There is something about my childhood that I think you should know. When I was just two years old, I was diagnosed with a mild form of autism known as Asperger's syndrome. I had trouble talking with others. I had trouble with my handwriting. And, you guessed it, I had trouble reading.But, you'll be happy to know that I did improve upon my reading skills when I was handed my first children's book in preschool at the tender age of four. I can recall a "pop-up" book collection about a miniature Golden Retriever known as Spot. These "pop-up" books made it much easier for me to read the words as well as navigate each vibrant page, each of which contained a hidden object that led to the clues Spot was so eager to find. There was one "pop-up" pocket-sized book, in particular, in which Spot had to find his bone for dinner. I had to "lift" a "golden toy chest," "open" a "kitchen closet," all until he finally found his bone back in the "toy chest!" The words in these books were by no means powerful, but they were still a critical tool for my all-important cognitive skills in every sense of the developmentally delayed word.
Perhaps no other children's book collection, however, had a more profound impact on my childhood (and in my later years in life) than the Berenstain Bears. They "lived down a sunny dirt road in Bear Country," but the lessons they taught me, as well as every other friend and relative of mine, were of great, if not astronomical, importance to life itself. My all-time favorite in this series is "The Berenstain Bears Get the Gimmies (1988)." It teaches you how not to be greedy when you're at the grocery store, the retail store, and even at home. I realized that I should never ask for more money and/or more candy and other "addictive" material things because, as I began to realize at the end of the story, asking for more and more on a continual basis can be embarrassing and totally impolite. In other words, I realized it was important for me to be grateful for whatever I have rather than what I don't have, which continues to be my most moral status quo to this day.
Although I did love reading children's books in preschool and elementary school once I got the hang of their colorful words and illustrations, I hate to admit that my middle school reading experiences were less than fulfilling. I had trouble reading slightly more intricate chapter books like Daniel Keyes' "Flowers for Algernon (1966)," S.E. Hinton's "Rumble Fish (1975)" and "The Outsiders (1967)," "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy, and many other stories tailored for young adults; they simply didn't contain any pictures. I also had to start doing more detailed book reports not just on the stories themselves, but on the broad, sometimes taboo, themes they emphasized as well. What I did find fulfilling about "Algernon," however, was that it was about a man with severe mental retardation; I began to realize that being retarded was a chronic medical condition and not merely another indirect, derogatory synonym for acting stupid. Although "Algernon" was still dated in its depiction of the medical treatment the protagonist received by the time I reached my "tween" years, I no longer treat others with developmental disabilities the same way again, but in an inspiring and uncondescending way, that is.
Summer reading was no fun for me in both junior high and high school. I had to read stories mandated by my teachers or, better yet, my hometown's Board of Education committees. I had to write increasingly intensive essays that didn't pertain to my simplistic, or rather juvenile, style of writing. I had to make sure everything was done right before the first school bell rang on the first day of school. The list went on and on.
But what was deeply ironic about my adolescence was that I did, indeed, become a much better writer. The books I had to read in school may have been insignificant or less than satisfying, but that, by no means, interfered with my collective, self-reflective diaries. I always wrote in my journal about how I was feeling about my education and personal life, as well as how others perceived me in the process. I also began to teach myself about how to write solid non-fiction essays, for that meant something even more self-sustaining altogether.
But who deserves credit for this improvement? Well, I would have to admit that it was my high school English teacher who made me much more enthusiastic about my reading and writing both in and out of the classroom in the end. She truly cared about my potential to rise to the top of my special education class. She knew I literally had a learning disability that was hard to classify or explain, let alone admit to others openly. More importantly, she realized just how difficult it would be for me to succeed beyond high school. The rest is history.
I am now an avid reader and writer. I'm not much of a fiction lover, although I do read some bestsellers like "The Da Vinci Code (2003)" when I have spare time, especially at night. Most of the time, however, I like to read a diverse range of non-fiction treatises and "novels," even if they are for "escapist" pleasure rather than as academic food for thought. But even more important than my current reading habits are the ways in which I write. I'm no longer apprehensive about writing scholarly essays and book reports, so I'm no longer writing in my journal on a daily basis. Although I still struggle with my writing in terms of finding the most appropriate style and syntax, I would have to admit that improvement is no substitute for continuing to explore new avenues and pathways for as long as I remain most literately competent.
But do I still read a favorite book from my childhood that continues to be in my collective self-consciousness? You bet. I happened to (and still happen to) memorize almost every single gem of a line in Dr. Seuss' "How the Grinch Stole Christmas (1957)." I'm sure I'm not the only child still at heart who can do I what do at my Grinchy best. So, that said, it's always comforting to know that even the most trivial of all things wordy can live in your heart forever for whatever reason you make it to be.
ABOUT THE WRITER
Jamie Quaranta has a Bachelor of Library and Information Science degree from Southern Connecticut State University in New Haven, Connecticut.
As a journalism student at Housatonic Community College in Bridgeport, CT from 2003-2007, he received numerous accolades from his friends, teachers, colleagues, and relatives alike for his outstanding amateur writings in a diverse range of styles, including creative non-fiction essays. In addition, he worked as a staff writer for the renowned two-year school’s student-run "Horizons" newspaper, where he specialized in arts-and-entertainment reviews, editorials, health news briefs, and other genres.
redtaglibrary@yahoo.com
