Not
Just a Little Book
by
Susie Miller
In 1996,
I taught struggling readers in a Berkeley elementary school.
That was the year I met Shelton.
Shelton couldn't read and he knew it. He didn't know the difference between
a word, a sentence, a paragraph, or a chapter. Already halfway through
first grade, his knowledge of the alphabet was shaky. So we had to back
up. We had to go back to the square before Square One of reading.
That first day with Shelton I ran through the questions that I needed
to answer: What letters did he know? What words could he write? Could
he write a simple sentence? Could he read a simple sentence? How comfortable
was he with books? I put out a vast array of tools: markers, magnetic
alphabet letters, colored cardstock, drawing pads, stickers, and colorful
little books. Shelton ignored all this. He fiddled with the buttons on
his blue plaid shirt and stared into his lap.
I handed him a marker and a piece of clean, white paper. I had him
write a list of words he knew. We started with his name. He wrote:
Shetlon. Not a good sign. He spent a long time thinking and then wrote "me," "I," "man." That
was it.
As he looked at the very short list of words he'd written I could see
the tears welling up in his eyes. I could feel his disappointment and
despair building. He had a bad history with reading. I imagined that
he'd mostly heard what he couldn't do. But I was determined to show him
what he could do. I picked up one of my very beginning "little books," books
with great illustrations and easy, natural language sentences.
"Hey, Shelton, let's read this book. It's called 'I Can Read.'"
We went through the book and I talked about each page without actually
reading each sentence to him. We discussed the illustrations and the
key words.
I put the book on the table in front of him. "Now you read it," I said.
He looked at me with concerned eyes. He blinked.
"Go on," I said.
"‘I…Can…Read.'"
"Great work!" I encouraged.
He kept going, focusing hard on the words and images. He didn't read
every word perfectly. He made mistakes. But he got through it. He figured
it out.
"‘I can read the sign, the stop sign,'" he corrected.
He got to the last page, and read "‘I can read the book.'" He turned
to me and smiled, huge dimples showing.
"Read it to me again, Shelton," I urged.
He did. "Read it again!" I said. We were beaming.
"‘I can read the paper. I can read the letter. I can read the book.'"
We're not talking novels. This wasn't Shakespeare. But in Shelton's world,
this was his first success. It was big. This little book was suddenly
very big.
"Come on, Shelton. You need to read this to someone else!" I grabbed his hand
and the book and we ran out of my classroom.
We got to the library and found the librarian. "Shelton has something
to read to you!" I said. And Shelton read his book.
"Fantastic, Shelton! Wow!" The librarian clapped her hands.
We raced down the hall. Ernie, the custodian, was getting mops out of
his closet. "Ernie, Shelton has something to read to you," I panted.
Shelton read.
"My man!" Ernie said. "Gimme five!" We couldn't stop smiling.
Next stop, the office. By this time, I was practically in tears each
time he read it. Shelton was expanding. His chest puffed out. He smiled
from ear to ear. This book was the best book we'd ever read.
We bolted into the principal's office. "Ms. Goodman, Shelton has something
really important to show you," I said. "Go on, Shelton."
He suddenly looked a little nervous. Ms. Goodman was the principal, after
all. But she sat down on the edge of a table, waiting patiently, and
Shelton began to read. He read perfectly.
"You sure can read, Shelton!" Ms. Goodman beamed at him. "You really are a reader!"
"One last stop, bud," I said, after our visit was over. "Come on."
We headed down the hall to his classroom. The excitement was wearing
us out. "One more time," I said. He looked at me, hugging that book to
his chest. I could see the hope sparkling in his big, brown eyes.
His teacher met us at the door. "Shelton has something to tell you," I
said.
"I can read!" he said.
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