Learning Through Stories: How Did You Become A Reader?
Today begins the fifth round of the Learning Through Stories project on the Brilliant Blog. (See here and here for stories from the first, second, third and fourth rounds.) A lot of scientific research—and our own experience—demonstrates that we understand and remember material best when it’s presented to us as a narrative, or when we tell our own story about it. So, once a week, I invite you to share your stories of where and when and how you learned something in particular. And I’ll be asking you to do one additional, perhaps challenging thing that is nevertheless the key to the exercise: to draw out a generalizable lesson from your story that could apply to the learning of other things, and could be used by people other than yourself.
The question this week is: “Where, when, and how did you become a reader?” Write your answer below, and try to include as many details about when, where, and how it happened, as well as what lesson you can draw from it. I’ll start:
I don’t remember the moment I learned to read—I’m sure there wasn’t just one. (Although, according to family legend, my husband had such a moment—when he was five years old, he leapt from his chair, book in hand, exclaiming, “I got it! I got it!“) But I do remember the summer I became a reader. It was the summer that my Aunt Pat gave me her set of Nancy Drew novels—a long row of books with enticing titles like The Mystery of the Fire Dragon and The Clue of the Broken Locket.
I made my way one by one through those volumes, and although I can’t remember what else happened that summer, I remember that Nancy’s hair was a shade called titian, that her friend Bess was always described as “plump” and her friend George as “impish,” and that her father was impossibly, enviably indulgent. I learned that you could make less noise going up stairs if you stepped on the side of the tread instead of in the middle, which would let out a telltale creak. Mostly I learned that there as a whole other world that one could enter just by opening a book, and I’ve been crossing back and forth between the two worlds ever since.
If I were to draw a lesson from this story, it would be that long stretches of time to read are precious, and less and less available as we get older. I do read a lot still, but it’s in hurried (or sleepy) minutes snatched here and there. The pleasure of fully entering a fictional universe is one no child should miss.
OK, now your turn: How and when and where did you become a reader?
I went to a very traditional small town school in the 1970′s, but my parents were readers. I got the bug in 4th grade when I had a teacher who had silent reading everyday after lunch for the first time in my life. I fell in love with reading when it was just for me. I didn’t have to write a report. I didn’t have to answer questions or prove I had “comprehended”. I’ve read for pleasure ever since.
Thanks, Mr. Samek!
I remember the day I read The Wizard Of Oz to myself. I had had it read to me, along with Winnie the Pooh, Peter Pan, The Jungle Book, and more. But on this day there was no one available to read to me – they were busy with grown-up things. So I opened the book and started to read. I remember having this moment of delicious self-awareness: I didn’t need grownups to read to me any more! If I wanted to read something, I could do it myself! It was a clear shift into independence, which I admit has never left me since
I don’t remember when I experienced the “aha moment” concerning my own reading. However, as a (now retired) learning disabilities teacher I have had had several instances of almost seeing a lightbulb appear above the heads of pupils during tutoring sessions. I credit this to having discovered a way to “engineer success” for at-risk readers by, rather than following a specific curriculum, relating new information directly to what each child already knows.
Although we were a very poor family, we always had newspapers to read. I remember as a young boy, spreading out the newspaper on the floor and working out what it said. It was drilled into our family that you must always have something to read, and you must always read something.
My love of reading started with the Bobsie Twins. One day a book sale flyer came home in my backpack from school. I then read a book called “The Girl with the Silver Eyes”, and I was done for! I could hardly wait to see the book flyers from Apple books. Over time, my love of reading wained as a few less stellar novels came home, judged for their glossy cover over content. From that point, I started to use reading lists from friends, family and libraries to make sure I read books deemed an 8+ out of ten, and I’m back to my passion for stories. Joining a book club has made the learning that much richer, as we all come to a story with our own cultural and environmental context. One person’s love or hate of a book is fascinating, as it highlights some aspect of who they are.
My mum wouldn’t let me learn how to read after her attempt to teach my sister went horribly wrong. So I learned my first letters just like any other kid at school. The very first stories were perfectly forgettable — I don’t remember a single one. But then I came across Moomins by Tove Jansson and I fell in love with them and with reading in general.
I avidly read Nancy Drew as well, then devoured all of Agatha Christie’s books in 7th grade. In fact, I recently found my 7th grade autobiography project at my parents’ house, and Agatha Christie received quite a few mentions.
My first reading adventures were “Tarzan of the Apes” comic books (I had the entire collection and bound them to ready over – several times), very early into 1st-3rd grade but that habit got me to Enid Blyton and Hardy Boys – progressively. I still think a lot of my writing and grammar was due to the reading as I’m still very vague on what a “preposition” is ;o).
I have two different answers here.
My earliest childhood memory is walking into our living room and seeing my dad, my mom, and my brother all completely absorbed in books and newspapers. I was infuriated. “Why does everyone have to READ all the time!” I shouted, stomping out of the room. It wasn’t long before I joined the crowd–saying something for the power of one’s environment and role models to incent learning.
The second memory is more unusual. I read a lot all though the life… and then completely stopped reading during the first few months of my daughter’s life. Reading seemed like a luxury I could no longer afford.
Well, it wasn’t long before I experienced real withdrawal symptoms. I became a bit depressed and melancholy. It led to an epiphany: I no longer viewed reading as a light diversion–instead I realized that it was satisfying a deep psychological need. I have to read in the way that others might need to jog, medititate, get drunk, or gamble. It’s an addiction for me–albeit a socially acceptable one.
Once I reached this epiphany, I not only started reading again–I read way, way more than I had in years. Because I realized it was something essential to my health and happiness. It wasn’t when I learned to read, but it was perhaps when I redefined what it means to be a reader… and how you define yourself drives the choices you make.
From my earliest days I wanted to be a writer. As soon as I learnt to read I wanted to be a writer of books. I still remember my excitement at the age of five when my father read me a story from my mother’s copy of Readers’ Digest. Our classteacher had told us the very same story earlier that day! It was a thrilling tale of an earthquake that had trapped a family in their home. I was so excited I begged my parents to read it to me again. It seemed magical that we had a book with the same story. But they refused, saying it was time for me to go to bed so I hid the magazine under my pillow and took it out after they left. Turning on the lamp I studied the first page. In the beginning no matter how hard I stared at the letters on the page they wouldn’t tell me anything. If only I could read. I swept my eyeballs back and forth over the words, willing them to yield. As I kept staring at the neat rows of alphabets the word E-A-R-T-H-Q-U-A-K-E slowly emerged from them. I greedily started devouring the other words with my eyes as my mind matched the letters to the story I had been told. And that was how I learnt to read.