racoma.com.phJ. Angelo Racoma on technology, economics, writing, problogging, and getting things done

What you pore over at 12 may be the most important reading that you do, according to a piece at citypaper.com. In hindsight, I think I was a lousy reader back when I was 12. Sure I had a very imaginative mind. I was such an introvert, that I mostly retreated to my computer games and other stuff that normal kids my age did. But most books I read that time were those assigned in school, and I could say that pretty much anything assigned in class is something that a twelve year old kid would definitely find uninteresting.

But when I read something that I find interesting, it really does captivate me, and my whole world would then revolve around that piece of literature, at least for a moment. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime. I suppose it depends on the material, in that it has to appeal to me before I get hooked. I’m not one who would just haphazardly get enticed into reading something because I’m intrigued, or because of what other people say, or because of reviews.

I do recall buying Hard Boys books every few weeks or so, with my meager allowance. When I ran out of cases, I sifted through my sister’s Sweet Valley collection quite quickly. Girly stuff, yes, but fast forward a decade or so after, one would get an appreciation of the female perspective on a lot of things (much like how I still read fashion magazines when I get the chance).

I never got to encounter Narnia, the Hobbit or Lord of the Rings until later in life, though. Poor me.

In the recent weeks I’ve found myself to have rekindled an interest in reading juvenile and young adult literature. I paid my folks’ place a visit and picked up copies of books I had once read in high school like Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye, Lowry’s The Giver, Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men and a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, among others. As my own copies of some titles have been lost into oblivion through the past 15 years or so, some of these I borrowed from siblings who, at one time or another, perhaps enjoyed leafing through the frayed and yellowed pages, too.

I also picked up stories that are new to me, like Lowry’s Gathering Blue, Messenger, Sachar’s Holes, L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time, among others. Basically Newberry award stuff, mostly. The stuff they make you read in grade school (through which the author and publisher probably earn millions in the process, considering the number of kids who read their stuff every year).

It started when I chanced upon a late showing of Bridge to Terabithia on cable, after which i bought a DVD and a copy of Katherine Paterson’s book. Breezing through the story in one sitting, I found it an easy read. The book was meant for fifth grade kids, after all. To the eyes, at least, it was an easy read. But to a scarred soul, the story hits a nerve and finishing the 150 or so pages, you somehow feel wounded for life. If you haven’t read it, pick up a copy. Or at least watch the movie on DVD. You’ll know what I mean.

To a twenty-something father of three (and counting), I find myself reading through children’s literature with a different perspective, and with a different depth of understanding. Somehow ten, twelve, fifteen years or so after you first read something, the words re-read stir up in you memories of younger days. Better days, perhaps? Or maybe simply that—fond memories of days before when the world was younger, and so were you.

Again, in hindsight, I feel as if there was part of my childhood that I just seemed to breeze through with nary a recollection. I could remember a lot of things—up to the most minute detail—from when I was 13, which was the time I first met a great, treasured friend, who would later on became my wife. But prior to that, it’s a bit hazy. Bits and pieces come up here and there, but things are not so clear.

And so that’s perhaps the reason I have grown fond of reading literature aimed at children. I need to feel young again. Then maybe—just maybe—these feelings evoked by double-spaced black and white ink on paperbacks would conjure up thoughts and memories buried deep in my subconscious. And maybe I can get to relive those moments again—those innocent moments, undisturbed by the worries of the world that one such as I encounter on a daily basis. Things like money, death, people, society and, at times, work.

I’ve started the habit of reading a few chapters to my kids at bedtime. Charlotte’s Web and even Terabithia seem to be their liking (they loved the movie!), as these seem light and fluffy enough for them. I also picked up a copy of Gaiman’s Coraline at the bookstore last week, which I also started reading to the kids aloud. Maybe someday, someday, my two girls will elatedly recall those frightening moments as we leaf through the pages of suspenseful hanging over the edge, conjuring up memories of other mother and poor ghosts in their own subconscious. Buttons, perhaps?

Probably buttons.

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