OK, so I don’t really want to do this writing this morning. I’ve only had one cup of coffee. And now I realize I can spend this five minutes complaining and making excuses or I can write. I choose the latter. Which prompt? The one about reading.
My earliest memory about reading — or at least about wanting to read — is sitting on my mom’s lap as she reads a book to me. I am focused on the page. I’m probably about four years old. I remember looking at a letter — maybe an “R” — and tracing my finger around each part of the letter and saying a word for each movement. I was trying to figure out how my mom made those shapes say words that told me a story.
I wanted so badly to unlock that mystery. My mom had the key to a super power: reading. I wanted that key.
Probably the next clearest memory is from third grade, when we used the SRA reading program. I don’t remember the stories. I remember the different colors — magenta, brown, turquoise — that signified different reading levels. The readings were on laminated cards with the bright color on top. We read at our own pace, at our own level — took out the cards from the boxes, returned the cards. I remember the sights and the touch more than the stories. Also, I was extremely competitive academically, so I remember racing through those readings.
OK. That’s time. This practice doesn’t really talk about the joy I find in reading. Maybe another time…