I was introduced to the world of reading at the ripe old age of three. I used to sit on my mother's lap and listen to her read to me. It unlocked a world that was foreign. As I listened, I would gather the words like so many gulps of air. I became increasingly amazed that such a fascinating world existed. Reading, opening a child's imagination without racial prejudices.
I listened to mother with exuberance. As she spoke, the rhythm of the intonations would ring in my ear like a symphony of words. I could feel myself growing...coming alive with anticipation of what would happen next in the story. Each word morphed into a miniature paintbrush...painting on the canvas of my imagination. Those words! What to make of them? How strong? Or weak? They pointed at me like daggers...I was transfixed. The minutes drifted into hours, and thus a little three-year-old wafted off to sleep on the canoe of the imagination.
Oh, I still can remember some of my favorites. I especially liked Dr. Seuss' books. I still have vivid images of Green Eggs and Ham. Other of my favorites included many of the classics: Jack and the Bean Stalk, Little Bo Peep, The Three Bears, Jack and Jill, The Three Little Pigs.
As so many years cascaded by...I began school. I developed a love hate relationship with the anatomy of the sentence. Forced to investigate how the structure breathed in and out. I didn't want to know how, just that it did...BREATHE. I felt angry. The need for self expression was intense. But it was often tempered with the realization that the skeleton that inhabited the body of words had to be developed. I did along the way though, increase in the appreciation for the written language. I had increased in the reading of words to the level of college in the 3rd grade.
All this, much to the thirst of my other classes. I used to sit and day dream. I wondered what other worlds existed outside the tot lot. There had to be more than reciting the pledge of allegiance. Alas, more than the three R's. I didn't want to be stuck in this cramped vestibule forever. I pined for more than I could handle. Somehow the key to my freedom would be tucked away in the form of the written word. For me the spoken language was a playful sister that I would dress up in the fabric of imagination.
If only we could preserve this wonder when we become adults and free ourselves of all racial prejudices through the imagination of a child.