Hand me down passion
I often wonder where passions come from. For myself, sometimes passion is temporary and fleeting. I love something for the moment. I am sometimes amazed at how even at 41 years old, this is still something I deal with. It seems that fleeting passion should be something that remains in adolescents, as you are trying to understand what it is that drives you. But then again, I returned to school to go after the highest degree at 38. I guess nothing is for the young only.
As a child, I was read to, and as I understand it, I read by myself “early.” I remember reading in kindergarten. A classmate and I would try to beat each other in the number of books we read. For each book we had to give an oral report to the teacher. If we passed we received a star. Both Beau and I had to have extra strips attached to our names because we had more stars than the poster had room for. I remember being bored in first grade because the other kids did not read as fast as I did. And read alouds were very hard for me. I was moved into the third grade class for Language Arts. I think it was more for my teacher than for me. I am sure that I caused her a lot of stress beyond just reading time.
I remember feeling sick when I was 12 during a family party. My dad brought me back to my room and let me get dressed into comfy clothes and not the dress or whatever “party wear” I had on. While I changed he went to find me a book. My dad read who-done-its and Tom Clancy type novels. He went into my middle sister’s room and unearthed Flowers in the Attic. I had no idea, but a book would be a way to pass the time in the back of the house where our bedrooms were, with no one coming around to help me pass the time. I started reading, had maybe 20 minutes to read, when my middle sister came to check on me. Nine years older than me, she had a way of being loving and caring and yet also overbearing and bossy. She asked me what I was reading. I showed her the cover and she asked me where I got it. I explained that dad found it and gave it to me. She loudly proclaimed that I could not read that book. I thought about that book for years, wondering what it was that made it impossible for me to read. In my 20s I finally had the chance to come across a copy, I did not even take a second thought and grabbed it. I think I might understand why she pulled that book from my 12 year old hands.
High School found me reading still, but more of books that I wanted to read, and not a whole lot of the ones assigned to me. But it was in my junior year, after a night where none of my classmates (including me) had done our assigned reading of Tom Sawyer, where I discovered how reading was going to play a role in my life. My teacher, angry at all of us, declared “This is your only chance to read these classics…unless you’re an English major.” That was it, I knew right then what my major would be in college. I mean, he just told me that I could read and get a degree. I have a few complaints to file as I had to do more than that to earn my degree; but I did manage to manipulate what I read by learning which teachers taught which books.
Reading had already been a part of my life. My dad started the day reading the newspaper (No one was allowed to touch it until he read it). And then he moved to books. I remember going camping as a kid for 8 days, and dad brought 8 hardback books. And I believe he read them and borrowed a book from the family that came with us. His travels have been lightened by the invention of personal readers. Now he can carry 300+ books with him everywhere he goes. My favorite is he still buys them all, he does not borrow them from the library. He is still a man set in his ways, they are just now digital.
As a child, other than that day my dad gave me my sisters book, no one ever offered me book ideas. Neither parent ever offered me a copy of a book. My grandfather had every Rudyard Kipling book, set in the same red hardback cover. And he had other books on shelves in a room I would later occupy while in grad school number 1. He once sent me down to that room to look for a book I might like to read. But never said “Try ________________, it was good.” I am sure librarians pointed me in directions, teachers had titles of books that they mentioned in class. I know that I had ideas of what to read from somewhere, but being handed a book does not exist in my childhood memory. I have one memory of my step-mom telling me about Harry Potter, and that I should read the books. I was 22 and teaching. Later that summer I had to take a library copy from a student’s lap as she attempted to read during instruction. It hurt me to do such a thing, but I knew this series must be worth looking into because my straight A student was reading this book even against her normal perfect behavior.
As a parent, I have done the opposite. My daughter and I started talking about books around second grade. I copied what my parents did, she had stories read to her every night. She would read them back to me once she had them memorized. And then one day the words clicked and she began to read the words on the page. Sometime around the end of first grade and the beginning of second she started wanting to read herself to bed. My husband and I were kicked out of the reading time. I started to pick up a book and read next to her. I wasn’t reading to her, but I kept that sacred reading time. And then I started giving her books, recommending books at the library, handing her books, gifting her books. Like her grandfather she has a library of her own. I am sure she has read well over 300 books in the last 5 years. Between her bookshelves and her digital library, she has been transported all over this plane and many others.
We replicated this with my son. However, to find him someone to recommend books we had to reach out to a family friend who has similar interests, and who happens to be one of the biggest comic book collectors that exists. Once a week they swap copies, returning one set and receiving a new set. They talk, my son explains what new super hero he is into that week, or what adventure he wants to know about, and the next week that is the set of comics in the trade. None of these are ours to keep, but it has provided my son a person to give him that common passion/interest in reading.
As I type this tonight, I think of the readers in my family. It would seem that not everyone around me has a passion reading. In fact, my husband only wants useful text, non-fiction and something he can learn from. He has grown to love YouTube videos, where he can watch and hear, and take away the knowledge he needs. While he does not love to sit down with a good book, he supports this in our kids. When they are bored or we need them to take a break from screens, he usually starts with “go read a book.” My grandfather was not a reader that I can remember. My mom read but I do not remember it being something that she had a passion for. However, her mother did. In fact, reading was one of the things she missed the most when she lost her sight. My dad’s parents were immigrants who fought for the small amount of education they had. My Papa had a lot of books, and I remember he had a few next to his bed, but I do not have a lot of memories of him reading. My Nana read at night, after she said her rosary. But again, she was not sneaking in book time after lunch.
I am glad that my dad and grandmother gave me a secret passion for reading. I am very glad that my daughter has one (in fact, the pictures here are from just two of her little book shelf cubbies. Books are more than just words for her, they have feelings, and belong with other books of a certain type. They are windows and opportunities. I think her passion is stronger than mine.
