I celebrated growth in reading ability with a group of twenty-seven first through fifth graders last week, along with a dozen other Literacy Partners. May marks the end of my fourth year of reading with youngsters who have struggled to read at grade level, and my third year of helping to coordinate the program at an elementary school near me in Round Rock, Texas. At our end-of-year celebration, each student received a “Super Reader Award” and a bagful of goodies, plus a book of their own donated by their reading buddy. This is an important gift, considering many of the students come from homes where there are few, if any, books.
When I asked the students at the party to tell us their favorite part of reading with a buddy, one boy proudly declared, “I’ve made progress in my reading.” A couple of girls told me about special books they’d read with their Literacy Partners. Their excitement reminded me of learning to read as a child. I recall the wonder in imagining a place I’d never been or an adventure I’d never encountered, a delight that has endured my entire life.
My childhood home had a large closet with a high shelf containing a collection of my parents’ books. With the help of a chair when I was quite young, I could reach high enough to pull books down to “read” them. I’d sit on the floor and pore over the pages, sure if I gazed long enough, I could crack the code. I didn’t realize how far I had to go until my older sister laughed and pulled a book out of my hands. “You’ve got it upside down, silly,” she said.
Our mother was institutionalized at a mental hospital two hours away throughout my childhood, so it was our father who read to my brother, my sister, and me. The books I remember best were Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses, and a book about ghosts and hobgoblins with a title I don’t recall. Tucked snugly into my bed, with my dad at my side, I was never frightened by the fairy tale witches or the hobgoblins. Instead, nightly bedtime reading was a demonstration of my father’s love for me. I cherished being the center of his attention for those moments every day. Once I was in school and learned to read chapter books and textbooks, I was proud of my new independence. I put myself to bed with my stories.
“Instead, nightly bedtime reading was a demonstration of my father’s love for me. I cherished being the center of his attention for those moments every day.”
My husband and I continued the tradition of bedtime stories with our children and then with our grandchildren. Most of the parents we know have done the same. When our grandchildren became independent readers, we took turns reading book pages with them for a while, but eventually—and somewhat regretfully—left them to their own reading. I’ve since learned that other families continue reading together until their children are grown, and I envy that tradition.
From the time I could read books on my own in third or fourth grade, I’ve read voraciously and widely. Books from classroom shelves or libraries. Newspapers and magazines. Books in nearly every genre. These days, most of my reading is done on a digital device. Before I could read the books on our closet shelf at my childhood home, I knew they contained magic. That sense remains decades later. Books illustrate unfamiliar worlds and introduce me to people and places I’ll never meet in my lifetime. They satisfy my curiosity about the world.
“Before I could read the books on our closet shelf at my childhood home, I knew they contained magic. “
I wonder about the curiosities inherent in the two second graders I spent time with each week this past year. I’ll call them Joe and Nadia. They had vastly different personalities and interests, but they both grew to appreciate the time I devoted to them. They’re both curious about their world, but in different ways. Joe is energetic and expressive, constantly in motion. He knew most words in the books we read, but he had trouble focusing on them in the graphic novels we read together because he was distracted. He was compelled to act out each character’s actions. Every bad guy Dogman rounded up was a victory for Joe.
At first, Nadia was timid, almost prim, and said, in a near whisper, that she didn’t like to read. She struggled more with words, but she shared—somewhat shyly—near the end of the year that she liked to tell and write stories. She’s also a talented young violinist, taking the lessons their school provides. The sight of an eight-year-old girl with a child-size violin case slung over her shoulder walking down the hallway to her music classroom made my heart sing.
During the months we read together, Joe and Nadia became better readers. I suspect their reading ability would have improved with their teacher’s guidance alone. However, these two beautiful children learned to value our time together because someone—me—took the time each week to come read with them and to ask them how their week was, ask about their Halloween costumes, or their vacation to Mexico at Spring Break. They knew I came because I cared about them. Reading with them was an act of love.
Janice Airhart 