maravilla

I just got back from a fabulous Cinco de Mayo party up in Nashville hosted by a fellow kidlit-enthusiast gal. Two or so dozen urbanites (well, as urban as Nashville gets) dressed in their fiesta best and relishing their custom-made "Nacho Ordinary Cinco de Mayo Fiesta" beer coozies. We even had a pinata. Fue muy divertido. Now, no matter how many people I already know at a party, I am usually the resident introvert, wholly content to be introduced and then hang back and watch the evening unfold like my own private sitcom. And this works fine for me, until some unsuspecting, well-seeming individual who turned to get a refill from the Rent-A-Rita and stumbles on me instead decides to strike up a conversation. Because I am that girl who eventually wants to know what you're currently reading. And I want to talk about it. "What's on your bedside table?" she asks. To be fair, 77% of the responses solicit pretty interesting conversation. I love meeting people who can be as emotionally invested in Dan Brown and Anne Lamott as discussing what the curly fry is happening on LOST. However, it's the remaining third of my party-going population that, well, an alarm clock and lamp is about all that's occupying the bedside tableness. Not to diss on the non-readers, but it's the looks I get:

Mad - "Seriously, we're going to have a conversation about books?"
Disappointed - "My mother warned me that I would eventually run into someone like you."
Nostalgic - "I loved reading when I was a kid, but, gosh, there's just no time these days."
Confessional - "I had severe ADHD when I was a kid and reading just never clicked for me."
Compensatory (?) - "I read magazines. Does that count?"

Tonight, when that happened, my next question was "Do you remember your parents reading to you?" And the answer was "No." NO?! Hasn't Jim Trelease been around, like, forever?! Did I just have amazingly ahead-of-their-time parents? The absence of bedtime read-aloud time aside, I find it so sad and professionally frustrating that reading is still something many people file under the 'Chore' category. Like I'm docking points for wrong answers to the 'currently reading' question. I take it personally when I see the split-second of shame flit across faces because they don't enjoy reading. Should we all love to read? Yes! Do we? No. I find immense joy in reading; it's worth it to me to learn how to escape to other worlds or search for truths. I wish the same for everyone, but I know not everyone shares my experiences.

This is part of my mission as a TLIT. Educators are well aware of the myriad ways kids become disenchanted and discouraged with reading. But my party poll was of adults. Grown-up kids who, for some, have never given a second thought to wanting to (re)capture any of the wonder stories may have once held. Granted, the wonder of Life and Social Drama and Work and Family is quite filling.

I would be more okay with the 33% of bare bedside tables if the mad/disappointed/nostalgic, etc. faces weren't attached. Because that, to me, still shows some kind of emotional connection with a reading experience. Certainly not always a pleasant one, but strong enough to have left that face.

And, last but not least, how do I ensure that I am engaging in this quest and not shoving it down people's throats? More Corona, less Quixote? I'm not the best at the whole guided passion bit. How, in normal conversation, as a point of casual interest, do we have these kinds of conversations? Or are they more approriately relegated to blogs, articles, listservs and the like?

For I am a Bear of Very Little Brain, and big words Bother me.