I don’t remember learning to read. I have a vague but lasting impression of sitting on my mother’s lap, watching her finger move under the lines, “'Trip, trap; trip, trap!' went the bridge. 'WHO'S THAT tripping over my bridge?' roared the Troll,” and realizing the words above her fingers and the ones I heard matched.
All grown up, I read (for the umpteenth time) Scout’s account in my beloved book, To Kill a Mockingbird of being able to read since birth. I imagined that like her, at some point the lines above the moving finger magically came to make meaning in my three-year-old brain. But when I asked my mother how I learned to read so young, she told me she’d sent away for a mail order phonics kit and started teaching me my letters and sounds not long after I could talk. The curtain of reading magic ripped from my belief system, I figured, well, what else was a pregnant military wife to do with her toddler in the days before Sesame Street?
At our house there were no incentives or bribes to get us kids to read. It’s just what we did. Since we moved every two or three years, our belongings stayed sparse, and shopping was a rare event. But when we went for an outing, after the treat of a deli sandwich, or even fancier, a cafeteria meal, we inevitably wound up at a bookstore. Once I made my selection, handed over my proposed purchase, and pleaded, “Can I get this one?” I was never told no.
When movers came to take our things to the next duty station, the bulk of our fortune—tied up in bound printed paper—was boxed for the haul. We knew it might be months before pictures were hung on the new house’s walls, but the books would be unpacked pretty quickly.
I say all that to tell you, I don’t think any other invitation could make me more excited than the one whose event I’m attending today. I’m going back to my old school district as a special guest reader for their grand “Read Across America” celebration.
Pulling into the school parking lot is like coming home. It’s almost five years since I worked here, but it could be five days. I’m ushered into the library where local office holders and state assembly members mingle with kids eating donuts next to a Cat in a Hat. I’m given a gift bag and a copy of wishtree, with a huge bookmark showing me which section I’m to read. I greet a few people I know, then sneak a look at the program to see what title my friends who invited me today gave me. “Kate Cutts—Voice Actor.” I thought I told them they should call me a “lifelong reader and sometimes writer,” but I guess that wouldn’t fit neatly in the column of titles.
I read through the chapters I’m assigned to make sure I know all the words. I wonder if I pronounce dioecious correctly. I mean, a former middle school science teacher should get that right. I’m mulling it over, thinking about asking Siri how to say it, finishing my delicious breakfast sandwich. Before I can sneak to a quiet corner and ask my AI this covert question, the entire group is greeted by our hosts, then student council kids escort us readers to our stations.
A schoolboard member and I are taken to a science lab next to the one I used to call mine. I find my cousin in the group of sixth graders and snap a quick selfie. When all of the kids have arrived, they settle in and my partner and I introduce ourselves and read the first four chapters of the book. I’ve never read the part of a tree before. I wonder what kind of a plot is coming from this narrator who knows how to keep secrets. “You have to be discreet when you’re a wishtree,” I read. I’ll have to be patient to find out more. I’m on the waiting list for a copy of wishtree from the library. I tried to reserve it as soon as I knew what I was assigned. A long list of people are ahead of me, so I’ll have to wait my turn to get the full story.
When we finish, I tell the sixth graders thank you for letting me read to them. There’s nothing better than reading to real live kids. I wonder if they know how much better they are than the audience I imagine as I sit in front of the microphone in my lonely room. I ask the students to tell me about some of their favorite books. A dark-haired boy with large brown eyes walks over to me. “My favorite is To Kill a Mockingbird,” he offers confidently.
“No way! Did one of your teachers tell you to say that? Because it’s one of my favorites too!” I turn to his teacher. “Did someone tell him that?” She shakes her head no.
Our time is over far too soon, and the board member and I are escorted back to the library where we hear the reading of a proclamation, more dignitary speeches, and the announcement that all the school’s students will get a copy of the book we read from to take home today. I ask a host where to leave my copy. “You get to keep it.”
I don’t have to wait after all! As happy as I was to come for this special visit today, I don’t stick around talking too long. I’ve got to go home and finish my new book.
Your Turn: I really can’t name one favorite book. So many have been important at different times in my life, but my go-to answer is usually To Kill a Mockingbird or At Home in Mitford. Do you have one favorite? Or a go-to answer?
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