At first glance, Ronny looked
like every other kid in the first-grade classroom where I volunteered as the
Reading Mom. Wind-blown hair, scuffed shoes, a little bit of dirt behind his
ears, some kind of sandwich smear around his mouth.
On closer inspection, though,
the layer of dirt on Ronny’s face, the crusty nose and the packed grime under
his fingernails told me he didn’t get dirty at school. He arrived that way.
His clothes were ragged and
mismatched, his sneakers had string for laces and his backpack was no more than
a plastic shopping bag.
Along with his outward
appearance, Ronny stood apart from his classmates in other ways, too. He had a
speech impediment, wasn’t reading or writing at grade-level and had already
been held back a year, making him eight-years-old in the first grade. His home
life was a shambles with transient parents who uprooted him at their whim. He
had yet to live a full year in any one place.
I quickly learned that beneath
his grungy exterior, Ronny possessed a spark, a resilience that I’d never seen
in a child who faced such tremendous odds.
I worked with all the students
in Ronny’s class on a one-on-one basis to improve their reading skills. Each
day, Ronny’s head twisted around as I came into the classroom and his eyes
followed me as I set up in a corner, imploring, “Pick me! Pick me!”
Of course I couldn’t pick him
every day. Other kids needed my help, too.
On the days when it was Ronny’s
turn, I’d give him a silent nod and he’d fly out of his chair and bound across
the room in a blink. He sat awfully close, too close for me in the beginning, I
must admit, and opened the book we were tackling as if he were unearthing a
treasure the world had never seen.
I watched his dirt-caked
fingers move slowly under each letter as he struggled to sound out “Bud the
Sub.” It sounded more like “Baw Daw Saw” when he said it because of his speech
impediment and his difficulty with the alphabet.
Each word offered a challenge
and a triumph wrapped as one; Ronny painstakingly sounded out each letter, then
tried to put them together to form a word. Regardless if “ball” ended up as
Bah-lah or “bow,” the biggest grin would spread across his face and his eyes
would twinkle and overflow with pride. It broke my heart each and every time. I
just wanted to whisk him out of his life, take him home, clean him up and love
him.
Many nights, after I’d tucked
my own children into bed, I’d sit and think about Ronny. Where was he? Was he
safe? Was he reading a book by flashlight under the blankets? Did he even have
blankets?
The year passed quickly and
Ronny had made some progress, but hardly enough to bring him up to grade-level.
He was the only one who didn’t know that, though. As far as he knew, he read
just fine.
A few weeks before the school
year ended, I held an awards ceremony. I had treats, gifts and certificates of
achievement for everyone: Best Sounder-Outer, Most Expressive, Loudest Reader,
Fastest Page-Turner.
It took me awhile to figure out
where Ronny fit; I needed something positive, but there wasn’t really much. I
finally decided on “Most Improved Reader.” It was quite a stretch, but I
thought it would do him a world of good to hear.
I presented Ronny with his
certificate and a book, one of those Little Golden Books that cost forty-nine cents
at the grocery store checkout. Tears rolled down his cheeks, streaking the ever
permanent layer of dirt as he clutched the book to his chest and floated back
to his seat. I choked back the lump that rose in my throat.
I stayed with the class for
most of the day; Ronny never let go of the book, not once. It never left his
hands.
A few days later, I returned to
the school to visit. I noticed Ronny on a bench near the playground, the book
open in his lap. I could see his lips move as he read to himself
His teacher appeared beside me.
“He hasn’t put that book down since you gave it to him. He wears it like a
shirt, close to his heart. Did you know that’s the first book he’s ever
actually owned”?
Fighting back tears, I
approached Ronny and watched over his shoulder as his grimy finger moved slowly
across the page. I placed my hand on his shoulder and asked, “Will you read me
your book, Ronny”?
He glanced up, squinted into
the sun and scooted over on the bench to make room for me.
And then, for the next few minutes,
he read to me with more expression, clarity and ease than I’d ever thought
possible from him. The pages were already dog-eared, like the book had been
read thousands of times already.
When he finished reading, Ronny
closed his book, stroked the cover with his grubby hand and said with great
satisfaction, “Good book.”
A quiet pride settled over us
as we sat on that playground bench, Ronny’s hand now in mine. I at once wept
and marveled at the young boy beside me. What a powerful contribution the author
of that Little Golden Book had made in the life of a disadvantaged child.
At that moment, I knew I would
get serious about my own writing career and do what that author had done and
probably still does, care enough to write a story that changes a child’s life,
care enough to make a difference.
I strive to be that author.
Judith A. Chance
