Living Books

Whenever anyone asks me “you don’t do school over the Summer, right?” I’m not sure what to say. Do I mention that we’ve taken out hundreds of library books already, or do I say we’re just having fun? And what do I say when someone looks at my five-year old daughter and asks “is she reading yet?”

None of my children have had any patience with easy readers. The oldest learned to read by sounding out the name of the states in his state quarter folder, then dove into a book about Uzbekistan. The second asks me to read her the American Girl books and will follow along as I point to each word, but uses her Bob books as play food. The third one, still three, sits on the couch staring at comic books about Indian mythology and claiming he’s reading them.

I’m willing to bet, Uzbekistan freaks excluded, that most children will, ironically, learn to “read” slower if you read good books to them frequently than if you sit and decode low-level readers. Why would any child want to read “The Cat Sat on the Mat” when they could curl up and listen to the grand story of Narnia? Eventually, the service gets too slow and they want to do it themselves, but in the meantime they ingest the sounds, the sentences, and the structure of stories the same way they would well-cooked food.

What children learn to do when they are taught to read is this: they learn to decode the sounds of the English language. They learn to read what they can be successful at, to perform for their teachers or their parents. There’s nothing wrong with this, as long as it's not a question of the end justifying the means. We’ve certainly done our time with Reading Reflex and reading games. But I wonder if we pressure our kids to read too early, they learn to please us instead of themselves. Reading should be an adventure that we all follow with our own pace and interests. When we teach, we expect a return on our investment, a stroke for our ego; when we help children learn, then the path is theirs.

If you look at the history, and the use of the word “read” here’s what you get: we read tea leaves, we read entrails, we read faces, we try to read minds. Reading is power. Long ago, only the elite could decipher written language and monks scribed books individually, by hand. Even now, “literacy rate” is a measure of a country’s well-being and civilization. Merriam Webster defines “read” as “to receive or take in the sense of (as letters or symbols) especially by sight or touch;” the word comes from the Middle English reden to advise, interpret.

So, unless we read just to escape, or to check off “read a book” on a list, we read for meaning, to touch the world and other souls no longer on it. But not all books can do this for us. “Living Books,” as educator Charlotte Mason describes them, are written by someone with an interest and genuine care in the subject, with a human touch and a fire that lights the imagination. Real literature gives us truth, nobility, and beauty, and kids can sense this just as well as adults. A good book leaves you begging for more, and this I believe is the key to everything—making kids need to read. My main role? I just get the books.

When I used to lie down with my older two children to ease them into their naps, I’d tell them sweet little stories about mice with characteristics oddly like themselves. Now with the youngest, I tell violent stories about Pirate Mice and Bad Guy Mice. This is in no way real literature, but it does have heart, and moments of inspiration. And I always laugh when I finish and my son says “read me another!” I try to explain to him that I’m not reading—I don’t have a book; I’m making it up. I guess I am the book. I am happy that he is full of stories, and I hope that later, when he does find the words in front of him, he will come to them with love and pleasure.

Published in the Groton Landmark