I went to a training session for a children’s literacy programme last Saturday. One of the questions posed was: How did you learn to read?
TV, some people said. The alphabet. Bedtime stories. Music lessons. The list went on and on.
I didn’t add anything to the list because I couldn’t remember a time when I wasn’t able to read. I remember being three — and that’s as far back as I can go — and reading the alphabet. U is for Umbrella. I pronounced it “Umbwella” and couldn’t understand why my mother kept making me repeat it. But even then I was reading it on my own.
If we follow the family story, I learned to read when I was a baby. I’d copy my brother and hold books exactly the way he was holding them, and then throw them down later to play with a new one. I’d “read” them upside-down, sideways, and mutter gabbledy-gook. My baby language was fluent enough. But then at some point, random words made their way into my baby talk. “Aghoody ablooby kuu kuu and the oooas oochoo awroo. Gah gah goo doo.”
On one level, I think I would make a terrible English major, because I just don’t analyse most of my books. The first time I read any fictional book or poem is always for pleasure. The conscious analysis, if I do it, comes afterwards. You would think I would want to analyse more if I want to major in English…
The only reason I would ever want to be as famous as J.K. Rowling is because someone asked her what her favourite book as a child was, and then The Little White Horse came back into print. I would love to be able to bring a book back into print.
Sun Horse, Moon Horse by Rosemary Sutcliff made a huge impression on me when I was ten. After reading it, I wrote a story in class. They didn’t have anything to do with each other except for the feeling I had when I read the book and wrote my story. For the first time, teachers stopped telling me, “You don’t know what you want to say”, and said, “This is really good.” Did you ever have that experience of doing something — all on your own — and being told sincerely that it was good? It’s quite not the same as being praised for being able to regurgitate.
I probably read it again before I left my primary school. My secondary school turned out to not have the book at all, and it was out-of-print. I didn’t get my hands on it for another eight years — and yesterday, I found it in the Education library. That library is my newest joy; it’s where all the “juvenile” fiction is. I’ll happily categorise myself as juvenile if I can borrow from there. And I can.
The first time I finished the book, I was sitting on the edge of my bed before I slept, unable to not devour the whole thing in one go. Today I finished it again curled up in one of the comfy chairs in the Meekison Arts Students Space in Buchanan D. Despite the long gap in between, and despite my fear that my love for the book was based on something imaginary that I might not find again this time around, the last line gave me the same chill and unwarranted tears that it did when I encountered it the first time.
So even though I’ve been walking around looking miserable all day, according to other people, I’m not miserable because I’m sad. I’m looking miserable because I’m so happy. Doesn’t it sound ridiculous? But I feel like I’ve been walking on another plane.
