Discovering my love for reading was not an quick or easy feat. It took a lot of time (and I mean many many years) and a lot of learned and acquired patience. As far back as I can remember, I absolutely despised doing any and all of my reading assignments. I wasn’t good at reading. I wasn’t good at understanding what I had just read. And I wasn’t ready to learn. I also hated not being good at something. Anything. So, naturally my mom hired me a tutor. To say I disliked the time with my tutor is an understatement. I remember I would kick and scream when my mom gave me the fifteen minute warning shout, locking myself in my room until it came down to the second she arrived, my mom threatening me to open the door. The first few sessions were rough. I had an “I don’t give a crap” mentality. I didn’t try. At all. I counted down the minutes in my head until it was over and I could retreat to my room. Over the next few weeks it got easier. And easier. And easier. And eventually, after a while, I began to like and value the time with my tutor. We read books about things I was interested in. She was patient with me when I had severe trouble understanding something I had just read. She broke down words and ideas that I couldn’t grasp. She explained vital concepts using words and phrases I could comprehend. By the end of our time together, I appreciated her patience and our friendship. And my new found liking, not love, of books.
It wasn’t until high school that I truly discovered my passion for reading. I remember I was a junior about to take a modern literature class. Our teacher was not the most popular or well- liked. In fact, many students made fun of her on a daily basis. Walking into her class that first day, I remember having these preconceived opinions about her and already dreading what was to come. The first book she gave us to read was The Color Of Water by James McBride. By the last sentence of the final page, I loved reading. I loved the way the teacher provoked thought about the characters and their journeys, how she incorporated our home experiences with those in the book, and how she invited us to have discussions based on the feelings the story left us. I admired the way the author wrote so descriptively. I loved the intense, sad, and serious expressive true story. And I loved the way the author communicated the story using two conflicting character’s perspectives. This book and class was the thing that changed my outlook on reading. It no longer was this chore I had to endure; it became something I looked forward to doing. I had countless discussions with my teacher after class about how the book impacted me as a reader and student. We had endless discussions about the hard family dynamics and the personal struggles of the characters. She gave me a long list of book recommendations she believed I would enjoy and made sure that after reading them, to find her and tell her my thoughts and opinions. One book recommendation was The Giver, by Lois Lowry. It remains my favorite book even to this day. I couldn’t begin to tell you how many times I have read it over the many years since high school. Although I rarely have time to sit and enjoy a leisurely read nowadays with working full time and being in graduate school, I am beyond thankful for that modern literature class all those years ago. When I do find a book I thoroughly enjoy, I have no willpower to put it down. It won’t leave my hands until I finish that last word on the very last page.
I have had a similar feeling of joy and success only a few times since then as a teacher myself. As a teacher’s assistant in a pre-kindergarten class, I have had the opportunity to work with a few children with Autism spectrum disorder. One child in particular, Shoshana, had a very hard time adjusting to our class. It was especially hard for Shoshana and I because the head teacher had little to no patience when it came to anything having to do with her. She became frustrated and overwhelmed when Shoshana was clearly having a difficult time. It was clear she had no patience for children with disabilities and had no intention on working towards understanding Shoshana or her unique needs. Shoshana’s one-on-one aide tended to be absent a lot of the time, so I would fill in. With every transition and slight change in schedule came tears. During my time with Shoshana, we became very close and I quickly learned how to help her focus on the lessons, keep her attention during circle time, and calm her down when she couldn’t control her feelings or frustration. Shoshana had an exceptionally troublesome time communicating to her peers and teachers, so we constantly worked on her eye contact and “using our words”. I would ask her “where are my eyes” to get her attention and gain focus to communicate her problems. At the beginning of the year, the other children had no interest in playing with her or being around her. However, when June came along, Shoshana was the one being proactive asking the others to play and join in on her game, and the other children did! I was beyond thrilled at the progress she made over the last nine months. Her eye contact had improved, she was verbalizing her feelings and needs more openly, and had made strides in being more social with her peers. To say I was and am proud is an understatement.
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