I was a pompous first grader. Holding a picture book over the seatback of a school bus, I bragged about my newest literary accomplishment. “I’ll bet you can’t read this word,” I contested the unsuspecting second grader sitting behind me. “Yes, I can!” he exclaimed, “ruh… raw… rah-koon… raccoon!” Defeated, I turned around and resumed studying my text.
I probably had learning differences. I might still have learning differences, I’ve never gotten a clear answer. As a first-grader, I was brought to a specialist’s office during reading period, where I engaged with a separate reading and writing curriculum. At the end of the period, I would put my books in a plastic bag and bring them home. I garnered an interest in reading that year, and I nurtured it into a passion. Throughout the remainder of grade school, I would spend the bulk of my free time reading. I was particularly interested in sharks, the wild west, and greek antiquity—typical of a boy my age. When I was not at school, I would be in my room, nose-nestled in a book about the Peloponnesian war. I loved getting lost in time.
The summer before fifth grade, I found a Five Hour Energy™ in my grandparent’s cupboard. I didn’t sleep much that night. Instead, I immersed myself in the illustrated story of Odysseus. Over six hours, I read Gareth Hinds’ The Odyssey: A Graphic Novel from cover to cover before going to bed at midnight. It was my first experience with the comics medium, and also the first reading an entire novel in one sitting. I went on a fantastical adventure that night without leaving my grandma’s couch. Even today, many of Hinds’ illustrations remain imprinted on an often visited wall in the back alley of my mind.
In fifth grade, Ms. Mannering stoked my interest in history. She also broadened my curiosity, introducing me to traditional stories from Celtic-Ireland, the British Isles, and Scandinavia. Not only did she love to teach, but she also loved to learn. I felt like my perspective was valued for the first time, and I could impart my catalog of useless information to a caring custodian. In return, Ms. Mannering demanded I engage with the texts that mattered to her. So, I committed the first page of Seamus Heaney’s translation of Beowulf to memory. The story of a young Swedish hero liberating a Danish kingdom from a reptilian demon called Grendel imprinted itself on my young psyche. Beowulf reminded me of the greek heroes that I obsessed over as a younger reader. Heaney’s steady verse impacted my writing for years to come.
Reading became a covert operation in middle school. I got my first phone as a Hanukkah present in sixth grade, my newfound adoration for technology evolved into a fixation that stole time from books. That is, it stole time from books during the day. My mom confiscated my phone every night at 8:30 PM, right before bedtime. Clay, our manny (man-nanny), enforced her strict confiscation policy. Clay also implemented a stringent lights-out policy by 9:00, a policy I was keen on breaking. So every night, at around 9:10, I would lay in my dark room, listening for my mom to thank Clay for the day. Then, after hearing the front close behind him, I would scurry to my bedroom window, and peek through my blinds to watch his white Toyota pull out and drive away down Kimbark Avenue. That’s when I knew it was safe. I would scurry back to my bed, turn on my reading light, and resume whatever book I had been whittling away at the previous night. My favorite book from this era was Steve Sheinkin’s Bomb, the story of J. Robert Oppenheimer’s Manhattan Project and the atomic bomb’s invention.
Middle school also initiated my interest in poetry. In particular, I began writing poems for my eighth-grade humanities class. Channeling my inner Heaney, I would combine words and phrases to communicate ideas that I found difficult to otherwise articulate. The first poem I wrote was about a watch. Taking inspiration from the mundane item, I wrote about the passage of time as represented by mechanized ticks. I was probably outkicking my coverage. Many of the concepts I attempted to address were larger than myself. Yet, my poem was selected to be read in front of the class. It was my first time reading my work to my classmates. I took my position at the front of the class, sat on a wooden stool, and began. Like Heaney’s Beowulf, the first word of my poem was “so.”
Reading became a summer activity in high school. At camp, I would indiscriminately plow through the books I brought from home. Then, once I finished my catalog, I would raid my friend’s shelves. In the absence of smartphones, reading was an obsession. I recall one summer, though, while between books, I rediscovered a poem an eighth-grade tutor had introduced to me. Rather than starting a new book, I dedicated my free time to memorizing it. I carried a copy of it on me wherever I went and even taped it to the bottom of the bunk above mine so I could read it before bed. Then, at the end of the summer, I recited Percy Shelley’s Ozymandias to my bunkmates. I tied the poem to themes of mortality and our waining childhood. It was our last summer of eight together, and we were all beginning to consider counselorhood and colleges. Needless to say, I was far removed from my first-grade reading class.
Benjamin Meyer 