- Home
- Academics
- Academic Departments
- Et al. Journal
- Volume VI: In My Own Words 2016/2017
- My (not so) Horrible History with Literacy
My (not so) Horrible History with Literacy
Kirk Bampton
Oh my word was it boring. Why, oh why, did we have to do it? I actually feared for
my teeth on those days as just the mention of it would cause me to grit them to refrain
from using one of those "bad words." If I didn't have the sense my mother tells me
I was born with, I would suggest some of the other kids developed stomach ulcers.
What I'm talking about is dictation. That ridiculous activity where the teacher reads
out a text – usually as dull as dishwater – and the students have to write down what
they hear. My teacher would hand out a musty piece of lined paper to each student
along with a dangerously sharp pencil. She would then return to the front of the class
and begin to read from a book which was published exclusively for dictation; a collection
of paragraphs without any ongoing plot or interesting language. There would be one
sentence followed by a painfully long pause, allowing the slow writers time to get
it down on their paper. That would go on for at least two dozen sentences, and each
pause was, for me at least, far too long and a repetitive source of boredom. Now I
suppose it taught some students where to put certain punctuation marks, or gave them
examples of how to read with expression, but I found it to be a waste of my precious
childhood. I could already read and write very well and had good listening skills
since I was in utero. How was I going to reclaim my passion for literacy?
Fortunately, my parents took the time to teach me to read and write before I started
school. Both of them were determined that my three siblings and I were to have the
best possible chances of success in life. Most days in the year before I started school,
my mother would sit me down on the couch and either read to me, or have me read to
her. It usually came with a snack and was followed by play time which I now realize
must have been a reward for my literacy. I would pick up new words and ideas, getting
practice that my peers likely did not. Aside from the comforting intimacy that came
from sitting on her lap, it gave me an enjoyable way to practice my reading. My parents
believed early literacy was the cornerstone of almost everything else. It is a belief
I still hold and practice with my four-year-old today. I will never be able to repay
them for the upbringing they gave me. Being ahead of the curve was a great bonus;
I had good relationships with all of my teachers and I received quite a few awards.
That was until I reached the fourth grade. I had never before seen a class with such
wildly mismatched students. Some could read very well, some only a little. A few of
them needed their sticky little fingers to follow the words, others just their eyes.
Some kids' writing looked as though a tarantula had plunged into an inkwell and then
scurried across the pages (I say with a deluge of hypocrisy). I had to endure a number
of classes consisting of simple spelling, excruciatingly slow reading, and, I'm sure,
dictation.
My mind couldn't take it anymore. It started to act as my Ascalon slaying the dragon
of boredom. I would daydream about playing football rather than listening to my classmates
read. Then when it came to my turn, I would read as quickly as I could just to get
it over and done with. Another great time waster was to discuss the latest goings-on
in the then-World Wrestling Federation.
"Hey Ross, did you see that choke slam last night?" I would say. "Can you believe
they got together in a tag team?"
I wasn't learning anything new. My reading and writing skills were stagnating. My
relationship with literacy was now heading down the proverbial toilet. Mrs. Sinha,
my fourth grade teacher, realized this and was the plunger that rescued me.
While we were writing during one particularly lowbrow lesson, Mrs. Sinha called me
over and menacingly whispered the most frightening words a child can hear: "I need
to talk to you." She didn't really emit those words in that manner but has a young
child ever heard them any other way? My stomach churned and my throat tightened, but
they need not have. She reached into her handbag and handed me a copy of one of her
son's Horrible Histories books by Terry Deary. I really wish I could remember exactly
which one it was. If I could, I would buy a copy, frame it, and hang it up as a monument
to all of my successes with literacy since that moment. Alas, it will have to remain
as "one of those books." Her son was a couple of years older than me and the book
not really aimed at a fourth grader. Yet there was no issue; she recognized I could
handle both the vocabulary and the subject matter.
"I thought you might enjoy this, Kirk," she said to me, wearing her broad smile.
"Oh, yes. Thanks," I muttered in surprise.
"You can read this while we work on the next topic. Let me know what you think," she
replied as she shepherded me back to my seat.
I did not hesitate to get started. I opened the book and didn't close it until I heard
Mrs. Sinha calling out "Lunchtime!" at least an hour later. It was absolutely fascinating.
It was an interesting history told using jokes and unusually gruesome facts. That
was it. I was hooked.
I spent a lot of time over the following week or so reading that book while the rest
of the class worked on something else. Each day started with me being excited about
going to school rather than dreading it. My outlook had changed and my reading skills
drastically improved. As soon as I finished that first book, she gave me another one
to borrow. I gobbled up that one and received yet another.
"Mrs. Sinha! I've finished this one."
"No problem. My son has plenty more. I'll bring you a different one tomorrow."
Her generosity was as endless as summer in the tropics, as was her commitment to me
and every other student in her class. I was constantly being shown it was okay to
stand out. She was ignoring my age, and all of the associated stereotypes with that,
as she helped me regain my previous upward trajectory with literacy. I dread to consider
what would have resulted if she had been the Antonin Scalia of school curricula and
stuck to exactly what was written in front of her.
Since that year, I have never fallen out of love with reading again. Mystery novels,
presidential biographies, and newspapers are just a few of the things I take pleasure
in reading. But there is a special place in my heart for what can be best-described
as "history as entertainment." My reading skills have gotten me jobs and helped me
to successfully apply to university.
I sincerely hope that as you read this, I have managed to locate and reconnect with
Mrs. Sinha. My first message to her will contain just two simple words, thank you.