Has Reading Become the New "Cod-Liver Oil?"

Has Reading Become the New "Cod-Liver Oil?"

I have loved books for as long as I can remember, probably at first sight; although that’s just speculation. I don’t remember the first time I listened to a book being read. But there were several adults in my home, eager to read to me, and later, as a 3 or 4 year old, I remember playing recordings of favorite stories and poems. What fun, those crisp British accents delivering A.A. Milne, Mother Goose, and other classics, long before books on tape had been invented.

I was an only child for 6 years, but book characters kept me from being bored or lonely. There was Mary Jane who wouldn’t eat her rice pudding again; the Queen in the parlor eating bread and honey, Jack trading the cow for seeds -- and then the beanstalk, giant, and all that followed for Jack…There were so many stories of impoverished children who were saved by Good Works combined with magical alliances. Although I had plenty to eat, I felt their desperate hunger. What a fortunate thing that no one knew or told me that all this fascination with books, words, in short, language as an entryway to people’s feelings, was good for me. I just loved it; simple as that.

It’s hard to believe now, but in those days, there was a state law prohibiting teaching reading in the public schools until the first grade. I can’t remember how I got there, but one day, at the age of 6, I realized that I was reading, really reading on my own. “Look look. See Jane. See Dick. See Dick and Jane.” It was beautiful, liberating, as I imagine it must be for a new pilot to solo, knowing that no other, more experienced hands are on the stick, the novice, herself, completely in charge; at the threshold of a whole new world…

How fortuitous it was too that from the time I was in 1st grade, we lived 2 blocks from a public library that had what seemed like vast collections of books for kids, for grownups -- open stacks; and as I grew older, I spent rainy days exploring and sampling as many books as the rules permitted me to take out, and more in the dusty stacks. By the time I was in high school, I had found favorite authors: Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Edith Wharton, Theodore Dreiser, among others, and I simply worked my way across a shelf holding a single author’s books until I had read them all. I had no idea that these were “good books," or that what I was doing on the days that I couldn’t be outdoors with neighborhood friends because of rain, snow, or German Measles was anything other than exciting and fun; above all, my choice. And by the way, I don’t doubt that I read plenty of not so good books as well.

I still feel warmed by having books around me — bulging from my shelves in every room, and bookstores seem to welcome me in every town or city I visit. Sipping hot cocoa and sampling the wares in a bookstore café is as endearing as ever. Just luck, I guess.

But I wonder if this joyous connection to words and books would have been possible if I had been told repeatedly how good it was for me and that I had to read so many books a week or month to satisfy adults in charge. (I do remember how I reacted to hearing that oatmeal and farina were good for me: I avoid them both to this day.)

In the coming weeks, I would like to consider whether kids are as likely to get hooked on reading now that we adults are so anxiously intent on getting them to be? How might we allow the romance between a child and the written and spoken word to occur naturally, and does it have to happen to every child if he or she is to succeed and be happy?

Some questions to explore …

January 9, 2007