I can’t recall the first time I read a book. My mom says she remembers me carrying them around the house from the time I could hold things, but it seems my 1-year old memory has escaped me. I guess it's not so much that I can't remember that book as it is that I have forgotten what I would now describe as a pivotable moment in my life.
Back in the day, my parents would read books to me, but I had never cared to become that prodigious kid who read "War and Peace" by the time they were 5. Back then, I was more worried about learning animal noises, and in hindsight, maybe I should have been reading up on some Dr. Seuss because I ended up not being able to form coherent sentences until I was 3. Up until that point, my English consisted of garbled tongues and muddled nonsense. I was a late bloomer to say the least and, likewise, so was my love for the written word.
In first grade, I was put in the average reading group. We read average picture books that contained an average number of pages, with an average number of pictures and a viciously average number of words. The advanced readers were reading "Horrible Harry." Their book contained an above average number of pages, fewer than the average number of pictures and an amplified focus on the advanced number of words. Indeed, I was very perplexed about what made these 7-year-olds so much more extraordinary than those of us labeled "average." Not only did I feel as rightfully entitled to read "Horrible Harry" as they were, but I felt rightfully jealous. I felt like I was missing out on their secret pow-wows, missing out on some secret slice of 7-year old life that was certainly not gained by getting a yellow card. Thanks to Harry, I was inspired to prove myself worthy. And soon I was given the perfect opportunity.
That summer I went on two cross-country road trips and probably read more than 50 books. Back when CD players were hip and iPhones were twinkles in Steve Jobs' eyes, I devoted my heart to fantastical tales of adventure. To me, each city stop meant a new bookstore to peruse and new books to read. I could read two "Magic Tree House" books in one day. In two hours, I could have read "Barbie: Swan Lake" and finished and still have energy to start reading "Matilda." In fact, I read almost all of Roald Dahl’s books that summer. The fact that "BFG" is soon to become a major motion picture ignites no such childhood excitement in me at all. Not at all...
Actually during that summer, Roald Dahl quickly became one of my favorite authors. Dahl's simple yet artful stories made my 7-year-old mind come alive with wonder and reminded myself that smiling with your eyes is the most important part to displaying true happiness. By the time I was done with those road trips, I had a backpack full of books and a tie-dyed shirt my aunt had bought me that said “Future President of the United States.” Back then, I would have believed anything was possible.
After that summer, I wasn't put in the average reading groups. I was of equal caliber to read "Horrible Harry" and any other books that had an advanced number of words. Overall, I was pretty happy. Thinking about it now, I realize that I wasn't really a late bloomer. At 7 years old, I was probably the exact age to start becoming the person I am today and start falling in love with literature. But now as I get older, I find myself more highly encouraged to put my fun books off to the side. My reading lists become increasingly less imaginative and rather force me to remain in my world of reality in order to better analyze the books. Thankfully I still have summers to devour the same stories of adventure that enraptured me in my younger years and even during the school semesters I am lucky enough to be the person who already loves to read anyway.
