Silence in the Library, by Martha Thomases – Brilliant Disguise | @MDWorld
November 7, 2015 Victor El-Khouri 1 Comment
I love books.
Not just because they are the sources of so much information. Not just because they insulate the walls of my house from intense heat, cold, and I suppose even radiation.
Not just because they solidify my reputation as an elitist East Coast snob.
I mean, I really love books.
According to a new survey, my love of books has made my life much more successful.
The study compares the reading and math scores of students around the world. The United States doesn’t do well. And before you blame it on the teachers’ union or big government, read what they say: Even when allowing for income inequality (so that well-to-do students in the US are compared to well-to-do students in other countries, and poor students are compared to poor students), we still fall behind.
To me, this suggests a cultural difference between the United States and the rest of the world. We claim to respect teachers, but we don’t pay them as if their work is valued (especially compared toothed professions that require the same amount of training). We claim to value education, but when money is tight, we cut school budgets first. We claim to think learning is important, but each parent will demand that her child get good grades or threaten to sue.
And don’t get me started about the way we value varsity-level sports over education (or student health).
Fortunately, the study suggests that there might be a relatively inexpensive fix, the kind Americans like. The main difference between grade-level students and those who can’t meet those standards is books.
Specifically, books in the home. This suggests that kids who grow up in homes with books do better in school.
As a person with a home filled with books, this makes me feel smugly self-righteous. Once I get over this, however, I think about the other kinds of families, and other kinds of homes. Some kids aren’t lucky enough to be born into families that have books. Some kids have crappy, ignorant parents. Some kids have lovely parents who happen to be ignorant. Some kids have parents who are lovely, but don’t happen to be readers themselves. Some kids don’t even have parents.
We can’t fix the random fate that lets any two people create another, dependent life (at least not without forced sterilization, which isn’t something good). We can, however, work as a society to provide every child with access to books.
In fact, we have. They’re called libraries. And while libraries suffer from the same misguided parsimony that afflicts our schools, it will be much more cost effective to improve them than to fall behind the rest of the world in education and innovation.
There is already tremendous demand placed on our under-funded libraries. People already stand on line like they’re waiting for Star Wars tickets just so they’re kids can be part of story-time.
I love the act of reading. I love stories. I love being able to curl up with an inanimate object that understands me. When I feel ugly and unloveable, my books accept me. They are always my friends. Some writers seem to not just speak to me, but to actually sync up to my neurons on a biological level. For example, this opening from Great Jones Street always gives me chills:
“Fame requires every kind of excess. I mean true fame, a devouring neon, not the somber renown of waning statesmen or chinless kings. I mean long journeys across gray space. I mean danger, the edge of every void, the circumstance of one man imparting an erotic terror to the dreams of the republic.”
That’s from 1973, and it still haunts me. I still want to start rereading a book I’ve read dozens times.
Let’s get books to our kids. Let’s let them revel in the pleasure of reading, instead of ordering them about like it’s work. Let’s encourage them to display their creativity and their trust and their unique selves with words, not weapons.
Martha Thomases, Media Goddess, doesn’t even necessarily think Great Jones Street is Delillo’s best book, just the best first page. Ever.
Howard Cruse
November 7, 2015 - 3:39 pm
I’m with you, Martha. Our house in the little Alabama farm town I grew up in was full of books, shelf after shelf of them. In the years before our family had a television I could always entertain myself by roaming around and picking out something that had an interesting spine or even pictures inside. And best of all, my Dad used to read books aloud to the rest of us in the evening, one or two chapters per night. I loved hearing the stories and it made me want to write stories of my own. I absolutely believe that having those books around shaped my life in a very good way.
Karen
November 7, 2015 - 4:18 pm
Ah, that’s lovely, Martha.
R. Maheras
November 9, 2015 - 1:14 pm
My wife and I read to my kids every day as soon as they were old enough to sit on our laps. Books were associated with enjoyment, wonder, excitement, and love. They also grew up in an environment where books were venerated, and some of the more special treasures were even sealed in protective plastic bags. As a result, my kids developed into voracious readers, and when we went to the mall, the first stop wasn’t the Gap or some other trendy store, it was always the book store — at their insistence. I think it was all very beneficial, as my kids are now educated, intelligent adults, and very productive members of their communities.
S. Savoy
November 14, 2015 - 1:05 pm
Okay, so now you’ve put another author on my list, Martha! My parents had books around the house, but many of them were rare or in some other way untouchable. I sated my lust for reading at the library, or with books I received as presents because I was “the one who likes to read.” I got my revenge on the untouchable books, though. One day my mother, thin-lipped with anger and clutching her oversized Family Bible, demanded needlessly, “Did YOU do THIS?” I was confronted with one of my long-forgotten expressions of boredom and creativity, and instead of being contrite I made the mistake of blurting out a snicker-giggle. “Gee, I thought you’d laugh, Mum.” Page after full-color page, photo plates of a balding, bobbing priest performing High Mass sported jaunty talk bubbles containing such gems as “Ouch, I hit my head,” and “Mmmm, more wine, please.” Because my single working mother had scrimped and done without for months to make installments on that overpriced monstrosity, I bit back my smirks and took a Pink Pearl to my clever edits, leaving ghostly jokes hovering over the Eucharist. After taking whatever punishment I got for that particular stunt, I limited myself to scribbling in the margins of Mad Magazine and Classic Comics.