I heard a story the other day, about a little girl who goes to school in upstate New York. She's the daughter of a childhood friend of mine, and her name is Ruby.
Here's what happened. Ruby was sitting in class at her elementary school one day not too long ago, and her teacher noticed that she didn't seem to be paying much attention. So the teacher, one of those kind and humorous souls we all wish we had had in third grade, walked back to Ruby's desk. As she had suspected, Ruby was reading. Not her schoolbook, though. Let's say it was a Lemony Snicket book, or perhaps the latest Harry Potter. But it certainly wasn't social studies. So the teacher asked Ruby to put her reading away. And Ruby did.
A few minutes later, the teacher noticed that Ruby was looking pretty dejected. Her little head was turned toward the floor; her normally shiny face was averted. The teacher, a compassionate sort, felt bad for Ruby. She worried that Ruby might be feeling humiliated by the mild scolding she had suffered a few moments before. So the kind teacher walked through the rows of desks toward Ruby, intending to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. But Ruby wasn't downcast, though her eyes were cast down. She was still reading her forbidden book, now strategically situated on the classroom floor.
I love Ruby.
I am a children's writer, and I love Ruby and children like her — the ones who sneak books into their desks and under their covers, the ones who read on the bus and the subway, the ones whose library cards are dog-eared, whose bookshelves sag. I was a kid like that myself.
I read Tolkien and Nancy Drew and the "young adult" romances from my local public library. Later, I read Catcher in the Rye and Wuthering Heights. I read nonfiction, too. Once I stayed on the #30 bus out Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, D.C., where I grew up, all the way to the end of the line, transported by A.S. Neil's radical vision of schooling called Summerhill.
Those were assigned books, and I enjoyed them. But even better I liked the books I was not supposed to be reading — a habit I carried with me into graduate school. I remember sitting in the kitchen of my row house in Baltimore, reading David Copperfield and weeping over the death of Dora. (I was supposed to be reading The Mill on the Floss for a seminar at Johns Hopkins.)
How did I become such a voracious reader? That's easy. I watched my parents, and my older brother. Books were never far from any of our hands, including at meals. We had a den we called the library, with a leather chair and hassock that each of us would colonize whenever it was available. But there were books in every room in the house, including the bathroom (paperback mysteries in a basket on the floor). And my father or my mother read to me, regularly, long after I was able to read to myself.
Independent-school parents do so many wonderful things for their children — the best schools, music lessons, soccer and swimming, horseback riding, and ballet. Classes on manners. Father-daughter tennis matches. Mother-son dances. Trips to the Capitol, to the New York City Ballet, to the planetarium, to opening day of the Red Sox, or the second Harry Potter movie.
But I'd like to make a radical suggestion: Carve out a little time for nothing at all. Plunk an empty afternoon or Saturday into your child's life. A rainy day might be a good time to start. If it's chilly, provide a comfortable chair and a warm blanket. A basket of apples and cookies won't hurt, and something hot to drink. Unplug the TV. Tough it out through the half hour of "I'm bored!" moaning. Toss in a pile of books — from fiction to poetry, biography to basketball. Step away and see what happens.
I am not naïve enough to think that all kids will pick up a book and read if you do this. But the idea might occur to them. They just might try it, probably when you're not looking. How do I know? Because I saw a miracle at the elementary school where I was writer-in-residence last year. The boys — tough, athletic, fourth-grade boys — forsook outdoor recess time to voluntarily sit on a cold, hard gym floor and listen to a teacher read Harry Potter, complete with a variety of accents, every Monday and Friday. When Harry Potter was over, they asked for more and she began The Hobbit. The crowd of boys stayed. When the bell rang the cry went up, "Just one more page — please, please!"
Here's what happened. Ruby was sitting in class at her elementary school one day not too long ago, and her teacher noticed that she didn't seem to be paying much attention. So the teacher, one of those kind and humorous souls we all wish we had had in third grade, walked back to Ruby's desk. As she had suspected, Ruby was reading. Not her schoolbook, though. Let's say it was a Lemony Snicket book, or perhaps the latest Harry Potter. But it certainly wasn't social studies. So the teacher asked Ruby to put her reading away. And Ruby did.
A few minutes later, the teacher noticed that Ruby was looking pretty dejected. Her little head was turned toward the floor; her normally shiny face was averted. The teacher, a compassionate sort, felt bad for Ruby. She worried that Ruby might be feeling humiliated by the mild scolding she had suffered a few moments before. So the kind teacher walked through the rows of desks toward Ruby, intending to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. But Ruby wasn't downcast, though her eyes were cast down. She was still reading her forbidden book, now strategically situated on the classroom floor.
I love Ruby.
I am a children's writer, and I love Ruby and children like her — the ones who sneak books into their desks and under their covers, the ones who read on the bus and the subway, the ones whose library cards are dog-eared, whose bookshelves sag. I was a kid like that myself.
I read Tolkien and Nancy Drew and the "young adult" romances from my local public library. Later, I read Catcher in the Rye and Wuthering Heights. I read nonfiction, too. Once I stayed on the #30 bus out Wisconsin Avenue in Washington, D.C., where I grew up, all the way to the end of the line, transported by A.S. Neil's radical vision of schooling called Summerhill.
Those were assigned books, and I enjoyed them. But even better I liked the books I was not supposed to be reading — a habit I carried with me into graduate school. I remember sitting in the kitchen of my row house in Baltimore, reading David Copperfield and weeping over the death of Dora. (I was supposed to be reading The Mill on the Floss for a seminar at Johns Hopkins.)
How did I become such a voracious reader? That's easy. I watched my parents, and my older brother. Books were never far from any of our hands, including at meals. We had a den we called the library, with a leather chair and hassock that each of us would colonize whenever it was available. But there were books in every room in the house, including the bathroom (paperback mysteries in a basket on the floor). And my father or my mother read to me, regularly, long after I was able to read to myself.
Independent-school parents do so many wonderful things for their children — the best schools, music lessons, soccer and swimming, horseback riding, and ballet. Classes on manners. Father-daughter tennis matches. Mother-son dances. Trips to the Capitol, to the New York City Ballet, to the planetarium, to opening day of the Red Sox, or the second Harry Potter movie.
But I'd like to make a radical suggestion: Carve out a little time for nothing at all. Plunk an empty afternoon or Saturday into your child's life. A rainy day might be a good time to start. If it's chilly, provide a comfortable chair and a warm blanket. A basket of apples and cookies won't hurt, and something hot to drink. Unplug the TV. Tough it out through the half hour of "I'm bored!" moaning. Toss in a pile of books — from fiction to poetry, biography to basketball. Step away and see what happens.
I am not naïve enough to think that all kids will pick up a book and read if you do this. But the idea might occur to them. They just might try it, probably when you're not looking. How do I know? Because I saw a miracle at the elementary school where I was writer-in-residence last year. The boys — tough, athletic, fourth-grade boys — forsook outdoor recess time to voluntarily sit on a cold, hard gym floor and listen to a teacher read Harry Potter, complete with a variety of accents, every Monday and Friday. When Harry Potter was over, they asked for more and she began The Hobbit. The crowd of boys stayed. When the bell rang the cry went up, "Just one more page — please, please!"