The Reader in My Daughter’s Room

Your tips are greatly appreciated! Upgrade at 30% off“Sometimes I feel bad for the other kids in my class,” Sienna said. She’s my daughter, just shy of becoming a teenager.“Why?”“Because they can’t read,” she said, drawing out the last word with a mixture of sadness and disgust. We were climbing the stairs to the second floor of our house. She became thoughtful, then added, “They couldn’t even say basic words. Like ‘architect,’ they couldn’t even say ‘architect.’” She scowled. “They really struggle. It’s painful.”We were silent for a moment, then Sienna continued, “‘Florence.’ You know, like the city? Florence, Italy. They sit there going F — , F — , F — .” She shook her head. “They can’t even get the ‘Flor — ’ part.”Something about her examples made the story feel real. ‘Architect,’ ‘Florence.’ Maybe it’s mean, but I thought it was kind of hilarious.There’s a motif in literature where the girls are the ones who read and the boys are all senseless brutes.Belle from Beauty and the Beast fits into this, as does Hermione from Harry Potter.But that wasn’t me. I, too, was a reader back when I was my daughter’s age.“They always pick me to read for the class,” Sienna said.I smiled at that. “Me too.”And then my mind hurled backwards through time. I remembered those awful desks and the lime green walls. I remembered the faces of the students I grew up with.Our 30 year high school reunion is coming up. I don’t plan on going. I don’t know those people as adults. I knew them as kids. The kids are gone.I have distinct memories of always being called upon to read from the textbook. It seems like a large percentage of our lesson plans were just me reading from the textbook. Maybe that was in the rural education manual for Wisconsin in the 80s. That was just the reality back then, pick a kid to read, but it seems a little weird when I look back on it now.The way I remember it, I read more than the teachers did. I wonder if the other students remember it that way? If they were to catch my voice on an audiobook, would it evoke memories of grade school? Would they be taken back as I was at the thought?I didn’t mind being called on to read. Sometimes the teachers would try to give other kids a chance and it would make me wince.They’d start in. “T — , T — , T — .”These weren’t kids with any sort of learning or speaking disability. They just couldn’t read. Like, the whole classroom couldn’t read.“The,” the teacher would say.“The,” went the student. Followed by, “U — , U — , U — .”“United,” the teacher would say.“United,” went the student. Then, “S — , S — , S — .”Usually, the teacher would give them a sentence then switch to me. Sometimes, just to be helpful, I’d quickly reread the preceding section just to make sure the class got it.That probably got annoying, but it was important to me that the class got the information that was being conveyed. If they got it the first time, I wouldn’t have to answer any questions later… not that anyone ever asked me any questions.I distinctly remember reading things that I found to be interesting and pausing to say, “Oh!”Nobody ever wanted to have a conversation though, so I’d shrug and get back to reading. Probably even the teacher was asleep at that point. They had better things to do than think about the same dry passage from the textbook over and over and over…My school days are a blur of the same three memories. I remember taking tests, I remember giving the occasional speech, and I remember spending a lot of time reading to my classmates.I remember doing ‘The Raven,’ and I even got a compliment on that one.“I didn’t think I liked poetry, but you made that sound pretty cool!”I was never in forensics. No teacher invited me, but I wouldn’t have gone even if they had. In fact, I didn’t do any extracurricular activities. I got out of that school the second I’d fulfilled the minimum legal attendance required.3:36 PM.ZOOM! Out the door.You see, I wanted to get home and read! All I did was read! I had my own bookshelf next to my bed and I’d read and reread the same books. I became so possessive of those books that it irritated me to see other people reading them.Fortunately, almost nobody in my class read, so this wasn’t ever a problem.Reading in school wasn’t so bad. It was this unspoken thing I had with the teachers. I was the reader. They called on me because I could get through the page without having to be corrected every two seconds. In fact, I didn’t have to be corrected at all. I’d quit stumbling over words in first grade. There were some words I probably pronounced wrong because I’d only ever seen them in print, but I pronounced them wrong with confidence.My daughter interrupted my thoughts.“I’m always the one that reads in class, Daddy,” she said. “The other kids can’t even say ‘Athens.’ They pronounced it ‘Ath-eens.’ They couldn’t say ‘Bulgaria.’”I gave my daughter a hug. “Just read when you’re called and try not to make the other kids feel embarrassed.”My daughters are like me in some ways, but in other ways they’re very different. They don’t have bookshelves next to their beds. They don’t have paperback friends that they care about more than real human beings.They’re in forensics. They love it. They’re in basketball and swimming and show choir and soccer. They have friends. Actual real human friends that aren’t made of dog eared paper that they can stuff in their backpacks.They read a lot, but not at night. The night belongs to me.I settled into the chair in their room and produced the pages of the manuscript I’ve been writing for them. It’s a story about fairies. We’re in the fifth book.My kids are almost teenagers and they still let me read to them. Maybe someday they’ll look back on this and recognize that it’s not common. But they don’t know that today. Today they think it’s the most natural thing in the world for Daddy to come into their room and read to them before they go to sleep.That’s what Daddy has always done.There have been moments when I’ve worried that I’ve taken away their personal reading time. Some of my most precious memories of childhood were the evenings I spent reading myself to sleep. But somehow, my daughters are already better readers than I’ll ever be.Even so, they’ll sit quietly when my name is called like my classmates long ago. My daughters humor me and listen as I take them down the pages of a new adventure written especially for them.You all make this newsletter happen! Thanks for your sponsorship! I have payment tiers starting at as little as twenty dollars a year.Upgrade at 30% offUpgrade at 40% offUpgrade at 50% offUpgrade at 60% offI'm so happy you're here, and I'm looking forward to sharing more thoughts with you tomorrow.My CoSchedule referral linkHere’s my referral link to my preferred headline analyzer tool. If you sign up through this, it’s another way to support this newsletter (thank you).I'd Rather Be Writing is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to I'd Rather Be Writing at walterrhein.substack.com/subscribe