To read, or not to read…

…that’s a stupid question.

I can’t remember not knowing how to read. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t grab a book, even while sitting in front of the TV, and sneak as many pages as I could in between commercials of my favorite shows. I can’t remember a time where I didn’t get into trouble, regularly, because I would sneak a flashlight under my covers, or strain my eyes by the fading light of the Midnight Sun coming through my windows just to finish this page, this chapter, this book.

I have always loved to read. I still have some problems with it, however, as I essentially taught myself to read due to the type of school we attended. There are some words I still mispronounce to this day, because I always saw them in print, but didn’t often hear them out loud. For instance, I have to stop and think twice before saying errand, in order to place the emphasis on the correct syllable. It drives my mother nuts, I think, but I prefer to consider it a charming quirk! I also have the ability to forget what I’ve read, or most of the little details, which gives me the ability to reread books multiple thousands of times and always find something new, something delightful within the well-worn pages.

All three of my children had more problems learning to read then I did when they were young. It was a battle up until the 3rd grade or so, when everything clicked, and suddenly I couldn’t get a book out of their hands. They grabbed and read everything in sight, they devoured – sometimes slowly, sometimes at the speed of light – words on a page, and gave their imagination flight. I still fight with the youngest a bit – she’s just now turning that corner into learning the joy of reading vs. the chore of homework, but I see her becoming a life long reader as well.

When I was 15, my first boyfriend gave me a book to borrow, but insisted I hide it from my parents. I don’t even remember the title, but I remember that it was deliciously naughty, and if I got caught… oh. That would have been bad. I hovered over the pages when my parents weren’t home, I kept it hidden under my bed when they were home, I read each and every naughty, naughty page in the fading summer light until I finished it and gave it back. It was one of the more explicate forms of romance novels, that much I remember. It touched on every forbidden theme that you could think of, sometimes twice, while weaving a tale of lords and ladies and fancy dresses and parties. I don’t remember the details, but I remember how I felt reading it.

Deliciously wicked.

When I was 17, my English teacher, Mrs. T, suggested I pick up Steven King’s IT when she discovered my love of horror movies (thanks to my uncle!). I did, and I couldn’t put it down. It was scary and shivery, and made you question every bump in the night. I was chilled, and thrilled when I could FEEL the words, instead of simply read them. I began to devour every book Steven King ever wrote. I was hooked.

In my 30s, I met TBF online, and he demanded I pick up Wizard’s First Rule, by Terry Goodkind. I hadn’t felt such a thrill since I’d picked up IT in high school. In an entirely different way, Goodkind captured my imagination, and then used it to teach me something. Sure, toward the end of the series, he got a mite bit preachy, but I could still appreciate the story, and the views, and the ultimate Rule – Your life is your own. Rise up and live it.

Despite some of the books that I devoured in my time, I am not a sex maniac, an ax wielding murderer, or a torture inflicting Mord Sith bent on controlling my ‘pet’ until he is no longer of use. I am not a wizard battling the forces of evil, I am not a Sister of the Dark bent on destroying the world. I am not a junkie in search of her next fix, nor a prostitute searching for faith and true love. I am not a telepath, an empath, a dragon rider (despite my chosen nickname!) or a mindship exploring space. I am not a detective with witty comebacks and deductive reasoning, I’m not a flight attendant (Cherry Ames!), a teenage sleuth (Nancy Drew, Trixie Beldon) nor am I a Bobsy Twin, even though I desperately wanted to be one when I was 12.

I am a responsible (stop laughing, mom) adult, raising up responsible kids.

September 26th begins Banned Book Week. There are many books that the narrow-minded have attempted to ban, including the Harry Potter series, as well as Mia Angelou’s poetry, AND the Golden Compass. All for different reasons, the last because they didn’t like the religious content, Harry Potter was declared demonic in some circles, and Angelou’s poetry is too often sexually explicit, and covers topics like racism. The Color Purple has been targeted because of homosexuality, and offensive language.

It amazes me that in this day and age, we parents are still so terrified of letting our teenagers think, that we have to pull the books out of their hands and declare them unreadable. Are we THAT sure we’ve fucked up (oops! maybe I’m next on the ‘banned’ list!) their early years and teaching or morals and responsibility, that we don’t think they can handle some other opinions? Are we THAT terrified that we were incompetent parents and taught them nothing, that a few words on the page is going to turn them against all we consider sacred? Are we that frightened to have our beliefs challenged, our hearts expanded and our minds opened?

While I know that my parents would not of approved of the first book I mentioned, and hardly approved of the second because they were kinda squeemish about the horror genre, I am glad that I read them, and that they fostered a love of reading in me when I was little, as well as the ability to think and create my OWN opinions. While we tend to agree, there are a lot of areas we disagree too, but my parents gave me the ability to make my own decisions, to create my own personal truths and beliefs, some of which are colored by some of the books I have read over the years. I’m forever grateful to them for that.

I refuse to censor my children, and I refuse to ban books from their reading library. While I won’t let my 9 year old read trashy romance because she is not ready for that, I won’t ban the same from my teenage daughter, or my son from Wizard’s First Rule, despite the violently intense nature of chapter 41. (Yes, I remember the exact chapter number that I reread 15 times then and still GASP at today.) It’s about exploring the world through written word, it’s about expanding your mind, it’s about…

…it’s about enjoying a story, for heaven’s sake, and sometimes only for the sake of the story, nothing more, nothing less.

So go. Get a book that they’ve tried to ban. Give it to your teenagers. Let them read the word fuck in Catcher in the Rye 18 million times. Let them read a little naughty chapter in a romance novel, and giggle along with your teenage daughter over phrases like ‘heaving bosoms’ and ‘throbbing manhood’. Let them discover what it feels like to be huddled under the covers in the middle of the night reading a scary story – and make them scream in fright by banging on their door as you walk by. (The ULTIMATE in fun, that!) Let them expand their mind, even as you open your own.

We’ve given them the tools they need their whole life to make the right decisions. Its time to let them stretch their wings a little, and trust we’ve given them enough to fly.