We’re having a bit of tension here at Chez Atkins tonight. I’m mad at Zoe and on a bit of a rampage about it and Beth thinks I’m being unreasonable. So basically: same thing, only different.
This battle was triggered by the book A Wrinkle in Time. I read it when I was a kid — I don’t remember how old I was — and I absolutely loved it. I loved it so much that even now, 30-some years later, I have a vague warm fuzzy feeling when I think about it. I don’t remember much about the story, I don’t remember any of the characters, I don’t remember how it ends or even what it’s about, really. The one thing I do remember quite clearly is what a “wrinkle in time” is in the book’s world. And, most importantly, I remember that I absolutely loved this book. I think it may have been my introduction to science fiction, and I turned out to be a big ol’ science fiction geek. So when Zoe and I were at the library the other day and I stumbled across A Wrinkle in Time on the shelf, I immediately wanted to share it with her.
I was a voracious reader when I was a kid. I read anything and everything everywhere and anywhere, any time. I used to get in trouble for reading in class — I’d prop a library book up behind my schoolbook and read instead of doing the classwork. I remember the librarian saying to me when I was in fifth grade (at good old Palm View Elementary in Palmetto, Fla) that I had read nearly every book in the school library. I remember spending hours up in the mango tree in our back yard there in Florida, reading the weekends away. I loved to read.
Zoe, however, does not. And it is a source of huge frustration for me.
Every parent wants their kid to be brilliant, to be a genius, to be a prodigy. I’m no different. And for the most part I’ve gotten that — Zoe is a beautiful, smart, funny, remarkably well-adjusted, good hearted kid. But her resistance to reading triggers something negative in me, a prejudice against non-readers as being … well, not so smart. And I want my kid to be smart. I want my kid to read at the same elevated level and with the same eager hunger that I did, and the fact that she doesn’t makes a part of me paint her with a black brush.
I’ve tried to be gentle and encouraging about it with her. I’ve tried to make it fun. I’ve tried to awaken her to the joy and wonder books can bring. I’ve tried to frame it in terms relevant to her (“It’s like TV in your head!”). I’ve even tried bribing her: five bucks, cash, for every book she finishes. And her response has not exactly been what I was looking for.
Zoe will read, yes. But she won’t like it. And she won’t do much of it. And she wants it to be easy. When I’ve taken her to the bookstore to find books that will appeal to her, she goes for books for much younger children — not because that’s what her reading level is, but because they’re smaller. They’re shorter. They’re easier. And I’m afraid that I get angry about that.
When we want her to read, she resists us. She bargains to get out of it or delay it. She negotiates rewards for minimal page counts. She acts put upon. She sulks. She occasionally cries. And then when she finally does get down to reading she does the bare minimum. She reads one short chapter and stops. Or she finishes the chapter she didn’t finish last time and stops. She reads three pages and stops. She stops. She comes out after half an hour and announces that she read four pages — as if that were a substantial accomplishment. And I get angry about that.
I remember how when I was a kid I couldn’t wait to get back to whatever book I was reading. I remember reading in bed at night, under the covers with a flashlight. I remember flipping pages feverishly, rushing to read as much as I could before I had to do something else. I remember not wanting to stop. Ever.
That’s what I want for Zoe and it makes me angry that she very clearly doesn’t want that for herself. And when I’m angry, everybody knows about it. Which is where we are tonight: me storming because Zoe complained about being asked to read some more of A Wrinkle in Time, Zoe in tears because I’m angry at her, Beth angry at me because I’m angry at Zoe.
And me angry at me because I’m being a dick.
I need to remember that I have a good kid. No, a great kid. And while it kills me that she’s clearly one more kid in a generation that doesn’t read, I need to remember that it doesn’t mean she’s…
Well, fuck, I can’t even finish that sentence. Dumb, that’s the word I keep wanting to use, but it’s not the word that fits. I do ascribe intelligence to people who read, but I don’t think she’s not because she doesn’t.
I think that what I really am right now is sad. I loved that stupid book so much, and I wanted her to love it too. I wanted to be able to share it with her, to introduce it into her world, for her to feel that same excitement about it that I felt. I wanted something that meant so much to me to mean just as much to her. I wanted us to share it, I wanted it to be a touchstone between us.
But Zoe doesn’t like to read.
