I had an experience in sixth grade that I believe both helped and hindered my reading abilities and interests. I had an amazing teacher; her name was Mrs. Saiki, and I had her for both social studies and reading. She was a short, loud Hawaiian, who loved to express her opinion. Her voice was mesmerizing to the point that she could get a slug excited about taking a salt shower, and she did that for me in social studies, awakening a sense of wonder for world civilizations and mythology. She was the one who taught me how to research and how to write my name in hieroglyphics. She was the one who exposed me to a shelf in the library that I had never dared to explore before: the award winners.
Granted, no right-minded ten year old boy would ever go to that shelf and self-select a book. Now this was in the mid-eighties, and all the award-winners up to that point (at least in my experience) involved mushy relationship stuff, death and sadness stuff, or even worse—both stuff. But Mrs. Saiki made us read Newberys and leaf through Caldecotts all year long, different ones each week, no repeats aloud. So I had to say goodbye to my classic monster movie and animal nonfiction picks. No more comic books or miscellaneous sports trivia that had been the clutter on my bedroom dresser. I had to read (and be tested on) books that were “good for me.” And because of that, and for the next few years, reading was not fun any more. It was more like taking vitamins or eating my spinach—good for me, but not something I looked forward to.
Sure, I gained new insights and knowledge and my eyes were opened to a different perspective on the world, but from that point until perhaps about tenth grade, reading in school became a chore. In fact, I only recall two books with John Newbery stickers that were thrust upon me that year that I even remember the basic story line: John Fleischman’s The Whipping Boy, that year’s winner (1987), which Mrs. Saiki read aloud to us, and The High King, which was the first book I stayed up all night to read, but that’s a different story; not to mention the fact that it wasn’t on the list of ones approved to read, Plus I didn’t find it at the school library.
Perhaps that heinous reading task planted a seed in me because to this date I have read most of the winners and honor books since that point in my life. In fact, I have searched them out since I graduated from college to unearth the ones I missed. And believe it or not, I find more and more gems. True, they are still not my favorites on the whole, but they still have value, and perhaps that’s what Mrs. Saiki was trying to teach us. They get a sticker for a reason, and it’s not always because the dog kicks the bucket. I see the connection between them and other classics I was forced to trudge through in high school and college courses. Human nature, interpersonal relationships, changing perspectives, making connections, growing up—they’re all important in the grand scheme of things, but they’re not always the most exciting. And such is life.
This year, I required my soon-to-be honors 9th graders read five classics from a list of 116 over the summer. When school resumed we had several class discussions in which we did not discuss the books themselves, but rather questioned the value of reading and studying the classics. What is a classic? Who determines which books achieve classic status? We listed pros and cons of delving into their pages. Students brainstormed characteristics of the titles they were supposed to have read. And as our lists expanded then became more refined, I had them write me a persuasive paper about whether or not students should study classics in school. They also have to propose a “new” classic and defend their reasoning. The papers are due next Friday, and I’m intrigued to see if these students have more insight to life than I did as a sixth grader. And whether or not my mind was possessed by a short little Hawaiian woman for a year is yet to be determined. I hope so; because somebody needs to give this world more hope and promise than I ever could. Sometimes you have to wade through a few years of turmoil and trudge through the ash and darkness (Thank you, Mr. McCarthy.) in order to see the true light that lies within the connection between the pages and your miniscule place in the universe.
