Walking Amongst the Pre-Raphaelites

Early Childhood Memories/ Writing and Reading in School Combo 

Earliest memories of seeing other people writing/reading:  I recall my mother writing at the table in California.  Letters, maybe?  Anyway, I was fascinated by her script, and I remember sitting beside her and copying it (scribbles, really, but to me the curvy shapes filling the page didn’t look all that different). 

Earliest memories of self writing/reading:  The scribble-script, I think.  It intrigues me that I was captured by the look of her writing – visuality in writing is so important to me, and I believe it reflects my artistic inclinations.  I recall early writing far less than early drawing.  I had stacks of cheap typewriting paper that I covered with picture after picture.  I won a coloring contest at the age of three and was rewarded with a Hello Kitty crayon set.  The compulsive drawing & script copying would have been around the ages of 3-4, perhaps 5. 

Part of the “mythology” of my reading comes from my mother telling me that she could get me to be quiet for hours on end in the highchair by reading to me from picture books.  She knew them by heart, so I got to hold them and look at the picture while she read.  She also let me draw into the books.  I loved the images that came with the text.  

The only reading with Dad I recollect is on our car-trip when we moved from CA to NJ @ age 5/6ish.  He read to my little brother and I to keep us quiet on my mother’s turn driving.  This is a vivid experience because a.) he never read to us, and b.) he read from a Disney storybook wherein he performed the voices of the various characters.  Casey and I were mesmerized.  I think Mom was a bit jealous of our response; Casey never sat still for stories, with the exception of “Casey at the Bat” – he loved sports, and a story that wrote him into the text was great, even if it ended less than happily.  

Later we both got books in the mail that Mom ordered from a catalogue, which printed our names for the main characters – it was like magic!  I loved reading that book. 

Earliest memories of direct or indirect instruction:  Here’s where the ugly get named: Mrs. Blackwell, I declare shame upon thee!  I think she was my 4^th grade teacher.  Anyway, we read an excerpt from _The Lion, the Witch, and The Wardrobe_ and she told the class that she had the complete set of C.S. Lewis’ books; anyone wanting to borrow them to read, could.  When I asked to do so, she told me I wasn’t a good enough student to have loan of the books.  Witch indeed!

On the other hand, I remember exactly when my Mom reading to me changed to my reading for myself – we were reading _Charlotte’s Web_.  She read the 1^st half to me, and I read the 2^nd half back to her.  After that, I was off like a shot.  There was nothing I wanted more in the world than books…

Memories of places writing/reading occurred: My mother, my younger brother and I used to go to a park by our house.  I read _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ and _Through the Looking Glass_ there when I wasn’t running around like mad.  I probably read others too, but that one stood out.

Occasions associated with writing/reading: (not sure school is an “occasion,” – this could go under memories of places, but what the heck…)

In school I was never placed with the “advanced” English students, even at an early age – maybe because I was quiet?  The classroom reader was so full of stories though, so I took it home and finished the entire book in a day.  Mom told my teacher and she was surprised; then the teacher moved me in to the “advanced” reading group (this was 2^nd grade or so).  Unfortunately, that involved spelling and I just because I could read didn’t mean that I had memorized “peanut”…

In middle school, I still wasn’t allowed into honors English.  I was terribly jealous of them – they had the cooler teacher and they got to read my favorite book of all time: _Watership Down_.  A fun book – for school!  Totally unfair.  The honors teacher covered our class one day and I managed to impress her.  I couldn’t understand why she couldn’t take me with her to the “better” class.  By freshman English, I couldn’t stand it – these kids hated Shakespeare!  When I moved to 10^th grade honors English, my grades immediately shot up (the administration reasoned that I shouldn’t be put into a higher level because my performance wasn’t sufficient).  When I brought a book to class for downtime/s, nobody ever asked me why I wanted to spend free time reading.  

As far as writing is concerned, I remember far less.  Two instances that stand out: in elementary school, if we wrote stories we were allowed to read them to the class during a specified time (well, whenever that was).  Another girl, Diane, wrote a story that made everyone laugh, and I thought, “I want to do that!”  Usually, if I wanted to make friends or impress people, I drew them a picture, so this was new behavior for me (particularly doing something so visible).  So I wrote a story; it was highly derivative, but they loved it, and so so did I. J  This started me on writing little short stories.  Mom used to collect them and I used to hide them…

In middle school, we were made to keep journals.  Once a week, Mrs. Stillman pinned a new picture up and we were supposed to write… something… about it.  I wrote a story she was so impressed with she read it to the class (sooo embarrassing) and then gave it to the school paper.  They published it. 

People associated with writing/reading: Mom, always.  Dad from that one car trip – it made a big impression.  Plus he would occasionally recommend books to me.  Because of his love for it when he was younger, he recommended _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn_.  We still have a running joke: he wants me to read _Hawaii_ but I refuse because I didn’t like the 1^st chapter or so enough to commit to the whole (*massive*) book.  He’s always bringing it up and telling me I need to go past that into the remainder – the “best part.” 

The funny thing was, at the same time that Mom supported reading, she subverted its importance as well.  I had such a strong desire for books, and I remember Mom didn’t like taking me to the library (yet my brother’s trip to sports practice – no problem!) and she also didn’t like having to spend money on books very often.  I used to want to do anything for reading material – it was good bribery for a youngster.  She also blames the series _The Wizard of OZ_ for destroying my eyesight.

I also associate my older brother with reading – in a negative way.  He was as voracious a reader as I was (am) and he used to steal my books and not return them – or return them mistreated.  I am still sensitive about lending books for this very reason.  Nothing bothers me more than someone borrowing without asking or mistreating reading material.  Marking text in my own books doesn’t count – though sometimes I still like to leave the pages unblemished and visually “perfect!”

Organizations associated with writing/reading:  None very specifically, but I do remember a contest held in elementary school in tandem with the local library to encourage reading (this would be about 4^th grade).  Everyone in the class must have known I was a reader (how?), because they all assumed that either I or one other child would win.  Who was that boy/girl?  Did I win?  Don’t remember. 

Materials available for writing/reading:  Mainly the good ‘ole stuff – pens, pencils, paper.  The typewriter I never really got into.  The computer is now essential to my composing process – but I don’t remember when that came into the picture…