I had a difficult time learning to read. Frankly, I had a difficult time acclimating to the structure of school in general. I was included in a select group of children appointed to participate in a failed experiment in the education system known as Readiness. At the onset of drafting this narrative, I spent an inordinate amount of time attempting to research the unsuccessful program. It seems the record has been expunged. The duration of the exercise must have been limited, thus easy to sweep under the rug. Basically, those children- such as myself- that were deemed unprepared for advancement from kindergarten to first grade were placed in an interim level- Readiness. This additional step was presented to parents as a hybrid for struggling offspring. Those that needed a little more time in the nest to guarantee our success without the mar on our record of being held back. To be honest, I don’t remember a lot about the additional educational stepping stone I experienced other than the subsequent explanations I required giving throughout my schooling to explain my advanced age for my correlating grade level. Also, the pervasive self perception of being unintelligent. I digress. What I do remember is the sub group I was placed into for assistance to learn to read. The rules of the English language and sentence structure were difficult for my brain to grasp- I was given extra attention and instruction to overcome such barriers. Much to my relief, the efforts were successful.
Parallel to my early childhood academic hurdles I distinctly remember the friends I garnered. This is not a testament to my extraordinary memory- though it does catalogue a vast array of strange and seemingly unconnected intelligence. On the contrary, it illustrates the quantity of peers I connected with. I wasn’t a particularly easy child to befriend. I was ridged and emotional. Not unlike the adult I have a tendency to be. My friend pool hasn’t expanded much in my advancing years either. There’s something to say for consistency, right?
The correlation I am working to converge is this- I spent a lot of time by myself. Upon the successful conquering of literacy, I used this time to devour the words of authors that enthralled my imagination. Opened gateways into worlds that dissipated my loneliness. Magnified my empathy. Expanded the ensemble of characters that brought me comfort- some became friends, tucked in the safety of my mind.
I often feel like an anomaly. When viewing visual media- such as movies or television shows- I respond viscerally to suspense or emotionally raw subject matter. Something my husband sometimes enjoys more than the film itself. I catch him watching me instead of the screen from time to time. Conversely, I rarely laugh at comedies. It isn’t that I don’t enjoy them, they just don’t elicit an audible response. A fact that has perplexed- and at times frustrated- other people in my life.
That being said, I realized this week, as I was absorbed in my current literary infatuation, these worlds fabricated with prose alone achieve what other media cannot- they bring forth my laughter. The journey of the characters- the tales which I am guided through wrap themselves around my heart, imprinting themselves on the tissues. Sometimes the marks they leave are indelible. And permanent.
My love of the written word has not diminished with age. Upon further ponderance, I think my appreciation has deepened. I understand the care which goes into the composing of the tales I covet. My passion can loathe an author as much as it can admire another. My opinions are held fiercely.
This appreciation for the literary is a trait I have worked to impart on Moose since he was a baby. His first birthday party invitation requested copies of the attendants favorite books in lieu of presents. Every bookfair I risk going into debt rather than utter the phrase “that’s enough books” to his excitable mind. Luckily, I have succeeded. He is wounded if we do not have time for a reading of a selection from his well loved bookshelf at bedtime. He reads anything he can lay his eyes upon- including road signs and close captioning on paused television screens. Graphic novels are his current entertainment de jour. I recently floated the idea of a reading date to a local coffee shop- an adventure that delighted him once he negotiated a coffee rather than a hot chocolate for himself. I remain hopeful once he sees his favorite cake pops, he will opt for a milk to wash it down instead.
I’m not entirely what led me down this particular rabbit trail today. What insistence my subconscious possessed to expel these thoughts from my brain. The last three months have been a flurry of evaluations, questionnaires, and reevaluating past experiences. Within that have been conversations of both my and Moose’s learning experiences in the educational system. So maybe it is all top of mind. Perhaps, the book I just completed impacted me more profoundly than I registered. Conceivably, it’s both circumstances combined with the immense pleasure I have watching the joy spread through my offspring- and the unabashed support for not only my hobby of reading but the concurrent hobby of collecting books (I have learned they are not the same) I receive from my spouse. I may never know.
The reality is, life has been…well a bit exasperating recently. I am so very grateful I have the people that love me (not just the two weirdos I share a home with) and the indulgence a collection of words woven into a tapestry of imaginative complexity allows me. I am grateful for the time and effort a teacher took to pour into me the gift of literacy- never knowing the impact it would have on my life as a whole.
Mommyhood Mayhem and Me 