Get it Right! Number 64: Why Teach Reading?

The decision to close the university’s lab school was made years before I arrived. And it was still several years later before the department of teacher education finally got around to disposing of the last vestige of that elementary school where student teachers once observed, then practiced teaching. Like debris from a sinking ship, all that remained was the collection of children’s books that once had been the school’s library.

The books were piled into a dozen cardboard lifeboats, each with a neat, hand-written note attached that read: Take what you want. The rest will be sent to Re-cycling on Monday.

Without a moment of hesitation, I began hauling cartons of books into my already cramped office. And when the available floor space was filled, I started pulling out books one at a time, sorting and stacking them right there on the windowsill.

It was a whole children’s library, complete with encyclopedias, dictionaries, even atlases that showed the world as people knew it in 1962.

There were books of fiction and nonfiction and poetry, too. Tall slim picture books and thick hardbound novels. ?There were biographies of famous scientists and explorers and athletes. Books of jokes and riddles that were as clever to me that day as when I first read them as a child. There were science books that made the astounding assertion that someday people would travel to the moon by rocket ship.

The moment I started pulling them out, waves of familiarity washed over me. Many of the books were as recognizable to me as any friend from childhood. Indeed, some dear old friends lived on in these pages. I recalled days spent aboard ship alongside Long John Silver. I was the one who had held the flashlight for Nancy as we crept into the Whistling Cave after the bank robbers. I made the buzzer-beating pass to my pal Gibby who sank the game-winning basket that gave the Centerville Eagles the championship that year. And that was me in the barn, sitting quietly on a bale of hay with Charlotte, Wilbur and the rest of them as the rays of a fresh summer morning streamed in through the cracks in the old wood.?

The covers of some of the more popular books had been worn thin over the years. But their scent, a heady brew of dust and mold and the hands of uncountable children permeated the air like an attic full of forgotten memories brought back to life. Here was Curious George and our friend, the Man with the Yellow Hat. And over there, Mike Mulligan and his steam shovel Mary Anne. I was always getting in and out of trouble with good old Homer, especially that time with his donut-making machine. But all that was nothing compared to wandering down rabbit holes with Alice.

Thumbing through the pages of these survivors, I discovered on the inside of the back cover of each one a little paper pocket with a notecard tucked inside. On the cards, each borrower’s name was written in the loopy printing of a child, and a date stamp telling when the book had been checked out.?

Here was Brian S. and Betsy M. from room 7 along with Becca and Graham from room 12. These were children unknown to me but who had evidently lived once upon a time. I wanted to ask Becca what she thought about living in that little house on the prairie. I wondered how Shana T. felt when her submarine was attacked by the giant squid. And what about Elizabeth R, I wondered. Did she become a physicist like Marie Curie after reading her life story? And how, I wondered, did Marcia B. use those three wishes the genie gave her?

The names in these books were written now fifty and sixty years ago.? The children who read these stories then, have all grown old by now. But the remarkable thing was the stories had not aged a day. But that’s the way it is with books, isn’t it? You don’t outgrow a good book the way you inevitably outgrow a pair of jeans or shoes. Why is that?

Because good books get in under your skin. The stories and the characters and the places become part of you. They are with you forever. Neither can you unread or delete a book from your memory. ?Once an author puts an idea into your head, there it stays. Sure, I have forgotten a lot of stories and facts over the years, and many characters have faded over time. But I have no doubt that something of each book I’ve ever read lives on now in some part of me.

Character. Setting. Plot. Facts. Imagery. These are the writers’ tools. Authors used these tools to shape the books in this collection. But I wonder how well they understood at the time, that they were shaping our lives, too. I learned to be courageous from tales of bravery. I became honorable when I read about sacrifices made by real-life heroes in steadfast pursuit of their goals even in the face of overwhelming obstacles. I learned that telling the truth is not just the right thing to do, but that other people’s lives generally depend on it.

As readers of books, with every page we turn, we gradually grow more wise, more compassionate and patient as we experience the hardships faced by others whose lives are at once quite different from, yet unquestionably similar to our own.

Authors invite us into settings that existed long ago and places that were far, far away. One week I climbed the pyramids of Tenochtitlan, and the next week I wandered the stone streets of ancient Rome. I looked into the smouldering caldera of an ancient volcano and saw clear down to the earth’s molten core. I followed great white sharks along the Barrier Reef and saw vast blue whales gliding through the ocean like graceful ghosts. I rode a camel in the caravan of Marco Polo through mountain passes along the ancient Silk Road to China.

Some of my greatest adventures took me to places I have never been. Some places never existed but were still as real to me as my own backyard. For about two weeks once, I was shipwrecked on a Pacific island with the Swiss Family Robinson. Another time I was a young boy growing up wild in the forests of Africa. I spent nights as a guest in the palace of the Grand Sultan where I first heard the story of Al Adin and his magic lamp. I spent a summer tramping through Asia with my Five Chinese Brothers. One night I walked into a wardrobe and came out in an enchanted place. I was gone so long. I thought I might never find my way home. These places are as real to me, and as mythical, as the Plaza Hotel in New York City, the rooftops of London, or the wheatfields of Kansas.

