two paths and a monster (draw me a story)

Bean would not leave Z alone as she attempted to complete her homework, battling with herself to write out her thoughts about all she had read.  She has a list of starter sentences given to her by her public school teacher to help her reflect on at home reading, such as: I thought about this…, My favorite part of the story was…, I predict…  Each night she writes out a sentence, practicing writing and comprehension.  She is just starting to love reading, choosing to read instead of pretend play, rising in the morning and reaching for her book.

When she was Bean’s age, she did not know her letters, she was not interested in letters, in their symbolism, their relationship to sounds and words and meaning.  Z loved to tell stories, to draw pictures that represented her ideas, to wear costumes and stand on the couch flipping and twisting to demonstrate her meaning.  She memorized the entire retelling of The Little Red Riding Hood as told by Trina Schart Hyman, with its pleases and thank yous and elderberry tea.  But she did not write, she made no attempt to read.

I forced the issue, with flash cards and workbooks.  We were moving around that year due to work, and were living in Queens when kindergarten started.  Homeschooling became a simple choice.  We wanted to enjoy the city in the few months we were passing through, the local school seemed like it would swallow my 5 year old whole, and my husband’s schedule changed every few weeks placing his weekends on Monday/Tuesdays or wherever they might land, making her 5 day school week throw our family time off kilter.  Those are my excuses for keeping her home.

Then we tortured each other.  She would throw a tantrum about dedicated learning time; I would bribe and beg and yell that she had to just try.  Finally, in all that time I was supposed to dedicate to teaching, I read enough to know it would be okay, she might not read until she was 6 or 7 or 8.  But she was smart, and she would learn if I calmed down.

Six months later we left NYC, and landed in a small town.  A small school with just two kindergarten classrooms.  By the end of the first day the teacher (a woman who had taught 32 years in the same corner classroom) determined that Z did not know the alphabet as she was unable to sing it when requested.  And for the rest of the year she worked with a reading specialist twice a day, who drilled her with uppercase and lowercase letter flashcards until she could chant A says ah, B says /b/, c says/k/…ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

I worried and knew that I had screwed up, and then determined that I had not.  And kept reading to her, everyday, just reading, her interest in literature not affected by her illiteracy.  The first grade teacher called me in and expressed her concerns about Z’s reading, and I said I would help drill her on sight words.  Which I did for a week or two, but gave up quickly, her frustration mounting as she realized that home was not safe from the drill.

So, this child, this boy, who is not yet afraid of letters, who loves bouncy O’s and X’s that mean kiss, who likes to type and declare loudly that he is writing, I will read to him and nurture each step of his reading/writing journey instead of being terrified that it will never come and adding to the panic of the age.

Last night when Z fretted over writing at her table and needed quiet, I pulled Bean into the kitchen with a piece of paper and a handful of crayons.  I said, “Draw me a story.” And this is what he wrote, drawing a picture as his dialogue rushed out describing the two paths (a good one and a bad one), the bump in the road and the monster.

Perhaps its a reminder of how early civilizations recorded their histories, their fears.  It’s Bean’s writing, his graphic etching on a cave wall.

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