When I was a young child, I read a lot.  I loved to escape to the dumbwaiter with “Harriet the Spy,”  a book I re-read over and over.  And I understood Ramona, because I think I, too was a pest.   I spent summer afternoons and countless evenings reading, with my mother or by myself.  I remember being in school, anxious to leave to get back to whatever book captivated me at that time.  Saturday afternoons spent at the Public Library are precious memories.  I affectionately remember the smell of the library, old books, and the crinkly plastic covers on the books to protect them.

When in high school, however, I took little pleasure in reading.  It seemed so much of my reading was forced on me.  I might now enjoy great British or American authors but in school, it was stilted and boring.  I remember dreading American Authors class and “The Red Badge of Courage,”  by Stephen Crane, described as one of the most influential books in American literature; a book my 8 year old son might grow to love.  But at the time, that and “The Scarlett Letter” by Nathaniel Hawthorne, were simply dreadful.  Which, by the way is interesting because I think “The Scarlett Letter” is one of the most intriguing books about Puritanism and the psychology of sin. Somehow, I don’t think it was quite presented to me that way in high school.  I think my dislike of literature grew because of the way I was expected to learn about these works.  It was not for the enjoyment at all.

In college, any book I read had great deep meaning, of course.  “The Great Gatsby” by F. Scott Fitzgerald holds a special place for me, as it reignited my interest in literature that was killed in high school.  I must admit though, I read way too much Hemingway and certainly carried some affect regarding this.  As I became an adult, my penchant for reading that I had as a child had diminished greatly.  I still read a lot, but not with the same fervor.  I forced myself to read books I “should” read, rather than what really grabbed me.  The first time I ever put a book down, without finishing it, was when I started “Presumed Innocent” by Scott Turow, an author I grew to relish later in life.  Today, I believe I have read every Scott Turow book there is, from “One L” to “Limitations,” some more than twice.  I began to enjoy his books and exceptional vocabulary when I let go of what was expected of me, what I believed I “should” be doing.  There are so so many wonderful books to read, sometimes it’s overwhelming.

Lately, I have a new love for children’s chapter books.  A few authors have brought me tears.  There are those authors, like the timeless Beverly Cleary, and the brilliant Kate DiCamillo (author of “The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, ”  “Because of Winn Dixie” and more) who truly understand children.  You never get the feeling, when reading these books, that an adult is behind all those words and all those feelings and expression.  As a parent, when reading how Ramona became concerned about her parents financial situation, in her innocence and honesty but protectiveness of her parents, it helped me remember just how children see the world. They don’t necessarily need to be shielded from every reality, but they simply require patience and need love.  Edward Tulane, a fancy china-bunny doll learns unconditional love through an extraordinary, “miraculous” adventure thrust upon him.  Kate DiCamillo has the same uncanny ability that Beverly Clearly has to transport the unwitting and jaded adult into the sweet and innocent child world.   Ramona, and many other characters in these great works, have helped me be a better parent, to better understand children.  And these characters remind me that sometimes its just simple.

When Mae was 8 or 9, we read “Esperanza Rising,” by Pam Muñoz Ryan, which we have since re-read a few times.  It is the fictional story of a 13 year-old privileged girl in Mexico, who, through a series of events, comes to America with her family, sneaking over the border and becoming a migrant worker, not able to attend school in America because she must work.  The love and attachment she has to her family, particularly her mother and grandmother is astounding, but it’s really what all children have; a  great capacity for love.  Esperanza endures tough times, and has deep feeling and expression, though Pam Muñoz’s writing in simple and beautiful. Esperanza chokes me up, and Mae often must be the one reading the book during those sections that are just too meaningful to an adult. Esperanza’s bravery when she faces pain and sadness is in every child. And we must nurture it.

These are lessons from children’s literature.  And it’s because of this that I cannot stop reading these great books.  I have taken to reading them on my own, and will gladly read them with my children. I hope the love of literature I had as a child and recently regained through my children, stays with my kids all throughout life, including high school when they are faced with the same great authors I read with such resistance.