In her piece, Civic Literacy, Sue Halpern points out the unifying elements of literature. She claims that despite often reading by ourselves, “books serve us a set of images and experiences and emotions that become part of our common language”, and that those of us who may have read the same text might consequently “share a language and a landscape”(129). It’s incredible how many examples of this I can think of, and not just limited to the literary world. Several of us in this house speak Grey’s Anatomy (“He’s coding”, “You’re my person”, marriage post-its, etc.). Many are familiar with the muggles and squibs of Harry Potter, and a few fluent in Pixar (“He touched the butt!”, ”No capes.”, “To infinity… and beyond!”).
Halpern’s example involves sharing the Narnia series with a 9-year old child. One of my recent experiences was quite similar. A few weeks ago, I substituted for the librarian in Keene Valley who was attending a conference for the morning. Every week, classes walk down from the Central School for one block period and have class at the library. The librarian reads them a story and teaches them about a related topic before they pick out some books to check out for the week. When I filled in, the third graders and I talked about vegetables and read a story called “Muncha, Muncha, Muncha”. They told me all about their favorites: carrots, turnips, sweet potatoes (well, maybe those are just my favorites), and tomatoes. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that tomatoes are fruits.
The fourth graders were next, and since I had total liberty as far as my “lesson plan”, I decided to teach them about the brain. We established that it is squishy, has two parts (for now), and allows us to move and think. Although that information probably won’t secure my degree in neuroscience, I thought they nailed it. I chose a short story from Unreal, by Paul Jennings, which was a spooky tale about a boy who can’t speak without finishing his sentences with the words, ‘without a shirt.’ He was teased mercilessly at school for this without a shirt. He couldn’t help it without a shirt. You get the idea without a shirt.
The boy and his dog end up searching an island and finding the bones of his ancestor, a pirate who sailed centuries ago. The bones wanted to be together and reassembled themselves as he found them (these children probably had nightmares about this, oops), until the skeleton was almost complete. Throughout the story, any time the boy said anything, he said ‘without a shirt’ at the end. Each time resulted in a stifled fit of giggles from the class, until by the end, they couldn’t contain themselves. At the end of the story, the dog finds a shirt buried on the beach and brings it to his owner. When the shirt is reunited with the skeleton, the boy claims that he feels much better, and only then does he manage to say it without saying ‘without a shirt.’
After the reading, I checked out the books they picked out and they lined up to go back to school. Despite having only spent 45 minutes with these kids, their departure prompted several rounds of affectionate, suffocating hugs. “Have a good day without a shirt, guys!” I couldn’t believe how quickly they trusted me, asking me about anything from the science of the brain to which books they should try. I figure it must have been because we both now spoke the same language without a shirt.
Whether you speak Law & Order, medicine, Jane Austen, or there is a total language barrier (Adirondack rodeo, anyone?), Halpern’s reflection couldn’t be more accurate.
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