I can't remember when I couldn't read and I don't remember learning to read. It seems I could always open any book I could lay my hands on an read it. I don't have a romanticised Scout Finch memory of reading the nightly paper with my father. I just think I was born reading. I asked my mom if she taught me- she said I just always seemed to know how but she would help me with the hard words.
Through the years my love of reading has served me well.
I could escape into a book when the real life views were not so pleasant.
I could learn as much as I wanted to learn without having to wait for someone to teach me.
and later... I could share these books I love with others.
However, before I could get to the paid sharing, i.e. teaching, I had to read a lot. I learned to read not just for entertainment but for the complex and sometimes narcissistic pleasure of decoding, deconstructing, and critiquing a text. As such a reader, the pencil was always at hand crammed behind my ear, placed as a bookmark, or languishing in my mouth...but always within quick reach to jot a note.
So, since at least Mr Weeks AP Lit class and through four subsequent English departments I have been tagging every book that has passed through my hands in my made up code of understanding.
Today I was reading, The Catcher in the Rye, for no good reason other than I didn't remember the main character's name so that doesn't qualify as having really read it for me. I am about half way through and I realized there is no pencil to be seen. And it was shocking. I am not longer reading for the professor who will engage me or the students I sought out connections for...I am reading for me- the little girl who couldn't keep her hands off of any book.
