Apology for Reading
This is not a “Hey, man, I’m sorry that I hit on your wife, but did you really have to break my nose? That’s my best feature!” kind of apology. I feel neither contrite nor inclined to apologize for the fact that I read. This apology is defined as a defense, most commonly associated with Socrates, but please don’t expect a great dialogue because it isn’t going to come from someone whose favorite book is probably Lady Lovely Locks. I don’t care what anyone says. That book is a classic.
I was indoctrinated at a very young age to appreciate books. Whilst I delighted in Pokémon, Winnie the Pooh, and the adventures of Gumby and Betty Boop, I was also being taught to adore books like Peter Pan, the Chronicles of Narnia, and Gus Was a Friendly Ghost (man, he let that mouse stomp all over his non-existent feet.) I was in training with James Herriot to become a vet. That was, of course, prior to realizing that the sight of blood makes me woozy all over. Reading was a journey into a magical land, not quite the terrifying depiction in the Pagemaster, which just gave me an intense fear that a whale was going to show up in the deep end of the swimming pool. I was thrilled to be given a real grown-up excuse to re-read The Wizard of Oz in my junior year when my history teacher claimed it was a social commentary on the populist movement. Who cares if I believed it or not? There is the problem that prompted this. At this point in my life, I feel like I need an excuse to read.
I cannot stand the question, “Then why are you reading that?” Why do you think I’m reading it? This question is most frequently asked after when you reply, “No,” to “Is that for a class?” Honestly, people- my dentist does not appreciate it when you ask me that. When I grind me teeth, he probably dies a little bit on the inside. I will freely admit that part of my problem is a penchant for non-fiction books. But, it doesn’t matter if I’m readingPorcupine’s Pajama Party (which is such a clever use of alliteration) *, or War and Peace(which will make anyone religious enough to pray about 50 pages in that Tolstoy will say, “Just kidding, these characters are really named Dick, Jane, Fred, Daphne, Velma, and Shaggy." I feel like that really would have improved my comprehension); I’m reading whatever book it is because I want to. Reading sends me to a happy place where there’s a string quartet playing, and it’s like in Anastasia when she and her sisters and brother are frolicking through the meadow. Before the part with the creepy demon-y thing.
The government spends billions of dollars a year on schooling (yes, I know there have been budget cuts, but it’s still a significant amount of money). These schools, from Pre-K to 12th, teach you to read and to comprehend (usually) what you’re reading. Ya think that maybe it’s a wee bit important?
People read. It’s a fact of life. Whether they are reading an article on quack-quack shoes,The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire, Stupid White Men, or Playboy (although, from what I hear, that’s less of a reading thing. . .) they are still reading! You can memorize theBombshell Manual of Style or learn to knit for all I care. There are so many things that books can teach us, and it’s not quite like the fascinated clicking on links via Wikipedia that will take you from Cary Grant to the Christian views on the old covenant, which is convenient for the ADD in all of us, but not always the best way to process information.
In fact, some books are brain candy. Those books that we all like to pretend have literary merit, but really don’t. There’s something for everyone out there. You can like fluffy, light romances, gothic novels (mostly these are romances with a mustache-twirling villain and a castle), cars, boats, planes, masculine rhymes, or bananas, and you can find a book to read about it. And, now, thanks to Stephanie Meyer, we can read inane words from a mopey and dopey (or any other of the seven dwarf names that apply) girl, who just wants to be loved. And, also has a death wish. I'm just saying, clearly, there are options beyond what we read in school. Because we don't always like books assigned for classes, but we make it through them, and if you don't, and you're like me, you feel REALLY guilty about it, and end up reading the thing anyway. They can't pick books that everyone will like because, to be totally frank, there is no book in the world that every student will enjoy. It's just something to consider that there is a world of books, plays, and short stories outside of the closet of books that English teachers have.
So, honestly, given that, I don't understand why people brag that they don’t read, or that they managed to make it through high school on CliffsNotes. Self-imposed illiteracy is not a ‘two thumbs up, let’s celebrate with a kegger’ accomplishment in my world, but I don't really care whether you read or not. You could watch a movie that has basically the same effect on your hearing that spending that hour and a half to two hours in your backyard blowing up rubber ducks with fireworks** would. Unfortunately, usually these movies aren’t nearly as amusing or intellectually stimulating (exactly how much gunpowder does it take to blow up a rubber duck?). It doesn’t really affect me. It isn’t any of my business. To each his own, whatever floats your boat, yada, yada, yada, any more of those clichés, but I think you catch my drift. I won’t hassle you for not reading; please don’t hassle me FOR reading.
Please just let me read in peace. I appreciate it.
* Just to clarify, no one has ever asked me if I was reading Porcupine’s Pajama Party for a class. I can only imagine that that would be the best class ever.
**This is not a suggestion because: 1. It’s cruelty to animals (Rubber Ducky has feelings too.) and 2. I don’t trust you goobers with anything more dangerous than silly putty.
