There was a national article filling my social media recently about how high school students no longer read. As in, one or two books a year in school. I can confirm this. Last year, my son (a Sophomore) asked for editing help for his final paper on The Great Gatsby. As I prepared myself to correct 400 grammar errors without permanently damaging our relationship, I come to find out, he never read the book. The class didn’t read the book. They watched the film.
I really wanted to scream, but had nowhere to direct the anger. He was doing exactly what was asked, ticking off the boxes of the grading rubric. His paper felt like a film analysis, which I loudly lamented would best be saved for a film class, but nobody cares what I think. I had little to nothing to add to his paper. Nothing against Leo, but DiCaprio’s portrayal of Gatsby fell short of how I pictured it.
Because I read the book. More than once.
I have been a book lover from day one. One of my favorite books as a child was The Pink Motel by Carol Ryrie Brink. It’s about a family from Minnesota who inherits a pink motel from a mysterious uncle. It is my first memory learning about the possibility of a Minnesota kid going on a mind-boggling exotic adventure. Albeit this one was to Florida.
In third grade, I had a playground accident that meant staying home to heal for two weeks. My mom brought me a bag filled with 13 books from B.Dalton. I won’t lie, it was the best two weeks of third grade. No school. No visitors. No problem. I had thirteen brand new books to keep me company while I convalesced. Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing was in that stack, which was a delightful read even while wearing an ice pack on my face.
In middle school, I often read when I was not supposed to be reading. I had a middle school teacher who caught me reading during class and made me stand on top of my chair and read aloud from my Sweet Valley High book. It was humiliating. I don’t know if I ever made eye contact or spoke another word to that teacher.
Years later, I heard he was unceremoniously fired. I was not sad. I still have one hundred Sweet Valley High books at my disposal. And if I could go back, I’d suffer the public shaming all over again. The lessons in Sweet Valley had a much bigger impact on me than the teacher.
The first week of college, I sat in an intimidating freshman seminar. I am not being self-deprecating when I say I was the dumbest person in the room. We were asked to tell our class of ten people and a terrifying professor what we read over the summer. A lighthearted yet anxiety-provoking ice breaker. A word of advice — if you are not the smartest in the room, go first. I did not go first. After learning one girl read Kierkegaard (FOR FUN) and another guy re-read his “favorites” on Calvinist Theology, and yet another casually mentioned he enjoyed Hawking's A Brief History of Time, I panicked. I was seventeen years old. During that summer, I had read nine Danielle Steel novels and one memoir.
So I told the class the most recent book I read was Dancing on My Grave by Gelsey Kirkland. This was the truth. It is a memoir about a professional ballet dancer with personal struggles. If I did not impress anyone at the table, I definitely scared them.
It seems many students today do not enjoy long-format anything. A book is too long. A movie is too long. A one-hour show is too long. Sign of the times. Our collective attention spans are poor. But many good things get lost if we only experience things in excerpt.
I hate to think we could abandon a simple pleasure so pure and joy-filled as curling up with a great book. Immersive escapes from a worrisome world.
February is a love-themed month. The perfect time to reignite the fire for reading. Whatever you like. No need to compare to anyone else. Just read what you love.
We never forget our first loves.
Jen Fortner is a freelance writer who enjoys asking friends and strangers far too many questions. She spends her spare time sitting in inclement weather watching youth sports, traveling, cooking, and searching for the very best baked goods. She lives in Shorewood with her husband, three children and the most spoiled dog.