw
my weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am arrogant. I am
lucky. I am trying to save our lives. books in the car when my family traveled to powwows or basketball games. In shopping
malls, I ran to the bookstores and read bits and pieces of as many books as I could. I
read the books my father brought home from the pawnshops and secondhand. I read the
books I borrowed from the library. I read the backs of cereal boxes. I read the
newspaper. I read the bulletins posted on the walls of the school, the clinic, the tribal
offices, the post office. I read junk mail. I read auto-repair manuals. I read magazines. I
read anything that had words and paragraphs. I read with equal parts joy and
desperation. I loved those books, but I also knew that love had only one purpose. I was
trying to save my life.
 Despite all the books I read, I am still surprised I became a writer. I was going to
be a pediatrician. These days, I write novels, short stories, and poems. I visit schools
and teach creative writing to Indian kids. In all my years in the reservation school
system, I was never taught how to write poetry, short stories or novels. I was certainly
never taught that Indians wrote poetry, short stories and novels. Writing was something
beyond Indians. I cannot recall a single time that a guest teacher visited the reservation.
There must have been visiting teachers. Who were they? Where are they now? Do they
exist? I visit the schools as often as possible. The Indian kids crowd the classroom.
Many are writing their own poems, short stories and novels. They have read my books.
They have read many other books. They look at me with bright eyes and arrogant
wonder. They are trying to save their lives. Then there are the sullen and already
defeated Indian kids who sit in the back rows and ignore me with theatrical precision.
The pages of their notebooks are empty. They carry neither pencil nor pen. They stare
out the window. They refuse and resist. “Books,” I say to them. “Books,” I say. I throw
my weight against their locked doors. The door holds. I am smart. I am arrogant. I am
lucky. I am trying to save our lives.