My love affair with Books

Six days after my eleventh birthday, I was shuffled into a van by a social worker for the state of New York and brought to what would be my home for the next two years, one month, and eleven days. Located in (relatively) upstate NY, Mount Pleasant Cottage School is a residential treatment center that houses some 150 children between the ages of 9-18. Most of us were wards of the state. Some taken from their parents for numerous reasons, others, like me, given up. If you’re unfamiliar with a residential treatment center, think group home on a massive scale. A couple dozen “cottages,” where we were separated by age range and gender. A school on the campus. A small medical clinic. An activities center, a football field, swimming pool, and surrounded by a sparse forest.

As with every place that has lots of children, there must be a system in place to punish children for misbehaving, and reward those who follow the rules. We had a level system, with one being the lowest, four being the highest. Most people were at two or three, and the levels fluctuated based on how well you did in school, whether you followed all the rules, how helpful you were, and the mood of the counselors there. I was not a model student, nor a model resident, and therefore spent the bulk of my time at level one.

The important thing about being at level one was constantly being on “Restriction.” Basically, I was grounded. I would go to school, come back to the cottage, and sit in the dining room until dinner, and then sit in the dining room again until bed time. Pretty much every day. Those of us on restriction weren’t allowed to do anything, bring anything with us, play with anything, etc. There was however, one exception. We were allowed to read books. I was a fairly advanced reader for my age, but I had never been a bibliophile. That all changed when I started reading to stave off the incredible boredom of sitting around for hours with nothing to do.

There was a basement in our cottage, with thousands of books. We had a veritable library that was covered in dust because I was the first person in a long time to be on restriction long enough to gain access to it. The vast majority was fiction. And the bulk of the fiction was fantasy. At the tender age of eleven years old, I discovered that even though I hated life, and hated everyone around me, I could lose myself in a bound copy of someone else’s words. My life was forever changed.

For those of us who know the joy of living in another reality through reading, it’s enough to say, “Yeah, I love to read.” There’s a world of communication conveyed through those words, but I’ll attempt to elaborate on just how amazing it is.

Have you ever met someone who couldn’t pronounce a word properly? But their response was, “I’ve only ever read it?” That means they love books. Have you ever run across a pre-teen who sounded more eloquent than your college professor? Yeah, they love books. Have you ever heard someone say they just can’t seem to put their book down? Well, they probably love books. There’s a marked difference between someone who enjoys reading, and someone who loves to read. It’s impossible for life to be unsatisfying when there’s an unread fiction novel somewhere that can transport you to a completely different world where you’re not yourself, and your life is exciting.

It also conveys a whole lot of other, slightly less positive information. Let me explain. At recess, there are kids who play outside, and there are kids who go to the library to read. Some people have children who don’t play outside with friends, but instead spend hours holed up in their rooms reading. Have you ever seen someone sitting by themselves at a park reading? How about meeting someone at a party, and when asked what they do for fun, they answer, “Oh, I like to read.”

I’m that kid who even when I wasn’t on restriction, would still sit in the dining room and read. I’m the person who never got into computer games, but I’ll sit in my room for half a day and read. I’m that guy who will go to a party with a friend, be polite for ten minutes, then find a corner and read on my phone until it’s time to leave. Those of us who love to read, we love to read for a reason. Books have never disappointed us. Books have never made us feel less-than. Books have never called us names, made fun of a stutter, or hit us. Books have never told us to suck it up, to stop complaining. Books have probably made us cry, but that’s because good books make you identify with the struggles of the protagonist, and sometimes the horrors and difficulties they go through hit a little too close to home. But even when it feels like the whole world has abandoned you, a book never will.

My love affair with books started at a very low point in my life. But I’m grateful that it happened, and I’m grateful that I was put in that situation. I wasn’t a voracious reader before the age of eleven, but I can certainly say that without picking up the habit of reading then, I wouldn’t be where I am today. And whenever I meet someone who tells me they love books, well, it’s almost a guaranteed certainty that we’ll be real good friends.