On the Importance of reading

  

However long the night, morning will come. During the night God repaired the silk-cotton tree and the fig-tree was no longer upset. It took time for the fig-tree to learn that the Dionysian is stormy engine of reality and the apollonian is a manufactured tool kit. I spent my childhood embracing absurdity while fearing it. I was the camel spider living in the shadows of those who wandered the piss and blood-stained deserts of bent plastic playground slides and swings. I was the dust mite hanging the sleeves kids with the newest Jordan’s while I was forced to wear hand me downs. Hand me downs that my brothers graciously passed to me because they thoroughly out grew them. I always appreciated those gifts of boots and sneakers in an array of colors. Each having a different color making it easier for me to learn how to color code and match. While there were times when I would wear suit pants, two sizes too big for me, with sneakers and polychromatic shirt with a front pocket, these times were few and far between. Either that, or I blocked those awkward times out.

Regardless of my lack of knowledge concerning style I knew I was smart. It didn’t matter that I was a shadow stalking scarecrow because I had a brain.

My love of reading was brought to you by the letter L. Lovie. My mother was an avid reader of the bible. She claimed to have read most of the major Abrahamic texts. Raised Baptist, she read the King James bible. She also read apocryphal tests like the Life and Adam and Eve and the Book of Enoch.

To be honest I really didn’t care for reading when I was in kindergarten and first grade. Also, my capacity to read was quite poor. Even though I read some verses in church I wasn’t going to church every day and often I simply didn’t do my homework with often consisted of reading assignments. I remember one evening I was sitting on the steps that led to my parents’ room. I don’t remember why I was there. Perhaps my mother of father asked to ascend the stairs and for the sake of taking dirty dishes to the sink. We didn’t eat together often. Anyway, I was sitting at the bottom of the steps with a text book. I was tasked with reading a story about a girl and a whale. I don’t remember many details, but I do remember that the story was possibly Amerindian in some way. I remember looking at the pictures, but it is not clear to me what those pictures were. I remember water, a child in a winter coat and some large sea creature. Austere, standing at the top of the steps my mother looked upon me as I was fiddling with the textbook as she asked,

-Aren’t you supposed to be reading that?

Slightly exasperated I replied,

-I really don’t want to read this!

I don’t remember much of anything else that was said after that, but I do remember not reading that story. I know I said that I didn’t like reading but I did love the pictures in those short-story collections curated for various grade levels. Images of fantastic worlds of renaissance neighborhoods, forests and modern homes. These images were fuel on the fire of drawing that one of my older brothers set around that time.

I think it was due to my lack of motivation that lead to my lowered reading capacity. While I loved listening to some of those biblical stories and gazing upon the pictures in the varied children’s books that my mother and father bought me and my sister, looking at pictures and listening to stories didn’t much aid in the development of my reading capacity if I wasn’t reading. So one day, possibly during my stint in the third or fourth grade, several other students were taken down a passage to the basement of the cathedral of the catholic school I attended. For several months. Possibly more, we were required to make, what sometimes felt like clandestine jaunts to a small room with a table in the middle. A laywoman was responsible for guiding us to that white dungeon of cinderblocks arching a few feet about our tutor’s head. She was responsible for facilitating these reading sessions. I don’t remember very many good times for that era of my life, but I do remember loving those sessions with our tutor, Mrs. La Fayette. I assume the choice of location pertained to space. Due full classrooms and due the specific times that Mrs. La Fayette would pick us up. I feel like she picked us up before lunch, but my memory of fuzzy.

While my reading improved, and I could be called upon to read a passage in front of the class with minimum error, I was still annoying. During trips a religious retreat that my mom and aunt would take me and my sister to I would latch on to other children and I believed would tolerate my presence. As intelligent as I was, socially I lacked the intelligence and empathy to understand that these other children had emotional limits. My problem was my propensity to blabber on about nothing even as these individuals who I latch on to were clearly frustrated. I think it is possible that the adults at these retreats encouraged the children who tolerated me to have patience with me.  An average day at a retreat may proceed as such. My mother and aunt take us to a church in in South St. Louis, or where north. The church was either a large catholic or Lutheran edifice with a large tree outside. Upon our arrive I’d find someone whom I gave the label of ‘best friend’ and I proceeded to follow them around unless I was otherwise directed. I’ve thrown that word around a lot. I’ve thrown the word ‘friend’ around a lot also. Both words deserve more earnestness than I have given them. Several weeks ago I was talking to a someone I meet a month prior. He referred to me as friend, but I wasn’t sure if it was wise for me to use that label. He was slightly offended when I didn’t call him friend. The problem was that I have called people friends and best friends and that sentiment was not returned.

I remember being the butt of jokes by some of these people. While I was treated poorly, it must be said that its possible that I invited some of this. My problematic attempts to conform were a wall barring me from being able to conform. For example, during middle school I would latch on to two of the four boys in my class and I would follow one of them around, thinking this was normal behavior for someone seeking attention and recognition. Ultimately these individuals functioned as bait for me to follow to larger groups of students allowing them to play with me. Once during lunch I followed someone to the a table where several students were seated. One student asked me to explain the causes of the Vietnam war. The day prior I stayed home because I was sick. While I was bedridden, eating breakfast sandwiches I pursued my favorite pastime of watching the history channel. I loved watch the show Modern marvels and attempting to make jet planes, space shuttles and guns out of cardboard. When I returned to school the next the I keep trying to talk about the Vietnam war, because it was fresh on my mind. I’m sure I had annoyed one or two students earlier that day, but I hadn’t noticed. As I spoke I noticed grins and eyes glazing over. I don’t remember much after that, but I assume I stopped talking.

This was the dynamic. I attempted to associate with people he preferred that I didn’t. Now, I don’t believe it was hate or a necessarily disgust, but maybe they just didn’t like me. Which is understandable because there were people I also didn’t like or care to be around. But I didn’t hate them, I just found them annoying. They almost functioned as a mirror. But with a mirror image that was opposite the object petit a. A complete representation of my incompleteness. I middle school I remember a girl, named Aura, who used to follow me around on occasion. At times she quite disrespectful. During class after a teacher returned graded tests she would look at my grade and if my grade was lower than hers she’d say,

-Even (insert notable stupid child) probably got higher than that.

If I scored higher than her she’d claim that I’d cheated.

I realize that while she was certainly not as intelligent as me it possible that she saw someone who was a few IQ points above her equal.

At some point I would start isolating myself. I began to realize the intolerable dynamic of the style of relationships I sought to foster.