Great authors of children’s literature give us the language of heroes and dreamers. Without those marvellous verbs of action to impel us, would anyone ever have the heart to strike out on a quest into the Yukon wilderness, to raft down a river through the heart of a continent, or climb aboard a plane and be the first to fly across an ocean? Without those words that express wonderment and awe, could we gaze at the ordinary world that around us and see instead the adventure and majesty hidden in every tree or tollbooth or cupboard. If not for the author’s palette of adjectives, how would we ever describe where we are headed, or mark our way along the paths of our journeys or know when we have finally arrived at our destiny?

To a child who is, after all, still new in the world I expect it can be difficult sometimes to know what is real and what is fancy. Was there really a man who lived long ago in the forests of Nottingham who took money from the rich and gave it to those in need? Mightn’t a pond somehow be connected through pipes and cracks and tunnels underground to the vast ocean? Could it really be that monstrous creatures called dinosaurs once walked the earth? If so, then there surely must be a place where a toad can drive a motorcar! Could a person travel around the world in eighty days or take a trip to the moon and back? Maybe. For better or worse, we learn to trust books at a very young age. I guess sometimes, just writing a thing down has a way of making it real, even if it isn’t true.

Over the years since that day when I rescued a children’s library of well-loved and well-worn books, I have given away most of the collection. Many have gone to teachers, children, and parents who live in some of the world’s most impoverished communities. The names of those readers now are not Katie or Neal or Graham, but Mohammed, and Tariq, and Precious, and Esteban.

People always talk to me about the importance of culture when it comes to reading. I would not disagree that it is important for young readers to find familiar cultural images reflected in the books they read. But every time I read these books with children who lived in faraway places very different from my home it occurred to me that the culture of childhood is in many ways universal. The culture of childhood is always and everywhere a mixture of imagination and curiosity, fear and fascination that is not limited by time or place, nor determined by wealth or gender, nor defined by language or religion.?

We teachers are the guardians of this gift of literature. It is our foremost responsibility. As teachers we must make sure that we place this wise and powerful treasure into the hands of children and into the worlds they inhabit wherever that might be.

And yet, it seems regrettable to me that too often I have observed classrooms where well-meaning teachers spend class time banging away, teaching young children the names of letters and the sounds they represent. I have seen hours go by where children sit silently copying words and definitions into their notebooks for no obvious reason at all, except that their teachers have told them to do so. I can’t remember many classes where teachers and children just sat around reading books and talking about what they had read.

I fear we teachers of reading have been pushed hard by curriculum goals and standardized assessments. ?Were we so focused on our stop watches in our efforts to help children read at a rate of 60 words per minute that we overlooked the whole point of reading?

Contrary to the beliefs of some school administrators, quite a few parents, and most education economists, we do not teach young children and adolescents to read so that they will be able to read a textbook or pass school leaving examinations, or someday get into a good college. We do not teach children to read so that one day as adults they will be able to read directions on a medicine bottle or follow along in a shop manual. The point of reading is not poverty reduction or economic growth or full employment. It’s just not. At least, I refuse to believe that any author of those books ever wrote them to serve such purposes.

The point of reading is the singularly humanizing power of literature. The language of good writing shapes the way we see our world, the way we see ourselves, and perhaps even how we might hope others will one day see us. When we teachers deny children access to literature and the ability to read—for any reason--we become willing participants in the process of limiting children’s opportunity to think, to dream, and to grow until gradually they will have lost any capacity to make sense of the world and of themselves, and any hope of a future that promises a happy ever after ending.

As teachers, we must first and foremost be advocates for reading. Which is not at all the same as being expert in literacy pedagogy. In many communities where reading is not something children see at home, we must use our classrooms to model reading habits. And there is no classroom in the world where a teacher cannot find 20 minutes every day for reading a good book aloud with their students.

When our school creates its annual school improvement plan, we must lead the demand for purchasing books. What is the value of a few footballs and a couple jump ropes compared to a box of children’s literature? We must join hands with parent groups and civil society organizations to make access to children’s literature a cause on par with access to fresh drinking water.

Every day technology brings children’s literature closer and closer to the grasp of a child’s outstretched hands—even those in the most remote communities. As copyrights expire many of the best books written for children and young adults are now available free and online. Many of these stories can be revised, translated and adapted to fit local languages and local contexts.

If you don’t already have your own lists of favorite books for children and young adults, there are trustworthy organizations that publish annual lists of outstanding books for all age groups. National and international library associations provide guides for teachers and parents to help match children with age-appropriate books.

Enormous libraries for children and adolescents can be downloaded and stored on a single tablet at costs that are reasonable and affordable. Making this happen though, is our responsibility. As teachers, we cannot stand by and wait for someone else to lead this effort. If someone else were coming they'd have been here by now!

Many communities, including the most economically impoverished, have lifelines to relatives living and working abroad from whom they receive regular cash remittances. Some of this money can be invested in the purchase of e-readers and library subscriptions. To make that happen, though, teachers need to make the case to parents.

International donors invest billions of dollars around the world to improve the teaching of reading. But if there are no books, the whole business of teaching and learning to read seems pointless. Even the youngest child understands this.

As a global community let us set this task for ourselves--to bring the rich universe of literature into the lives of children and youth. I don’t know that an investment of this sort will result in economic growth. And I would not guarantee that access to a collection of children’s literature will create higher standards of living. But I am supremely confident in the power of great stories, well-written and well-illustrated, to create people of good will, imagination, and thoughtfulness.

In these days, as in all days, these are rare and priceless commodities the world needs most.

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