Racing After Reading

The summer before my senior year began, I had two summer assignments to do. Instead of spending time at the pool or hanging out with friends I had homework for classes that hadn’t even started yet. Normally, I pushed them aside and would end up starting them a week before school and spent my last night of sweet, sweet freedom finishing the tasks at hand. Summer assignments usually consisted of reading some boring book, or working through some boring math problems, or creating a boring project. All of these options were very high on my “Things I Hate to Do” list, especially reading. I disliked reading and had a deep, passionate loathing for summer assignments so the combination of the two pushed me over the edge. Nothing good had ever come out of a summer assignment, I thought. That is, until my senior year.

For my A.P. Biology class I had to make a poster. All I needed to do was slap some pictures on a tri-fold and that bad boy was handled. My other assignment however, was for Honors Classical Literature. (Which I really only took because the teacher who taught it was my bestie.) My teacher BFF, Mr. Randolph, asked us to read a book entitled The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. To be honest, I never cared much for NASCAR or precipitation so for me the novels only redeeming quality was its cover: a bright picture of a golden-haired dog with a contrasting royal blue background. The adorable book cover was a true saving grace since I had sworn off reading books years ago when it became difficult for me. Safe to say I procrastinated this assignment simply because I thought it would be literally and figuratively painful to complete. Well I soon came to find out, Mr. Randolph was right, and this stupid summer assignment changed my life.

When I was younger, I loved to read. I didn’t care if it was for school or for pleasure, if it was fact or fiction, or if it was two chapters or 200 chapters. All I cared about was mentally consuming new information. I read everything from the Amelia Bedelia series to Junie B. Jones to Harry Potter. I read just about everywhere I could. Finding a position to read in that continued to be comfortable for more than 10 minutes went from an inconvenience to a talent. To me, reading was a way of discovering answers to questions I had no idea I needed answers to. I read anything I could anywhere I could because I knew reading would help ensure that I would not fail. Even as a child, the idea of failing in or out of school terrified me. By reading, I bettered my chances at success in the future. However, my other young love, soccer, made it a little more challenging to pursue my love for reading. As I played for more teams, had more games, and longer practices, I found it more and more difficult to find time for reading. Then, I started getting injuries. As I got older, the game intensified. I leveled up from stubbed toes and bruised legs to broken ankles and concussions. Before I could even finish my freshman year of high school, I had nine concussions under my belt. These concussions resulted in reading becoming a more difficult, less enjoyable pastime.

With the amount of concussions I had suffered from, I can be classified as having a traumatic brain injury. This partially ruined reading for me because I could no longer speed read 600-page books and stay focused for hours upon hours. My eyes used to sprint across the pages and now I struggled to move across the page at snail speed. Forcing both of my eyes to focus on the same word was actually painful. And staring at the same thing for too long left me with migraines that felt like someone was doing construction work on my skull. The activity I used to love now caused me pain and frustration. Feeling totally discouraged, I completely stopped reading for fun and did the bare minimum when I had to read for school. I can even remember complaining about SparkNotes being too time consuming. Similar to Malcolm X’s description in Learning to Read, my brain could not always compute the words on the pages (Malcolm X, 1965, p. 108). While in prison, Malcolm X taught himself to read in prison. While in prison, Malcolm X taught himself to read in order to better himself as a leader. I was losing my ability to read and had little motivation to retain it, despite the fact . Malcolm X and I both had several resources available to us in order to improve our reading; it was what we did with those resources that made such a difference. Malcolm X immediately took advantage of the prison’s vast library in honor of his mentor; Muhammed. I, on the other hand, spent years dragging my feet until my own mentor, Mr.Randolph, showed me the way. Despite being head over heels for it just months before, I couldn’t care less about reading. Nothing, absolutely nothing could reignite the fiery passion I once had for reading, well, so I thought.

The Art of Racing in the Rain had been assigned to me by favorite teacher and I had to write a very detailed essay about it so, I figured it best to actually read the book. Reading an entire book was something I successfully avoided since my last concussion, but I heard this one was kinda good. So, I started slow, reading only five to ten pages a day. As the story became more interesting, I became more invested and ten pages turned to 20 which turned to 50 until I eventually read the last 200 pages of the book in one sitting. The story follows Enzo, a dog who wishes to be reincarnated as a human, as he watches his owner, Denny, struggle with unexpected life events. Enzo knows he’s not the young pup he once was and only has a little bit of time left but he holds on to be there for Denny. Building up to their final goodbye, Enzo takes the reader through all of the ups and downs he and Denny shared. From Denny becoming a father, to him losing his wife, to him fighting for custody of his daughter, Enzo stands by Denny’s side. On top of the crazy plot twists, Denny is a professional racecar driver and he occasionally takes Enzo to the track with him.  In the short week it took me to read it, I realized how much a 16-year-old girl without her license could relate to a dog who loved racecars. When I got to the last chapter, I had to wait a few days before I could bring myself to read it. In a way, I had to mentally and emotionally prepare myself for the ending. Once I felt like my psyche could handle finishing the book, I settled into my comfortable porch swing on a warm, sunny August day. As I read the last page with shaking hands, I had to go inside so my neighbors did not see me cry over a book.

Two days later, I asked my mom for a reading recommendation because my fire for reading had suddenly been relit. I felt like Malcom X in Learning to Read, no amount of reading could satisfy me (Malcolm X, 1965, p. 110). I went through books faster than most teenage boys go through underwear. I felt unstoppable. I felt like a kid again. Today, I’m still reading in my free time even though it can be a struggle. Sometimes I find myself reading even if I have something else to do. Just like before, I read and read and read. All thanks to a stupid summer assignment.

References

Malcolm X. (2017). Learning to read. In E. Wardle and D. Downs (Eds.), Writing About Writing (3rd ed.). Boston, MA: Bedford St. Martins.