I discovered the library when I was in 1st grade after the school asked us to contribute books to bulk up their shelves in a make-shift room. You’ll kind of have this inkling that this space is a temporary refuge for the titles because of the rough finish of the floors and the unpainted walls. The librarian tried to enliven things up with letter cut-outs from cardboard and colored paper, but you can’t help but feel that the 5 tier shelves were swallowed by all this grayness.
I came there to escape. Maybe impress a few girls, but the girls that I like never saw me came in, they don’t even pass that hallway leading to the gray room. I don’t know who taught me to have such misguided but natural priorities of trying to impress the opposite gender, the early realization though, fueled the escape through the pages. I just go to my favorite section and meet every title I see there. No need for a Dewey decimal map.
Now, my daughter frequents the library and developed a habit of borrowing one and taking it home for us to read. I’ve always felt that being read to by a parent before bedtime is one of the childhood perks robbed by a society that requires both parents to work.
My mom tried her best to open the pages of fairy tales on nights she was not too tired from the commute. But more importantly, she encouraged us to read on our own from all sources and opposing views. Empowering us to figure it out ourselves.
My dad is a tabloid guy. It’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s a condensed version fit for a guy who is as opinionated as he was. His perspective were like that of a barber, short fuse and trigger. He would’ve been great at facebook comments.
I find joy in seeing my kids pressing the spine of a book and challenging my knowledge of facts. I may not have the ability or apanage to have her see the world, but to crank up her mind of expansive imagination, that is a fire I’d let burn.
danDAman 