Confessions of an Aliterate

In response to "Aliteracy: a sad rant " by http://pbe56.blogspot.com/
I don't read books regularly, never did. I didn't enjoyed it that much as a kid -- it was always WORK. It was an assignment, it was a punishment, it was what you did out of desperation. I read slowly and sometimes it takes too long to get to the point in a story where I really want to continue. My mind wanders and I can think of a million (ok maybe just 100s) of things that I need to get done or that would be more fun.

Growing up our house was a book-free zone other than school books (how lonely they must have been). My father isn't a reader and my mother wasn't around. Dad had a few books; the Bible, which was rarely opened (as Catholics we took their word on it), "Dibs in Search of Self" and some pop psychology book of the early 70s like "I'm OK, You're OK". The latter 2 were probably gifts from his girlfriend at the time to help him understand her autistic son who shared my father's name. I NEVER saw him read these books. He read the newspaper and that was it. He was busy raising 2 kids on his own, he didn't even watch much TV he was doing other things -- what those things were now I couldn't tell you.

I went to a public school until the 4th grade when I was transferred to a Catholic school. In the 4th grade we were going to learn about mythology in the book series featuring Sam and Ann and their pets Nip, the dog, and Tab, the cat. When I got to the Catholic school I was excited to start the mythology part of the series. I was informed that in that school they finished those books in the 2nd grade. I was 2 years behind everyone and I never really felt too great about my reading abilities since then.

When I went to college as an honors student I was required to read 15 novels from the 19th century in a 2 semester humanities course that also covered philosopy, art history, and political science. This was on top of the Honors English class that had us reading Russian literature of the same period plus the other courses in my full load. The first novel was "Pride and Predjudice" I never finished it. I learned beyond a doubt that I was not a Jane Austen fan. I don't mind the movies but I can't hack the books. "Adjective, adjective, adjective, noun, noun, adjective...verb." (Some action sweety, some dialogue. I have an imagination I'll determine what color her freakin' dress was for myself. Unless it's vital to the story let me do some of the work.) Again starting out behind and never quite catching up wih the pack.

In my English class I met the valedictorian of one of the local schools and she told me that when she got to a word she didn't understand she's just skip it. I was flabbergasted. You're supposed to look it up! You're supposed to use that opportunity to increase your vocabulary. Maybe this is why I was so far behind. I have excellent reading comprehension and a farily good vocabulary for an aliterate maybe this is the reason.

A few years ago I decided I was going to read a "classic". Don't ask why but I decided to tackle Dicken's "David Copperfield". You gave me a lot of grief over choosing such a hard book. I visited death's door while I was reading this book (thank goodness Death was out of town for the week and I got tired of waitig for him.) Sound and direct light were painful so radio and TV were out of the question. All I could do was read in short spurts. I slept with the book in my hand and a dictionary beside me. I looked up several words a page in the beginning, mainly antiquaited words having to do with transportation.

Since then most of my reading has been academic. Text books for my ever-pending MA mostly. I prefer non-fiction. I often find myself making up stories and ignoring the words on the page in front of me when I read fiction. And reference books are the best -- any book you can open to any page and it makes sense -- now that's a good book.

Within the last couple of years my father and I had a conversation about reading -- his current girlfriend reads magazines like crazy and is always buying books. Unlike me though she actually gets a chance to read most of them. Dad and I both wish we were readers, we both wish we enjoyed it more, that it wasn't such a chore. I told him it takes practice to get good at anything. He thinks he's too old though and is resigned to be aliterate.

I am still hopeful. I want E to be a reader. Not the kind of reader his father is, he reads to the exclusion of all else. He has a very strong antisocial streak and would love to fill ALL his time with reading. He even reads on the job. Right now E loves books the way I love books. I love they way they look and feel, if there is a good story in it bonus. I hope he learns to love reading just as much as he loves to look at the pictures now.

Once again the blog has stolen hours of my evening and I must go to bed. I probably should have been reading but I decided to write instead. I can justify blogging as it is my only form of relaxation and entertainment. My new home is the black hole for broadcast media. I have no TV or radio reception here. This is where the Bermuda Triangle got all its best ideas.