The Hard Books
In order to prove yourself you must believe in yourself, but to believe in yourself do you have to prove yourself? In the first grade, I learned the difference between believing in yourself and proving yourself. Once a week Mrs. Clark would lead our homeroom class to the school library. From the outside hallway, the library was symbolized by a big circular window. For the longest time I believed this round window was simply a representation of our librarian’s name, Mrs. O. Only much later was I informed that her real name is Mrs. Odiorn, abbreviated to Mrs. O and not related whatsoever to the round window. The first steps into Mrs.O’s library were seemingly dull. All that met the eye was a troop of oak bookshelves however, nestled behind that barrier was an opening filled with light. Looking up in the opening you could see the ceiling was raised and painted with a beautiful mural, and surrounded by windows. This was where Mrs.O read to us and gave us activities to do. I enjoyed this part, but before long it was time to re-enter the dark forest of shelves.
At the end of each visit, we were given time to pick out a book to check out until the next week when we returned. I dreaded this moment every week. I was given the pressure of two options, an easy book or a hard book. The benefits of choosing an easy book were endless. The pictures were great, it wouldn’t be difficult for me to read, and it wouldn’t be a huge time commitment. Most importantly I wouldn’t have the daunting test of reading to Mrs. O. If I wanted to check out a more difficult book I had to prove I could read it by reading aloud a sentence to both Mrs. O and the audience in line behind me. Reading aloud, under those circumstances, terrified me. It felt like life or death. One unknown word and everyone would think I was a bad reader. My heart rate would flutter by even considering plucking a hard book from the shelves.
Though my fear of the sentence test was strong, I knew that it was fear alone holding me back. I could read the hard books and one day I decided I was going to prove it. I just had to read one sentence aloud, the rest in the comfort of my own head. I marched down the isles of the giant shelves to my destination. I stared at all of the books for a while, took a deep breath, and slid one out. It was then that I rehearsed the first sentence over, and over again. I could have recited that sentence perfectly to the whole school if I wanted. With only a few more minutes left to check out books, we received a warning from outside of the shelves.
I emerged from the darkness and joined the line formed in front of Mrs.O’s desk. One by one, my classmates proved themselves. Their successes only intimidated me more and more. With the front desk coming closer and closer to me, my hands began to sweat, and my heart was knocking inside my chest. My legs took me out of line, and I hurried back to the empty slot where I found the book in my clammy hands. I then grabbed the closest easy book I could find and returned to the line. I knew how to read that sentence perfectly but my nervousness trumped my desire to prove myself.
I never liked our trips to the library because of this, and in turn, I despised the hard books. I felt dumb and ashamed, knowing it was nobody’s fault but mine. Why couldn’t I just suck it up and read a sentence in a hard book? Looking back, I’m proud that I gave it my best try. I know that my failure to read aloud had nothing to do with my reading level. In middle school I was able to pick out whatever book I desired, no sentence reading required. Only then did I begin to enjoy reading again. I regained my confidence once the “hard books” were no longer associated with something I feared. My fear of reading aloud, it still lingers.
