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Last night, I had an epiphany. Judith Martin (Miss Manners) was on the Colbert Report, and I told Jeff about finding one of her books when I was fourteen or so. One of the reasons I checked it out of the library was because it was a *small* temporary library (it was in a storefront in the mall near the Safeway) and I was running out of stuff to read. The thickness of the book was a large mark in its favor.
So, I was telling Jeff this and realized that, not everyone reads up to grade level, nor do they test out. (Huh?)
Okay. When I was in third grade, we were in a kindergarten room. Since we didn't need all the room, they used part of the room to store the books for other classes. We also had an in-room library. I can't remember if I didn't realize I wasn't supposed to read the other books or not. I don't think it ever occured to me, honestly. So, I found a big stack of *big* reading books (which was where I first read an excerpt from I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. I cannot adequately express how beautiful it was. She described a woman's skin as "dark as a plum, full to bursting with juice" (paraphrased) and I could see it. Hell, I could damn near *taste* it. That had never happened to me before. Maya Angelou is a remarkable writer)(and human being) (How many parentheses are we up to?)))) and dived happily into them. I was up to the eighth grade book when Mrs. Finney asked me what I was doing. (This took some time, and it's probably good that she didn't know I'd been taking them home with me over the weekends...) I told her I was reading the book. She said "That's an eighth grade book." I said okay. She said "Are you really reading it?" I allowed that I was. She looked at the bit I was reading and asked me about it. I answered all the questions I could.
The next day/weeek/something, I went to the office and they gave me a reading test. I think I was reading at eighth grade level, but it could have been seventh. Every year after that, they tested me and my reading level kept rising, till I tested out sometime in jr. high. I was either reading at college level or beyond.
And for all these years, I've figured that nearly everyone does that. Just that the majority of people don't do it as quickly as I did. When I was discussing the tiny library and my reading damn near everything that appealed to me in the place, it hit me that not everyone reads up to grade level (and while I'd always known that, I never knew it) and not everyone's reading level keeps getting higher till they're all at the same level(ish) somewhere in adulthood.
Wild.
So, I was telling Jeff this and realized that, not everyone reads up to grade level, nor do they test out. (Huh?)
Okay. When I was in third grade, we were in a kindergarten room. Since we didn't need all the room, they used part of the room to store the books for other classes. We also had an in-room library. I can't remember if I didn't realize I wasn't supposed to read the other books or not. I don't think it ever occured to me, honestly. So, I found a big stack of *big* reading books (which was where I first read an excerpt from I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings. I cannot adequately express how beautiful it was. She described a woman's skin as "dark as a plum, full to bursting with juice" (paraphrased) and I could see it. Hell, I could damn near *taste* it. That had never happened to me before. Maya Angelou is a remarkable writer)(and human being) (How many parentheses are we up to?)))) and dived happily into them. I was up to the eighth grade book when Mrs. Finney asked me what I was doing. (This took some time, and it's probably good that she didn't know I'd been taking them home with me over the weekends...) I told her I was reading the book. She said "That's an eighth grade book." I said okay. She said "Are you really reading it?" I allowed that I was. She looked at the bit I was reading and asked me about it. I answered all the questions I could.
The next day/weeek/something, I went to the office and they gave me a reading test. I think I was reading at eighth grade level, but it could have been seventh. Every year after that, they tested me and my reading level kept rising, till I tested out sometime in jr. high. I was either reading at college level or beyond.
And for all these years, I've figured that nearly everyone does that. Just that the majority of people don't do it as quickly as I did. When I was discussing the tiny library and my reading damn near everything that appealed to me in the place, it hit me that not everyone reads up to grade level (and while I'd always known that, I never knew it) and not everyone's reading level keeps getting higher till they're all at the same level(ish) somewhere in adulthood.
Wild.
Re: Sometimes reading makes me cranky.
When I am feeling particularly challenged by the world, by my own aging, or by other insecurities, I confess to pulling out the set of Frank L Baum "Oz" books and reading them through, from The Wizard of Oz forward. I love the illustrations, I love the stories, I love painting illustrations when I'm in the mood (defiant/possessive Inner Child 'marking her territory').
But MOST of all, I love the fact that the stories are the same as they were 65 years ago! They haven't been redacted, interpreted, politicised, turned into bland strings of nothing-words! They tell me simple stories, with implicit or explicit morals, and allow me to re-feel the simple comprehension of those early years, before I was expected to 'act like a big girl'!
Having reassured my Inner Child that some things DO stay the same, I am better able to cope with the ideas and realities of this too-rapid world we've created. I think we all need to slow down sometimes, or we miss a lot of the delicate details.
Re: Sometimes reading makes me cranky.
Re: Sometimes reading makes me cranky.
I think we all need to slow down sometimes, or we miss a lot of the delicate details. My kids go to a school that does not embrace television. They are all about the delicate details.
I remember as a little girl I used to love bedtime stories from my grandmother (rest her sweet soul) about the "Olden Days." She would sit by my bed at night when I stayed with her and tell me stories about when she was a little girl. They were magical. I hung on her every word. She had Scandinavian parents who had immigrated from Sweden and Finland (the Finns were Swedish speaking) and had instilled in her a love and appreciation for life itself, the little things. They were hard-working people who taught her to be kind and to stop and smell the roses.
She also told me a lot about the great depression of the 1930's and how everyone coped. Back then it wasn't such a fast-paced dog-eat-dog society where everyone was looking out for number one. Everyone pitched in to help each other. They bonded and made it through.
I guess I went off on a tangent there, but your comment had me thinking. I wish my grandma was still around so I could continue to pick her brain. I think she could teach our current society a few things.