Why Do We Read?

          What I think is beautiful about reading is the duality of its existence. It invites us into a community, like Mariahadessa Ekere Tallie mentioned in her letter, but is also inherently individual in the act, like Janna Levin wrote in hers. It can be all-consuming, but also tedious. About extracting information and collecting data, or merely for the fun of it. Children’s literature especially is divisive in its battlefield of dichotomies: is this literature for children as an audience, or is this literature that can be read by children? Should it invoke societal norms and teach moral lessons, or should it reside purely in fun and imagination? It seems to me, and to the authors Hintz and Tribunella and the contributors to A Velocity of Being, that reading can be all, some, or none of these things. Defining it, discussing it, assigning it labels is potentially an act of futility (though we do love to label things, ascribe things meaning and order amidst life’s chaos). Literature is created for all of us, linking us together in our common humanity, and yet understood differently by each of us—the experience of reading is as unique as every fallen snowflake. I think that maybe we read because we are born with the urge to; it is an ingrained part of our make up to seek out stories, ideas, sense-making. This drive is in all of us. In my first reflection, I wrote that reading is us seeking out answers…we are fundamentally seeking us. The readings and video for this week have deepened that belief.

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            The preface to Hintz and Tribella’s work, Reading Children’s Literature: A Critical Introduction, ends with this quote: “Children’s literature can reveal both our greatest pleasures and our deepest fears or concerns. Understanding what pleases or frightens us the most is absolutely key to understanding what it means to be a human and how human beings relate to and treat one another. […] children’s literature provides access to our most foundational emotions or experiences; thus it is one of the few ways adults can maintain a connection to childhood” (11). This to me is true of all reading. We read to understand, to know, to learn. We consume stories that remind us we are human, that we are connected to others. The consumption of stories, whether reading, listening to, or sharing them, is what ultimately ties us all together. But narrowed down to children’s literature itself, what does this line of thinking reveal about the author’s—and the cultural/societal/political influences that shaped them—understanding of their audience? Hinz and Tribella discuss how fairytales became sanitized over time, how popular adult books were “appropriated” by children, and how “crossover hits” resonated with both groups of consumers. What I particularly liked about these readings was their effort to explain the nuance that is often missed with children’s literature. The stories we loved and love can tell us a lot about who we are, what our culture values, what we define as “childhood”, and what morals we pass on to the next generation. Reading a story, in a particular time, place, and language, offers explanations about what a child should learn and what can be understood and shared by people of all ages. They are past, present, and future colliding at the same time. Ultimately, I think the authors highlight a key strength of children’s literature: they are the critical link between our childhood and the childhoods of everybody else. Children’s literature is the space for adults to reflect on their lives, to interrogate their assumptions about childhood, to relearn old lessons; it is also the space for children to grow, to understand themselves, and to learn.

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            While the readings offered insight into the history and educational pursuits behind children’s literature, the readings from Velocity show that the same questions, aspirations, and complexities within those pursuits are alive and well in the children’s literature of today. We are still asking literature to reveal to us hidden meanings, our deepest truths. Though everything about society is constantly changing, reading—especially children’s literature—is transcendental. Helen Fagin spoke of her defiance of reading Gone With the Wind in a Polish ghetto during World War II. She shared this story with the children she was teaching and in doing so, she “invited [those] young dreamers to come with me.” Helen found books and stories to be artful escapism—surrendering to it was “to keep our very humanity alive.” How powerful this was to hear, this sliver of hope and humanity amidst a time of heartless depravity. I was also particularly moved by William Powers’ letter. He spoke of feeling different, like his “inside me” was different from the “outside me.” Reading showed him this “inside me” had a name: his soul. Powers said that “books were invented so that souls could talk to each other” and reminded him that he “wasn’t the only one.” Books are not just hope incarnate, they are powerful connectors. Speech, language, and story draw lines between all our souls and also hold mirrors to our true selves. We are never more one—in its singular and plural meanings—than we are when we read. Janna Levin said that as readers, we define the experience of the book. This is that snowflake; that unique understanding that only each of us can bring to the story. But this also draws us into the collective human experience of literature. By surrendering to the pages, you open up a world of shared humanity and experiences that you never before could have dreamed of. Reading unites us on astral, philosophical, emotional planes—language is just the ticket in.

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             There is something frustratingly intangible and unspecified about the pull children’s literature has for children and adults alike. Do we love the lessons? The imagination? The pleasureful or painful story? The simplicity—or rather, the complex and critical masquerading as simplicity? There is a seeking undercurrent to all forays into reading. A wish for an escape, an answer to a riddle, a search for the familiar, a reminder that we are not alone. Reading matters because it is one of the few shared efforts in the pursuit of this seeking. The emotion and creativity can transcend time, location, and culture. It can be understood differently in different languages, impart lessons useful for some cultures while flying over the head of others. That is the beautiful nuance of story. Of language. Of books. We keep reading because the pursuit of this intangible is just always slightly out of reach. We won’t stop because we realize that everyone else is reaching, too.