International Literacy Day September 8, 2016
International Literacy Day is definitely something to celebrate. In the USA, we have some literacy problems but nothing compared to many other countries in our world. Color us extremely fortunate. Even so, there are still those in America who, for various reasons, have never learned to read.
I think we take the ability to read for granted when we should be recognizing the great gift given to us on a daily basis. Consider all the things you read--not just books--traffic signs and warnings, billboards, bus routes, train and flight schedules, cereal boxes and other grocery items, directions on medicine bottles, tickets to events, and so much more. Think about the vast number of things you read as you go about your daily activities today. Give thanks for the ability to read.
Not only ability comes into play with literacy. Pleasure is gained time and again when we read a story, a book, a magazine or a poem that we enjoy. I cannot begin to count the hours and hours of pleasure reading has brought to me. Thanks go to the many writers who provide us with reading material.
In 2011, I had a personal essay published in an anthology titled "Flashlight Memories." The theme of the book was reading and often centered on childhood years when some of us read under the covers with a flashlight after Mom had turned out the lights. My essay detailed my path to books. Maybe you took a similar journey. Blessings to those who taught and encouraged reading for me and you, too.
My Path To Books
By Nancy Julien Kopp
My earliest memory of a book is a story about Mr.
Flibbertyjibbet. Is it any wonder that tongue-twirling name is easily plucked
from my memory bank over 65 years later?
My mother reads the Mr. Flibbertyjibbet book to me as we
snuggle on the sofa. My father reads the book to me, too. I bring the book out
whenever an adult is there, and I hand it to them. My grandmother, every one of
my aunts and Mother’s friends—they all read to me.
My kindergarten teacher reads to us, too. She sits on a
small chair, and we all gather around her, sitting Indian-fashion on a green
carpet. Every day Miss Horst reads a new story and shows us the pictures. Her
hair is silver, her lips are cherry red, and her eyes sparkle as she reads. I
want to read the book myself, but I don’t know how. Mother makes a promise.
“Next year you’ll learn to read.” And I trust her, for she’s never been wrong.
I am six years old and in the first grade. Miss Curto passes
out the books, one for each child. “Do not open the books,” she says. My heart
beats faster than normal. How can I wait any longer to see if I know how to
read now? The teacher shows us the proper way to open a new book—first the
front cover, then the back. Then we close it again and she instructs us to open
to the first page. There are a few words, but I don’t know what they say. I’m
disappointed. I can’t read. Was Mother wrong? But in only a matter of days, I
am reading. I read stories about Dick and Jane and Baby Sally. I am one of the
first to finish the book. And then there is a new book, and my happiness knows
no bounds. This one has the same children in it, and their dog and cat, Spot
and Puff, become my friends, and I read more and more books.
At home, I read Mr. Flibbertyjibbet to my mother. I read to
my father, my grandmother and my aunts. I bring home books from school and I
read them over and over.
One day my mother takes me to a new place. She explains we
are going to the library, and by the time we have walked several blocks to the
square brick building, I know that the library is full of books that I may
borrow. I know that I must be very careful with the books because we must
return them for other children to read.
“We would like a library card, please,” my mother tells the
woman behind the big desk by the front door.
The woman has white hair that is pulled away from her face
and fixed in a bun behind her head. Her cheeks look soft, and she has eyes that
are as blue as the summer sky. Rimless glasses rest on her nose. She wears a
navy blue dress with a white lace collar, and she is fat like one of my aunts.
Her mouth is clamped tight like my grandmother’s when she is angry. Maybe I
won’t like this place after all.
Then the lady slides a card across the desk, dips a pen in
an inkwell, and hands it to me. “Write your name on this line, please.”
I print my first and last name as neatly as I can and slide
the card back to her.
She comes around to the front of the desk. “I am Miss Maze,”
she says. “and I will show you where the books for you are kept.” She smiles at
me and holds out her hand.
Mother nods when I look at her for direction. I slip my hand
into the one Miss Maze has offered. I look down and see she is wearing black
oxfords that tie, and the skin around her ankles hangs down over her shoes. I
wonder if it hurts.
We walk up two steps into a world of enchantment. Miss Maze
patiently shows me row upon row of books, and she shows me how to replace them
on the shelf after I look at them. She helps me choose three books to take
home, and then it is time to go back to the big desk and learn how to check
them out. My library card will be ready for me the next time we visit she tells
us.
As the years go on, the library becomes my second home, and
Miss Maze becomes my special friend. Her eyes light up, and she smiles whenever
I walk in the door. She often shows me new books that have arrived, and I am
eager to check them out. I am there winter and summer, in sunshine and
thunderstorms.
I learn that if you like a book especially well, you should
look for more books by the same author. I read a series of books with titles
like Ballet Shoes, Theater Shoes, and Circus Shoes, and I
dream about being one of the girls in those books. I read books by Lois Lenski
called Strawberry Girl and Blueberry Sal, and I learn about being
a child of a migrant worker. I read all the Nancy Drew mystery books, the
Bobbsey Twins, the Little House books, and move into a series about a girl
named Sue Barton. I follow Sue as she becomes a student nurse, a resident
nurse, a visiting nurse and every kind of nursing job there is.
And then I am a teen, and I read young adult books like Bramble
Bush, which moves me to tears, ands soon I move on to adult books. All
these years in the 1940’s and 50’s, I visit the library on almost a weekly
basis. I walk several blocks, taking a shortcut behind the elevated train platform.
I carry a stack of books to the library on the cinder path and come back with
books piled high in my arms. I read in all my spare time. I leave my everyday
existence behind when I am reading. I learn about other cultures, live
vicariously through the heroines in the books I devour. I store up a desire to
travel so I can see these wondrous places in the books.
My favorite class in college is the literature class. I am
the only one who doesn’t groan when the professor tells us we will read one
novel every week. We go to the college book store, check out a book on Friday
afternoon, and we are to be ready to discuss it on Monday morning. I look
forward to Friday morning when the professor gives us the name of the book for
the week. My feet fly across campus to the bookstore. I am a fast reader and
have no trouble finishing by Monday, while some of the others sit up late on
Sunday night trying to finish.
I’m a senior citizen now, but I still love books. I am never
without a book to read, and the library still feels like home to me. When I am
there surrounded by thousands of books, I feel a sense of peace and contentment
that I find in no other place. As I make my selection from the fiction shelves
and from the shelf that holds books about writing, I sometimes think of Miss
Maze. I learned to read at school, but I learned about the world of books from
Miss Maze. I wish I’d thanked her for what she gave me, but as a child and a
teen, I was too shy to do that. Perhaps she knew what sharing her treasures
meant to me. I’d like to think so.
