Listening Literacy
Most high school students complain about their home work
load, and I was no exception. My friends would often respond to my lack of
enthusiasm with an “I understand how you feel,” and all I could think was, “no,
you really don’t.” Now, I was under no illusions that I actually had more work
than anyone else, but quantity was not the issue, it was time involved with
each assignment. The thing is, I read slowly, like snail’s pace slow, and snails
can’t read. Comprehension was never a problem, it was just that my eyes could
not move across the page at the same rate as other peoples. As a kid words and
letters were always getting mixed up in my brain, and they still do.
Unofficially, I am dyslexic, meaning I’ve taken tests to identify dyslexia, but
never actually been “diagnosed”. As you can imagine, this was very discouraging
growing up, especially when you take in to account my role models. Most of my
friends were grades ahead in reading, whereas I was always grades behind. And
then there is my father. He is the fastest reader in existence, going through
two or three books a day. It was hard not being able to keep up with anyone.
Despite everything, I had a strong love for story telling
that could not be suppressed, so I became an avid listener. Every room in my
life was filled with voices, like the gold tinged living room with one wall
made entirely of sliding glass doors. In the
evenings, long, heavy drapes would be pulled across to keep in the heat. In one
corner, next to the piano, is my dad’s big, blue armchair. It is old and
falling apart, and for half of my life it has sat empty while he was at sea,
but when he was home, he would sit in that chair, feet up on the matching
footstool, with the standing lamp lit behind him. A cup of tea would be on the
side table to his left, next to which his glasses would sit, having been
discarded for the time being. The room would smell like that peach tea, and
sometimes of Christmas, and his voice would be rumbling along through a story,
rising and falling with each character. A general rule for the holidays has
always been that my father would read The
Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings
in the evenings. For the rest of the year there were other fantasies like David
Eddings’ The Belgariad. As a child I
would lie on the floor playing with stuffed animals or scribbling on bits of
paper, but as I grew, I upgraded to an armchair which is perfectly positioned
so that I can use the edge of my dad’s foot stool.
Whenever my father’s voice was not available, there were
always audio books. In the bright red kitchen where pale cupboards that have
taken on a pinkish hue from light reflecting off the walls, there is the audio
system. In my adolescence, there sat a huge, old, black tape player and radio
that would skip ahead if you walked too close, the vibrations from the floor
rattling the sensitive system. Now there is a small CD player that tends to eat
discs when we’re not looking. I would listen to everything from fantasy novels
to The Story of the World for eighth
grade history. And at night, one of the Harry
Potter books would lull me to sleep. My tiny gray tape player would be
buzzing quietly with narrator Jim Dale’s immensely versatile voice playing over
the hum. Even today, I listen to audio books, they are an effective way to get
through a book while washing dishes or driving in the car, and for me it’s
faster than reading the book myself.
As well as listening, I often was exposed to visual
representations of stories. My family has always been addicted to theater as
well as literature. Most people find it hard to believe that I grew up watching
Much Ado About Nothing and As You Like It along with the usual
Disney movies kids watch, but that was my childhood. As a result I have always
had a love, almost an obsession, with Shakespeare’s works. Strange, I know.
What do these things have to do with each other, or
anything for that matter? This has all been a very roundabout way of saying
that I didn’t read a lot as a child, and in school, I was never able keep some
personal reading on the side as well as the books required by classes. It is
safe to say that growing up, I was exposed to more books in audio form than I
ever read myself. As a result of my snail’s pace, anything I read required a
great deal of dedication, and time. Logically then, would it have made sense
for me to read something I had already heard or read before? Not really. This
isn’t an embarrassing or shameful part of my life, and with all my personal
experience, I could go on and on, as I have, about the benefits and wonders of
listening to stories. However, there is one drawback. Listening to a book means
I was only exposed to the narrator’s perspective on how the character would
sound or act. This was not a huge issue as ninety nine percent of the time, I
would agree with the narrator, but it did mean I wouldn’t get to draw my own
conclusions.
Not so long ago, at the end of my senior year of high
school, that changed. As we had already taken the exams and finished the course
curriculum, my AP English teacher required each of us to pick our own book to
read before giving a presentation on it. My choice was Shakespeare’s
Merchant of Venice. I had seen this performed in Ashland many years before and
I was in possession of the Al Pacino and Jeremy Iron’s film version. I had also
heard it from various places and read most of Asimov's guide about it, but never
had I read it for myself. It was a challenge I set for myself, and an
enlightening one at that. I was suddenly able to see this story not only in the
way others had perceived it, but also in my own way. Even though it was the
same story, and I knew what was going to happen, it was like reading something
entirely new because of the different format. The experience was entirely
freeing and enlightening - to read about these characters but without being
restricted by someone else’s interpretations of their words and emotions.
Sitting in my somewhat
darkened English classroom, the windows covered by sheets of deep blue paper, I
plunged into a world so familiar yet so foreign, all the while soft noises of the
tea pot boiling, and snickering students lingered in the background. I could
hear and see in my mind the colorful interpretations that I had known before,
but also a new setting and new characters that I hadn’t really known. While
sitting on the horribly uncomfortable chairs, I suddenly saw that Shylock
became more retched, more pitiable, Bassanio less noble, Antonio more
conniving, Portia more brilliant, and Jessica more lonely.
I have no doubt
that my previous interactions with the play were involved with how I portrayed
the story in my mind’s eye, and in fact I think they were helpful. I felt less
of the pressure of a normal reading assignment, so the experience of reading
this play was like a gift, not work. Because it was the first time I had
attempted to break out of the confines of others’ views, completing the play
was like crossing some invisible finish line, one that all my reading
experiences throughout my life had been leading up to.
Though I am sure I
am not alone in the world of audio book listeners, I have never met anyone who
has had the same dependence on them that I do. And up until this point, I have
never really reflected back on this aspect of my life. Thinking back, I realize
that I had never given much credit to it before. I have been on a path of self-discovery,
and one, I imagine, that will continue well beyond my high school assignment.
No comments:
Post a Comment