In the grade school days of Hooked on Phonics, I tested at a 6th grade level when I was in 3rd grade. But I didn’t really learn how to read until I was forty years old.
As a young person, I cherished books for their escape value. They provided portals to places where I could forget the bullies on the block, my pre-teen insecurities around image and masculinity, and travel to fantastical underworlds, or follow bookish kids who saved a neighborhood from a villain’s corruptive grasp. My favorite time of the school year was the announcement of the Scholastic Book Fair. I couldn’t wait to get home and check off my selections on the order form. My mother limited my order to two books, sometimes three when she hit a number. I don’t remember what criteria I used, but a title with the word “adventure” was usually a selling point.
