Literary Narrative

A Mother's Passion Inspires A Child's Love

Nothing is more of an intellectual turn-off than the words “I don’t read.” In today’s world of social media and internet addiction, I hear that phrase more and more from my peers and elders. Reading is a major part of our foundation of society, yet many don’t have its importance impressed on them as children, as it has been on me.

            My mom was raised in a wealthy household that thrived on literacy, from a stern-faced father who went through college, to a short-statured, history-loving mother. From the moment I was born, my nursery was packed with books of all different types, from picture books to ones she read aloud. My mom continued to read on her own and encouraged me to do so as I was growing up, my little fingers latching avidly onto any book I could get ahold of. My reading proficiency grew quickly, making teachers remark on it in class begin testing me on my speed and comprehension. Unsurprisingly, my reading levels were much higher than they should have been for my age; in sixth grade I was reading at a high school level. Once I was reading confidently and often, my mom began to not just buy me books, but to share hers with me.

            While nonfiction is her preferred genre as of late, my mom used to lend me all sorts of novels. Cujo, Jaws, and Terror were some, and among others were science fiction stories, novels about the deep sea, and dark mysteries. Since those books were generally for older audiences, my vocabulary and writing skills soared. As for my imagination, if my numerous mental adventures with fictional characters in different worlds are any indication, it would seem that my mind expanded too; Harry Potter, Arthur Dent, and Eragon Shadeslayer can vouch for that. Of course, I was still young, so I did still read things more targeted to my age group. Yet I did also continue to pick bigger and more challenging books throughout intermediate and middle school, for fun and mental stimulation.

            High school was an entirely new world for me; instead of being praised for reading on my own, I was assigned to do so without any choice in the matter. Not only was that ridiculous in itself, many of my blank-eyed peers didn’t do it at all and instead repeatedly took zeros. One sunny day, I complained to my mom after she got off work about how stupid they were, and she sat down at the kitchen table in front of me.

            “Why do you suppose they don’t do the reading,” she asked, giving me that piercing look that parents give to make their kids squirm.

            “Well,” I hedged, kicking the carpet with my foot, “they’re not smart enough to read that many books?” My mom shook her head, and I winced internally.

            “No. It means that they may have great difficulty reading, they could have a home life that doesn’t give them the time to read, or maybe they read something other than books.”

            “Oh,” I said, taken aback from what I hadn’t considered before.

            “And,” my mom continued, taking a sip of her half-finished Diet Coke, “no one is stupid for those reasons. Someone who reads Shakespeare is no smarter than a person who reads car magazines. It’s all a matter of preference and the different knowledge each person has.”

            “But I know more words than a lot of kids my age,” I interjected, annoyed that she wasn’t agreeing with me. “Doesn’t that make me smarter than them?”

            “If you picked up a magazine about cars, would you know what all the words mean?” She asked, and I shook my head, resignedly. “Exactly, you wouldn’t. So the only people that are genuinely stupid are those who choose not to read because it’s ‘not cool’.”

            “Why them?” I ask, a bit confused. Hadn’t she just said no one was stupid for not reading books? My mom smiled and stood up, putting her hair into a high ponytail.

            “Because books are the building blocks of our society and culture; to think that they aren’t important and amazing is the thought train of the ignorant.”

            Years have passed since that conversation, and I often think back to what my mom said anytime I check out yet another book at the library. Things have changed drastically since then; I borrow more of her books, and she even borrows some of mine now and again, but the same love of reading always gives us something to talk about.

Books will always be my safe haven; the pages hiding different worlds that I escape to when the real one starts wearing thin. If my mom hadn’t raised me to love books by reading to me in her lap and whispering stories to me as a I fell asleep, I would never have known how important reading could be, to both me and the world.