It always surprises me when I see rewards offered for reading. For me, reading has always been the reward.
As a child, I suffered from chronic tonsillitis. I remember getting a penicillin shot almost every other week. This was back in the early sixties in Iran where disposable needles weren’t available yet. I remember climbing the stairs to the top floor of the pharmacy where a man in a white coat would take out a giant metal injector and place it in a steel container with boiling water to sterilize it. He would then approach me, who was being restrained by a mother or a father and probably screaming. Next thing I remember, I am walking up the stairs of my house rubbing my sore behind. To encourage me to endure these painful experiences and to show up for the next one, I was bribed with books. Every time I had to get a shot, my mother would buy me a book! By age five, when I finally had my tonsils removed, I had amassed quite a library. In second grade
when I came down with a severe case of the measles, my one request was a copy
of a children’s book I had seen on the children’s story hour on
television. The book was Kaduye Ghelghele Zan or the Rolly Polly Pumpkin, about an
old lady who tricks some wild animals by hiding inside a pumpkin as a mode of
transportation. I remember
lying miserable and feverish in my parent’s dark bedroom and my father coming
home with a hardback copy of that book. I
know he had to have searched for it all over town. Of all the things I left behind when I
came to this country, I miss my collection of children’s books the most.
As a child, I suffered from chronic tonsillitis. I remember getting a penicillin shot almost every other week. This was back in the early sixties in Iran where disposable needles weren’t available yet. I remember climbing the stairs to the top floor of the pharmacy where a man in a white coat would take out a giant metal injector and place it in a steel container with boiling water to sterilize it. He would then approach me, who was being restrained by a mother or a father and probably screaming. Next thing I remember, I am walking up the stairs of my house rubbing my sore behind. To encourage me to endure these painful experiences and to show up for the next one, I was bribed with books. Every time I had to get a shot, my mother would buy me a book! By age five, when I finally had my tonsils removed, I had amassed quite a library. In second grade
When I was in fifth grade, I wanted
to join the newly established library in my local park. I had to get permission from my
parents and my school principal in order to join. The principal refused to consent
because he thought outside reading would interfere with my academic
performance. My elementary
school did not have a library. The
one at my high school was used as the detention hall until a blessed soul took away the locks and let us check out the books. At fifteen when I stepped into a
public library in Houston, Texas for the first time, I could not believe that
there were no locks and I did not need anyone’s permission to get a library
card. That was incentive
enough for me to try to adjust to a new country and a new culture.
During the years I lived in
Venezuela, my reward was the small, dank and dusty library at the Church that
was set up decades ago by the Standard Oil Company to meet the needs of the
expatriates living in that far off post. I read every Agatha Christie mystery
they owned, as I fed and rocked my four children who were born there. Once, I found a tiny kiosk tucked away
in a narrow hallway of a shopping center next to the bakery I frequented. The young woman and her mother who
owned the store were the only source of quality children’s literature in that
town. They did it for the
pure joy of it, for God knows it wasn’t for the money. Finding that little
bookstore was like finding a treasure.
Once I became a teacher, every time
I read The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane, my
students would burst into applause at the end of the last page. Kids have come in voluntarily during
their lunch period to listen to Esperanza
Rising. How to Steal
a Dog and The One and Only Ivan bring tears to my eyes and theirs.
I don’t think we need to reward
anyone for reading but by reading. The story is the prize. The words are the bribe.
