Book Patrol

Among the many pleasures of working with students in a secondary school is discussing what books they are currently reading. Whether a student and I are discussing her first encounter with The Lord of the Rings trilogy and how much she is enjoying it or another student and I are debating whether high schools should teach Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, these conversations are enjoyable and energizing. The students are experiencing the thrill of reading J.R. Tolkien’s fantasy classic for the first time or arguing passionately that the racist language of Huck Finn should preclude its being taught to high school students; it’s affirming to watch them reading and developing opinions around these books.

Although I have the opportunity to have these talks often, I thought about the fortuitous nature of these conversations as I read an article in the New Yorker called “Shelf Life: Packing up my father-in-law’s library” by James Wood. I say fortuitous because I know what they are reading by looking at the covers of their books. Many years ago when my wife and I would go on beach vacations, she would tease me for being on “book patrol.” I would look at what total strangers were reading and would often stop to ask what they thought of the book in which they were absorbed. She may be relieved by the proliferation of e-books since now I don’t know what people are reading; consequently, I can’t quiz them about their reading choices. (My own reading on a Kindle at times can also prevent others from subjecting me to their own book patrol, and I will miss that equally.)

In his essay, Wood describes the act of disassembling a library and what one can learn about a person by viewing the books on one’s shelves. Wood states, “Libraries are always paradoxical: they are as personal as the collector, and at the same time are an ideal statement of knowledge that is impersonal, because it is universal, abstract, and so much larger than an individual life.” Very often, when we go to someone’s house, we look at the books on their shelves as a way to learn more about our hosts. Do we have common tastes? Do these books reaffirm what we know about this person, or do they contradict our perception? If we are what we eat, are we even more so what we read? If I know what you read, do I know you?

On a fundamental level, I rue the loss of these spontaneous book chats. Reading can be both a solitary act as well as a social opportunity. We read to escape our physical world, and we read to be with others. We join book groups to discuss our latest read; we check out blogs or listen to podcasts (I recommend the podcast Books on the Nightstand) to hear the thoughts of other people and get their recommendations. Discussing books enables us to engage with people we don’t know; more importantly, they enable us to build social capital with strangers. Like breaking bread, we are sharing in an experience, and we are bonding with one another.

I see some of our students reading off their Kindles, and on the one hand, I am happy for them that they have discovered an entirely new way to read. On the other hand, I am sad for them since they may not have the opportunity for their own form of book patrol. They may not have the immediate connection to someone who is reading or has read one of their favorites, and I feel sad for them. Maybe the most important reason to keep physical books around has nothing to do with reading them; maybe the primary purpose of an actual book is that it allows us to connect with others, and this is something that we desperately need in today’s world.

The Relevance of Literature

Visiting a ninth grade history class and an eleventh grade literature class, in succession, taught me several lessons. First of all, I was again reminded of the sense of humor of our students when a freshman compared a character in the Indian classic work of literature the Ramayana to Spongebob Squarepants, and a junior attempted to show how the descriptive introduction to Willa Cather’s My Antonia resembled the lack of plot in Seinfeld. While their comparisons might have been a stretch, they did have an internal reasoning and, in a way, they did make sense. (I also said that these two incidents might be a perfect example of the differing levels of sophistication between ninth and eleventh graders; as one might expect, the juniors agreed with this wholeheartedly.)

Beyond the humor of these two classroom visits, there were other concepts to consider. While studying great literature has its own justification, reading works from ancient India or the early 20th century American plains may pose certain obstacles for students. Can they relate to the protagonists of these works? How do they apply what they are learning to their own lives? What, ultimately, do they learn by reading these classic texts? While literature should not be judged merely by its applicability to students’ lives, the value of being exposed to its grand themes and concepts should not be underestimated.

At some level, this may be what we strive for in every middle and high school class. All too often, we hear students ask, “When will I use this?” or “How will I ever use this in my life?” and all too often, we give them a lame answer that fails to address their question. We hope that they will take what at first may appear theoretical or useless and come to see its relevance. Very often, the way to do this is to help them see that they can learn analogically. Certain concepts or pieces of information that may seem isolated or unrelated to their lives are, in fact, very similar to the struggles they are facing.

Maybe the Spongebob character is an archetype that has been passed down from long ago; perhaps, the beginning of a classic American novel resembles a sitcom from the 90’s. When students attempt to take what they are studying in class and show its similarity or relevance to their own worlds, they are digesting it at a deeper level, and in the process, they are making it their own. Isn’t that we wish them to do?

Recently, I listened to an interview with Azar Nafisi, the author of Reading Lolita in Tehran. During the interview, she explained how her students in theocratic Iran applied the themes of Nabokov’s story to their lives. Their reading enabled them to see that the Iranian oppressive regime seduced them into following its laws in much the same way that professor Humbert Humbert in Lolita seduces his young protégé Dolores Haze, and us the readers, into believing his side of the story. It was because Nafisi’s students could apply the classics of Western literature to their lives that they began to question their rulers and see how their lives could be different.

As Nafisi showed her students both the beauty and value in learning from texts that might appear to be foreign to them, so can we, as teachers and parents, help our students see the relevance of what they are studying to their lives and their futures.