Throwback Thursday: Learning to Read
As a child, I loved school. It was great to hangout with friends all day and to learn new things. Looking back, I consider myself to have been a good student; I obeyed all of my teachers, always came prepared, and continuously earned good grades. However, my education had a very unorthodox start.
At the end of first grade, after receiving straight A’s, it became evident that I could not read — not even a little. My parents and teacher were all shocked at the realization; they wondered how it could even be possible. They assumed that I must have cheated on every test, but my five-year-old self had a much simpler response: my teacher always used the same answer key set for her multiple-choice tests (which was the format she used most) and I had long since figured out the pattern. The adults around me experienced a mix of shock and awe at my explanation and matter-of-fact demeanor (I didn’t view my actions as cheating — they were just a different way to ace a test). However, without the ever-important ability to read I could not be allowed to progress into the second grade with my peers.
My teacher insisted that I repeat the first grade, but my parents wouldn’t stand for it. Instead, my father spent the entire summer teaching me to read. His approach still amazes me to this day and if my own children were to ever have this problem, I would certainly adopt his technique.
Everyday, when he had the time, my father sat with me and had me tell him a story of my own design. He would then write my story down in a blank marble notebook, having me follow along. When the story was finished, it was my turn to write in the notebook, using his scribbling as an example. I say “scribbling” in the most literal way possible because my father’s handwriting can only be described as chicken scratch and to this day mine is no better. Nonetheless, I took away so much more than bad handwriting from these lessons. Of course, due to the process, I figured out how to read and write but it also gave me the knowledge that writing was about so much more than matching symbols to literary meaning. For me, creating stories became an unexpected outlet of expression, which developed into a central part of who I now am.
It’s mind-boggling to me that today the little girl who couldn’t read, who figured out her teacher’s answer key just to avoid reading, now pursues a career in writing and literature. That summer yielded some of the most important lessons of my life and led me to my greatest passion. I don’t know where or even who I’d be today if it wasn’t for my father’s teachings. Perhaps, if I’d never memorized my teacher’s over-used answer key, I wouldn’t have gained the deep appreciation for writing that I did with my father.
