Learning to Read

Last updated on: March 19, 2012 at 9:22 am by Amy Julia Becker

Learning to Read 2012-03-19T09:22:00-04:00 Amy Julia Becker

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When Penny was diagnosed with Down syndrome, the doctors told us that she would have “mental retardation.” I didn’t really know what those words meant, but I imagined them as a shadow that would hover over every aspect of her development from there on. I assumed she would have trouble learning everything—from babbling and crawling to her times tables and spelling words. And early on, I was fixated upon the idea that Penny wouldn’t share my love for reading. I write about this fear in A Good and Perfect Gift:

I picked up my journal and climbed into bed, still thinking about our conversation, trying to puzzle through the intense sadness that gripped me every time I thought about Penny and reading. I considered the words used to describe intelligence. Terms associated with light and precision: bright, brilliant, sharp, smart. Their converse: dull, faded, drab. But Penny’s eyes were full of light and her face and body full of life and movement. I pictured her delight when she found her mouth with her fingers, her look of astonishment after a burp, the stern concentration on her face as she prepared to swat at a toy.

Up until then, every time I thought about having a daughter with mental retardation, I had thought about it in the ways it would be beneficial for me. I knew my love for Penny was shattering idols and overturning prejudices and teaching me to value so much more beyond the life of the mind. But as I lay in my bedroom trying to put my thoughts on paper, I finally admitted just how important words were to me, how much a part of my life, how integral they were to who I was and to what made me happy and to how I loved and served others. I let the tears come, grieving the thought that there was a part of me my daughter would never know.

Penny reading a legal document with her Pop Pop at age 2

In time, I let it go. In some ways, that was because I realized that as much as I loved reading, that love was not a condition for loving Penny (or anyone else). I started to realized how many other attributes matter, and I gave up thinking that Penny needed to be like me in order for me to enjoy her.

I truly believe that it wouldn’t have mattered much if Penny hadn’t been a reader.

But from almost as far back as I can remember, she gravitated towards books. “Book” was one of her earliest signs—placing her two hands with palms together and then opening them with an eager look in her eyes. She played with board books. She memorized (mostly in sign language) the words to Good Night Moon, Brown Bear Brown Bear, and Quick as a Cricket. In preschool, she started to “read” along out loud for the books she had memorized. And recently, as a kindergartner, she has started to read on her own.

I’ve been thinking about this post for a while now because a few people have asked me to describe Penny lately, and I’ve realized that the girl I’m describing is my daughter, not only in some biological sense, but in the sense that she is very much like me. Last night, as she dawdled before getting ready for bed, I found myself threatening her with the words, “Penny, if you don’t get your pajamas on right now you will lose your reading homework!”

She didn’t know I was planning to write about her when I walked in on her in my bathroom this morning, brushing her teeth while holding the most recent issue of Time magazine. Oh, sure, she’s different from me in some wonderful ways–much more outgoing I think, and I can’t tell you how much I admire her perseverance. But at least when it comes to reading, well, the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. What a sweet gift to have a daughter who has taught me to let go of my idolatry of the intellect and who loves books all the same. Through her, I’m learning to read all over again.

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