One Does Not Love Breathing

In an effort to grow as both a leader and an educator, I am taking a course through CORE Inc. on teaching foundational literacy skills. As a secondary teacher, I didn't take a lot of classes on how to teach reading. I am hoping to grow in this area, so that I can better support teachers in the field.

For our first assignment, we were asked to share our memories of learning to read. When I think about reading, I am reminded of a line from Harper Lee’s book To Kill a Mocking Bird. In it Scout is asked how she learned to read. Her thoughts on the question are as follows:

I never deliberately learned to read, but somehow I had been wallowing illicitly in the daily papers. In the long hours of church—was it then I learned? I could not remember not being able to read hymns. Now that I was compelled to think about it, reading was something that just came to me, as learning to fasten the seat of my union suit without looking around, or achieving two bows from the snarl of shoelaces…Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing. (17-18)

Honestly, I don’t ever remember every “not reading” either. That’s not to say that I came out of my mother’s womb holding a copy of Pride and Prejudice, but I don’t remember a time when books weren’t a part of my life. For me, reading was like breathing…something one does without thought of consequence.

When I was five my mother started reading us the tales of The Wizard of Oz. My sister and I would snuggle up close to her, and listen as she reenacted scenes (voices and all) from the story. To this day I understand that the book is always better than the movie.

When I was eight Santa left me a Roald Dahl box set under the Christmas tree. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, James and the Giant Peach, and Danny the Champion of the World. These were my Harry Potter. I would read, and reread each one, allowing my imagination to take me to far off worlds, and dream of greater possibilities. I cherished each one, and saved my money so that I could complete my collection.

When I was nine I was stricken with some sort of illness. I was tired. Too tired to play games with my sisters, and far too tired to go biking with my friends. The only thing I wasn’t too tired for was reading. I would spend my evenings curled in bed with a new novel, allowing my mind to play the games my body was unable to accomplish. Weekends were spent with a pillow lying on top of our dryer, as my mother did laundry. The gentle rhythm of the machine provided the background music to Socks, and other great works by Beverly Cleary.

By 6th grade I had firmly established myself as a nerd. Babysitting money was not spent on Cross Color jeans, or hip ESPREE bags, but rather books. I saved my money for over a year in order to buy the necessary materials to create for myself a reading corner—a little space to call my own, and read until my heart was content.

By the time I entered college, I had decided to major in literature. I wanted to get lost in the words. I wanted to be in that space and time where the dividing line between you and the tale is suddenly blurred. Not me and my book, but a shared experience that leaves you grasping and gasping afterwards, struggling simply to find your words that are adequate enough to express your joy.

And now, I am a mom of two readers. I have often shared the story of my son, whose first word was "book." He loves to read, and is an active member of his school's OBOB team. I share with him books from my childhood, and he shares with me books he has discovered on his own. My daughter also loves to read. But it took more time with her. Finding that exact right story to peak her interest. As a family we read together, sharing stories and words.

But, as an English teacher, I worry that I am alone in my love of reading. When I was in the classroom. My students were at that age where reading was a struggle. Sometimes due to a missing skill, sometimes due to lack of that perfect book. And, for some of my students, the desire was never there to be lost in the first place. How could I explain to them that their world would grow with each book they read? How could I help them understand that they could grow with each new word—each new world? And now, how do help teachers make sure that their sparks don’t sparkle then fade? I ask myself these questions all of the time. I think that all teachers do—how do we keep reading alive?

I don’t know if I have the answer. I don’t know if it will ever come. All I can do is hope that the fire I have is enough, and that the light it produces it bright enough to share. I encourage you all to explore this question for yourselves. How did you learn to read? How did your experience shape your love (or not) of reading. How can you shape the experiences of your children.