A MEMOIR

A Nobel Prize Winner in the Making

Reading recovery redemption

When our youngest was seven I was volunteering in his classroom often. I came in to read with the kids three mornings a week. Once a month I would read a book to the whole class because I was apparently really good at it and I was requested.

Don’t all the reading moms do the voices and accents?

The teacher, to her credit, noticed there were three boys who were not at grade level for reading. One could read absolutely any word you gave him, even silent p’s, but didn’t understand any of it. The other two were still sounding out every letter and struggled with the word ‘the’ even after seeing it countless times.

Two of us volunteered to be taught a program called Reading Recovery. I’m sure there was more to it than we learned and I frankly, don’t remember the techniques, but it was a full-day crash course on how to teach kids how to read. It required coming in five days a week for the boys, but the other mother and I split it up to cover the whole year.

One boy, in particular, I’ll call him Andy, struggled. Really struggled. But, God bless him, he tried and wanted to learn so badly. The other boys had graduated to working with the teacher and staying in the regular reading rotation as did the other mother. I was left with Andy for 30 minutes a day. He was sounding things out, being patient, and trying his best. I worried he was dyslexic or had some other condition that might prevent his progress. I’d had conversations with the teacher and we monitored him closely based on parent feedback.

It was March and I was beginning to lose faith that Andy was going to progress. I had a grandiose idea that he would thank me when winning the Nobel in literature as the person who gave him the love of reading. That image was fading fast.

The sun was out this Monday so I moved our comically small table and chairs to the other side of the hall to take advantage of better light. We were sitting under the life-size cutouts of all his classmates with parts of the body labeled on what could have been construed as a crime scene outline of each kid.

Andy and I began with a book he had seen many times and had memorized a few passages. I thought it would be good to gain him the confidence to move to a new book I had selected for him. He went through it with surprising ease and I high-fived him and wrote my notes before introducing his new reader.

I asked Andy if he had ever read that book before and he told me he hadn’t. He read the title and opened it to the first page without being prompted. He read each page like it was easy. Every page he read aloud. No stumbles. No sounding out. He didn’t notice the tears streaming down my face as I asked him questions about what he read. Nor did he comment on how I looked at him with more pride than I expected. He read the backup book and, since we had 30 minutes together, several books after that at his request.

I looked at Andy as if I had witnessed a miracle. At the moment, I believe I had. Andy knew how to read. I hugged him so hard I was concerned he would tell the teacher I’d hurt him. I cried. He laughed.

“That was incredible, Andy,” I said.

“What was?”

“You could read all those books and you didn’t stumble once or even make a mistake.”

“Really?”

That is when I realized, with all my gushing, that he hadn’t understood what had transpired. It really just clicked. He had spent so many hours reading with me that it didn’t occur to him that he wasn’t doing much reading in those minutes. His frustration wasn’t present for him all those days because the determination was there for him. In front of my eyes, Andy was able to see the words clearly and they made sense.

His mother called to thank me. English was not her first language and she had been doing her best to try to help Andy, but it wasn’t coming naturally to her either.

I would see Andy in the regular rotation after that and he was jumping ahead grade levels each time we met.

“I read to my mom at bedtime.” He blushed.

Although it was a large time commitment, every minute I spent with Andy was worth it. If my being there and encouraging his natural need to read was my only contribution, I am grateful. What Andy doesn’t know is what he taught me that year. He taught me the value of tenacity. That boy never gave up. He did not get visibly frustrated. He did not tell me he felt stupid or less than any of the other kids. He knew in his heart he would get there when it was his time.

I’m glad I was there when it was.

Thank you, Andy. That was better than any accolades you could have given me. You shared the moment you learned to read with me and I will forever hold you in my heart. Now, go grab that Nobel. I’m cheering for you.

Good luck to all The Memoirist Idol participants.

I loved this piece by Alex P. Grief is a puzzle in the most beautiful way.