Melissa came to me at the end of recess with a knot on her forehead and a trickle of blood. Through tears she explained that she and her friends had been playing “Medusa” and she’d walked into a tetherball pole.
“Playing Medusa?” I asked.
“One person is Medusa and the rest of us walk around with our eyes closed trying not to be turned into stone. If Medusa tags you, you’re it.” I stifled the urge to giggle and sent Melissa off to the nurse.
After recess, I had a stern talk with my students about the dangers of playing “Medusa,” but inside I was silently rejoicing that they were acting out the plot of a book I was reading them chapter by chapter each day after lunch.
I grew up reading and acting out the books I read. I drew chalk symbols on streetlight posts after reading “Tintin” comics, made mud bricks after reading about the adobe used to make the California missions, stirred dirty water into the chocolate rivers of “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” and argued with my best friend over who got to be Becky Thatcher when we played “Tom Sawyer.”
Perhaps growing up surrounded by books is a luxury. In certain socio-economic groups, it’s considered a necessity.
“Read to your child daily,” we’re told on billboards, in commercials and even at pre-natal checkups.
When books cost more than $10 apiece, though, it’s common to find homes in my school community where books are not present.
When reading is so hard and watching TV is so easy, it’s inevitable that children steer clear of books until forced to read. When the siren song of Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat or Twitter is loud and clear, it’s hard for children to hear the quiet whisper of books.
When children in fifth grade read at a first-grade level, it’s hard to convince them that books are things of magic and wonder.
When a child is approaching puberty but still reading “Curious George,” it’s hard to draw life lessons more profound than “Don’t swallow puzzle pieces.” It’s easy to remember that they are still children, however, when the little monkey’s antics bring a smile to their faces.
When Common Core curriculum, with its stated goal of career and college readiness, demands that non-fiction take the place of fiction, we spend more time underlining key points and less time falling down the rabbit hole of imagination.
Of course these are crucial skills; no one in the adult world will ask them to analyze a novel or write a short story.
They annotate passages about North America or the water cycle with ease, but they do not dream. No one plays “water cycle” at recess.
Sometimes, though, I hit the teaching trifecta: a read-aloud that children love, want to read independently and apply to other areas of their life.
Occasionally I win the teaching lottery: catching a child ignoring my lesson because she’s reading a book too good to put down. With luck, we read the right book in the right school year and it ignites and unites my class.
Many school years we mobilize around Greek myths. Kids knock themselves silly playing “Medusa” at recess, write short stories imagining themselves as the human offspring of gods or goddesses, sniff out monsters of the underworld around every corner.
They adopt Athena, the goddess of wisdom, as their patron, or square up — team Hades versus team Ares — in arguments.
They cling to the belief that good will triumph over evil, despite not always seeing evidence to support that in their own lives.
Other years they are captivated by the story of a horribly disfigured boy who enters school for the first time in fifth grade. They chant a line from the book, “Always be kinder than necessary,” when they hear insults.
They chant it at me when I revert to my native language, sarcasm. I roll my eyes but I am secretly delighted that they have owned the story and made it theirs.
I am torn between joy and despair when books disappear from the bookshelf. They are expensive to replace and I know some are lost, buried under someone’s bed or stuffed in a forgotten backpack.
However, when a book gives up the ghost, worn out from overuse, or when I suspect a child has stolen a novel just to reread it another time or two, I am pleased.
I hope their dreams are being fueled.
I hope they’re acting out plot lines or imagining sequels.
I hope they have found characters that speak to them, that guide them, that provide them with models they may not otherwise have.
Even if means an occasional bump or bruise, I hope they keep playing “Medusa.”
