I had this idea for a science fiction story once, something about illiteracy. See, in this future imaginary world, there are those who read books — the Red Eyes — and those who submit themselves mindlessly to watching screens 24/7 — the White Eyes. The Red Eyes are grouchy all the time, rubbing their eyes and complaining, but at least their brains are still functioning. The White Eyes have become as blank as the glistening surfaces of their retinas. And they’re taking over the world.
Creepy, yes. But I worry about literacy sometimes. I no longer think an appetite for reading simply develops naturally in kids. There are too many distractions out there now, too many options for reading to always win out on its own. It has to be encouraged and nurtured.
I’m happy that our daughter, Isobel, loves to read. She’s into the Harry Potter series right now. She got her Lexile scores (a test that gauges kids’ reading levels) from school. Turns out age eight is a pretty good time to start getting into J.K. Rowling. I asked why she likes reading so much. “It’s like a TV in my head,” she told me with a smile. “The best part is, you don’t have to wait until tomorrow or next week to see what happens next.”
Isobel’s been almost literally glued to the Rowling series for a month now. She’s into book three, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and I know as soon as that one’s done, she’ll reach for the next. It’s odd, not hearing the TV blaring on the weekends this past month. But I like the break from noise.
We visit National Bookstore with Isobel regularly, let her pick out a few titles. We had to draw the line at fang-banger lit: she’s too young for Twilight and all the other vampy variations. But she likes Roald Dahl and C.S. Lewis books, the Wimpy Kid series and, for a brief time, Geronimo Stilton. She also loves local titles, stuff from Adarna and other kids’ publishers, both in English and Tagalog. But Harry Potter has really taken hold of her. Odd, because I never much cared for the series; but reading it out loud to her at bedtime, I’ve come to thoroughly enjoy getting into character — slipping into Snape’s slithery tones, or Hagrid’s North Country burr. Hearing the words aloud makes you realize, again, how magical reading really is.
One way to get kids to read: limit their TV time. Sounds harsh, but videos and cartoons are a real time suck. We ban TV on weekdays, school nights, but allow her free reign over TV on the weekends. But the funny thing is, Isobel self-monitors: after a couple hours, she’s done, and you’re likely to see her curled up on a couch with a book in her hands instead of a remote control.
Isobel has always liked reading. She totes books to school, reads in her free time, when she’s not having lunch or recess. Maybe she started doing this because she saw her own parents toting books around all the time, or sitting and reading contentedly. Something about words has always attracted her (she also loves music, visual arts, and arguing with her parents). Maybe having two parents writing for a newspaper sparked her interest more than other kids. She’s constantly writing her own stories and books, in hopes that they will be published someday. (We save them for later, in case they are.)
But I know her love of reading didn’t just happen spontaneously. It starts with the baby canon. The bedtime classics: Goodnight Moon. Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? The Very Hungry Caterpillar. The whole Dr. Seuss catalogue. We made it a point to read to her every night.
It doesn’t stop there, though.
Soon, you begin to notice what your child likes to pick up, and what he or she sets aside after a few reads. You become a librarian, pushing further titles on them: related authors, subjects, characters that you fell for when you were a young reader. You become a pusher of books, and that is not a bad thing.
I know there’s always a breakthrough moment for young readers: the first time words come alive in their heads — better, even, than some TV show or CGI cartoon in 3-D. If there isn’t, then that’s just sad. Every kid should experience, in their own personal way, the mental telepathy (as Stephen King calls it) that takes place between writer and reader. Once they experience the power of words — an image, a description, something they read that makes them laugh — there’s no turning back. They’ve become readers.
Either that, or they become White Eyes.
Another bonus: reading helps kids learn to think.
See, some researchers say that reading is too solitary; that it doesn’t help kids socialize; it turns them inward. I say: those are not necessarily bad things. Learning to think about the world on your own is one of the priceless benefits of reading.
Did I say “think”? That is a quaint notion, isn’t it? Forming opinions of the world, on your own, in the confines of your own mental space. Nowadays, that’s been replaced by having nonstop videos and sounds shoved into your space. The onslaught of mental noise does away with thinking. You react, if at all, by muttering “That was cool,” or “That sucked.” There’s very little room for reflection in the YouTube age (have you actually read people’s video posts?) because, in a flash, you’re on to the next thing. Thinking is, like, so 20th century.
There’s one weird side effect of all this high-tech gadgetry on kids’ lives. One time, I was perusing a Scott Pilgrim book, and Isobel was looking over my shoulder, eager to get a closer look. “Let me try,” she finally said impatiently. Exactly like I was using a PlayStation, and she wanted to have a go at it.
That was cool.