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Joey Danial Rachel Reynolds English 106 21 February 2014 On Being the Last Reader Ive often felt that whoever told everyone else that reading wasnt cool didnt tell me. When did this happen? When did reading stop being cool? I mean, didnt we all enjoy to read as kids? It seems that I alone managed to get through middle school with my love of reading unscathed. Perhaps some had a bad experience with reading at school, or struggled with it so much that it became downright painful to read anything that looked like a book. Maybe some TV show or movie made reading seem lame. Whatever the reason, by the time I got to high school, reading books for pleasure was a rare trait indeed. One of my close friends in high school would stateproudly- that he had not read a book that he wasnt forced to in nearly five years. And he was not alone in this sentiment. Many others avoided reading just as much. I would frequently get questions to the effect of youre reading? For fun? Somehow, my peers had been brainwashed to the point where reading was not only boring, but synonymous to schoolwork, a decidedly negative connotation for most students. The question remains, though, why did I continue to read, and read constantly, while many of my friends and peers began to nearly despise it? Looking at my childhood, I see that Ive always been a strong reader. For as long as I can remember, Ive always had a book to read. But Ive loved books and reading even longer than that, or at least according to my parents. One story that they are fond of telling is one of when they would read to me at night. My mother would sit down next to me, her long brown hair let

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down, or my father, 90s moustache and curly black hair, then unmarred by the gray touch of time, and, sitting there on my primary-colored, train-decorated bedspread would have my full and undivided attention, and bring me into the bright, wonderful worlds of Dr. Seuss or the amazing vehicles of Things That Go. In this way, my parents sparked my love of reading, that pure, untainted enjoyment that comes from reading and discovery. If everyone was instilled with the same respect and adoration of books and literature, it would be much more difficult to get rid of later in life. Sometimes, when reading to me, they would be tired, as is natural for parents of small children who have had to deal with the infallible logic of toddlers, a myriad of fluids of questionable origin, and a desire for constant attention. So, it is understandable that my parents, wanting to finish with the obligatory nightly ritual quickly, would attempt to skip pages in the books they would read to me. I say attempt because whenever they tried, however tiered I seemed at the time, I would call them out on it without fail, despite barely being able to talk at the time. Thus I foiled my parents plan to get an extra five minutes of peace. It would seem I really wanted to have those books read to me, even if I had had them read to me or even hundreds of times before, as my parents are fond of saying. Thankfully, they never did fail to read to me, despite my making it difficult for them. I firmly believe that had my parents not read to me so devotedly when I was a child, I certainly would not be the avid reader I am now, and most likely would have lost that love of books like so many others, fallen into that dreadful black pit of ignorance. If I did not enjoy reading so much, I never would have read any challenging books, if I hadnt read any challenging books, I would never enjoy, or possibly even fully understand the books we were required to read in school. If a kid struggles with books in school, and is graded negatively as a result of not being strong reader, then it makes sense that they would grow to

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dislike reading of any variety, school related or not. I remember in my fifth grade English class, we were reading the book The Lion, the Witch, and The Wardrobe. Now, this was a fairly advanced book for fifth graders, and as such, we had to find ten words in each set of chapters that we didnt know, and define them. While this was certainly necessary for most of the class to even understand what was going on, I had difficulty finding ten new words. There I would be, at the beige-colored dining room table, where I did all of my homework as a child, sitting crosslegged on tall wicker-backed chair, paging disinterestedly through chapters I had already read, hoping to find a word that the teacher would believe I didnt know. I would also read ahead in the book, despite specifically being told not to, simply because I liked it so much. I would do this, sitting in my bed, wrapped in bright blue blankets, and pleasantly warm, where I would do most of my reading before going to sleep. Sometimes, lying there, feeling like I was sitting on a cloud, I would pause and look around my room, see the colorful border depicting various fighter jets, the painting of a satellite orbiting earth, its title, The Spirit of Iridium printed in clear lettering just below the painting itself. I would look at the book itself, in its well-worn state, its torn cover and bent corners and worn binding. I was so enthralled that I just kept reading, more than what I had to and staying up far past my bedtime. My reading ability allowed me to read this book like I would a book I read in my own free time. Specifically, the ability to read without being stopped every few sentences or paragraphs makes reading infinitely more enjoyable for me. Incidentally, this is also the reason I tend to dislike Shakespeare. The amount of background knowledge required to fully appreciate Shakespeares works is too great, and the only way Ive been able to get anything out of Shakespeare was though copious use of footnotes. Within the first few pages of Romeo and Juliet, for example, there is an entire conversation regarding the phrase I bite my thumb at you. While none of those words were unknown to me,

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the meaning of the phrase was completely foreign, making the entire conversation incomprehensible. Of course, a quick glance at the footnotes will shed an edifying light onto the impenetrable darkness of the situation, informing me that biting your thumb at someone was the equivalent of giving someone the finger in todays society. But who else but a dedicated scholar of Shakespearean literature would know that? Having to rely on footnotes so much takes away from the original work, almost as if part of it is lost in translation from Shakespearean English to the one we speak today. If the feeling I get when trying to read Shakespeare is anything like what it is for those who have trouble reading other books, then its no wonder that they stopped reading. The key to preserving a love of reading, then must be to allow students to read at a level that challenges them, but doesnt frustrate them, and also let them read books that interest them, to prevent the association of books and learning with being boring and work. For when that happens, people stop reading, and when they stop reading, they will stop thinking, becoming a gray husk, nothing to give them substance. Here at college, I have finally found others who share my passion for reading. Whether this is due to the fact that there are just so many more people here, or if I purely got lucky in meeting a great group of people, I dont know. Regardless, after years of feeling like an oddity, Ive found others with which I can discuss books and novels without receiving confused stares. Not too long ago, I went with this group of friends to the basement of Vons, which is a used book store. Here, where the narrow isles are overflowing with every kind of book you can think of, mysteries, romance, fantasy, science fiction, and everything in between, where the characteristic scent of old books permeates the stuffy air, circulated by only a single desk fan, blowing fruitlessly. Here, where even the cracks in the walls are filled with fifty-year-old classics and obscure titles alike that are falling apart at the seams. Here where I where I feel as though I

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belong. Creating such an environment, one that is supportive of and conductive to reading, like the basement of Vons, or my childhood bedroom, would help everyone to continue to read, and if this environment were to be created in schools, perhaps I would not have been so shocked to find other readers, and to see that glimmer of light in anothers eyes, the glimmer that marks all who read, not the bleak, lifeless ones I had become so accustomed to. So it goes, that having been instilled with a love of reading from before I can remember, I managed to hold on to that love for long enough till I could find others who shared that love. I truly wish no one lost that love. But as it seems, that has much to do with upbringing and culture, and unfortunately, as many have said, you cant change a culture overnight. I suppose now, the best I can do is to continue reading, which I will certainly do, and hope that people rediscover the joys of reading. Imagine that future, where people bring tents and sleeping bags to camp outside bookstores overnight to ensure they get a copy of the latest release. Imagine if curling up by the fireplace and reading a good book on Saturday night were just as normal as going out to a movie. If things continue the way they are now, however, I fear the future would be much darker. I imagine a greyscale dystopian landscape, the pale citizens shambling around, speaking but saying nothing. Worst of all, in this future, Orwells Thought Police and Bradburys Firemen would be wholly unnecessary, as everyone had given up reading themselves. at least, truly the last reader. Everyone but me