Why Do We Tell Children to Read ?

We're always telling children that books and reading are good for them, but have we ever really thought about why that's true ? Exactly what do older children get out of reading novels ? What do younger kids get from reading children's stories and being read to ? Does reading matter ?

The purpose of this article is to say that, yes, it's true, reading really is important, and that there are some solid reasons why that is so. Let's begin with practical benefits and then move on to less tangible rewards of a life filled with reading.

Books Help Children Develop Vital Language Skills

Reading is an important skill that needs to be developed in children. Not only is it necessary for survival in world of schools and (later on) universities, but in adult life as well. The ability to learn about new subjects and find helpful information on anything from health problems and consumer protection to more academic research into science or arts depends on ability to read.

Futurologists used to predict death of printed word but, ironically, Internet has made reading more and more a part of people's daily lives. The paperless society is a myth. The computer's ability to process and analyze data means that endless variations on reports and other types of documents can be and are generated. Internet, itself an enormous new source of information and recreation, is based on humble written word. To effectively utilize web and judge authenticity and value of what is found there, both reading and critical thinking skills are of prime importance.

The more children read, better they become at reading. It's as simple as that. The more enjoyable things they read are, more they'll stick with them and develop reading skills that they'll need for full access to information in their adult lives. Reading should be viewed as a pleasurable activity - as a source of entertaining tales and useful and interesting factual information.

The more young children read stories and are read to, greater their interest in mastering reading. Reading out loud exposes children to proper grammar and phrasing. It enhances development of their spoken language skills, their ability to express themselves verbally.

Reading, by way of books, children's stories, magazines or websites, exposes kids to new vocabulary. Even when they don't understand every new word, they absorb something from context that may deepen their understanding of it next time word is encountered. When parents read aloud to children, children also hear correct pronunciation as they see words on page, even if they can't yet read words on their own.

Reading Can Open Up New Worlds and Enrich Children's Lives

As mentioned above, reading opens doors - doors to factual information about any subject on earth, practical or theoretical. Given wealth of available resources such as Internet, libraries, schools and bookstores, if children can read well and if they see reading as a source of information, then for rest of their lives they will have access to all of accumulated knowledge of mankind, access to all of great minds and ideas of past and present. It truly is magic !

Through books and stories, children can also learn about people and places from other parts of world, improving their understanding of and concern for all of humanity. This, in turn, contributes towards our sense that we truly live in a "global village" and may help us bring about a more peaceful future for everyone. This can happen through nonfiction but, perhaps even more importantly, reading stories that are set in other places and time periods can give children a deeper understanding of others through identification with individual characters and their plights.

Our home in Geelong (lovingly referred to as “55”) was envy of hordes of friends we kids accumulated. “55” was always full of activity, it was meeting place for whole neighborhood and it was also full of genuine family love, largely because of Dad.

I recall his high forehead with shock of strong, thick gray hair atop his smiling face, so full of character. That nerve shattering, stern look; infamous querying glance over top of his dark rimmed glasses; easy smile and quick wit. The sheer presence of a man so many people had a great respect for. He was without doubt most profound influence on my life. If I live to be half man he was I will have achieved much. A formidable man in so many respects, and yet, a simple man with simple tastes.

I remember Dads’ work as a “wharfie”, a stevedore in Port of Geelong where he worked hard and was admired by his peers as a man with great integrity and genuine humility. After several years “on wharf” he became Secretary, and later President of WWF (waterside workers federation). He served his members’ interests well, to point that many considered him their guardian, and in fact he ended up retrieving several from jail in wee small hours. They nicknamed him “The Mirror” because Dad always said “I’ll look into it” when one of his charges raised an issue. He could easily have been “Father” Stan. He had that sort of sincere quality to him, though he was no saint.

Dad was almost always a fair man, with a genuine concern for his fellow man. Some of his surreptitious acts of kindness over years only surfaced after he passed away in ’81 with colon cancer at age of sixty one. One time he partially mortgaged our family home, packed to rafters with kids, to help a struggling wharfie and his family. There were also many times when he instinctively did simple but caring and thoughtful thing for people he hardly knew.

I remember Dads’ justice as clearly as I remember his face. He had an uncanny way of knowing who was in wrong, despite outright lies and preposterous exaggerations we heaped on him in explanation of our frequent sins. Of course he saw through bumph, and dispensed his justice accordingly. No “trial” or denial was tolerated when he knew he was right. The amazing thing was, he was almost always right!

Dad and Mum had other rebels to contend with as well as me. We were by no means perfect children. We had inherited his spunk. Some of us had mischievous natures sufficient to test any parent, even one with wisdom of Solomon. He somehow allowed our spirits to thrive while steering us through those formative years, and he did that with all thirteen of us.

He was justifiably a very proud man and he made sure we knew he was very proud of us all, as he would often tell us so. His was a family which revolved around him, and he was strong center of family unit. Still, how he and Mum managed to feed, house, educate, guide, correct and advise us, and keep us all on “straight and narrow”, I will never know.

Of course we had our chores, from washing and drying dishes to cleaning school shoes and collecting eggs from chook-pen in yard, to chopping great piles of wood and building fires to warm our bones on those cold Victorian winter mornings. There were many times when Dad would drag my brothers and I out of bed early on Saturday mornings to hitch up trailer and head for his mates’ place in bush to collect that firewood.

This wood collection ritual scared living daylights out of me. I wasn’t too keen on spiders and wood we collected was riddled with them. It was even hairier when one such hairy monster ran frantically down a log hanging out of open fireplace to escape immolation. My younger sisters, Carol and Christine used to shriek fit to pierce our eardrums, as only little girls can.

One time, after we had collected enough wood to sag old wooden trailers’ axle, Dad decided we should collect mushrooms for dinner in surrounding paddocks. Mum did wonderful things with fresh mushrooms and we didn’t mind chore. It was a beautiful day and I was glad to be clear of tarantulas’ I knew were itching to crawl into back seat of car to get at me, so off I set into a paddock among sheep.

I was about ten at time, in middle of a huge paddock covered in lush, green grass. I had been bending to pick a fine specimen of a mushroom when Dad called me loudly from fence, “Ronald”.

I merely turned my head in his direction without standing, and was promptly head-butted by a charging ram!

I was laid flat out flat on my stomach, with my face in a still warm “cow pattie” when he came running over to make sure I had survived onslaught. When I came to and he saw I would survive, his concern was over-ridden by tears of laughter as he hugged me hard. Eventually my tears dried and my head stopped aching. I was more peeved at apparent fact that ram hadn’t felt a thing.

To my embarrassment I heard him relate that story many times to his mates, but it was worth embarrassment because it always brought on more of his infectious laughter.

Dads’ relationships with various Catholic priests was over years was always a source of great fun for us. Various priests used to call at our modest house at “55”, usually on Friday nights, with a packet of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper under one arm, and a few bottles of beer under other. They would spend evening joking with Dad & Mum and teasing us kids, telling jokes and laughing a lot.

Of course, inevitable Irish singalong would ensue. Dads’ rendition of “Irish Eyes” kept us enthralled and had priests reminiscing about Eyre. We were so proud that our Dad had such a great voice and with priests as friends to boot. We were in awe that he was held in such respect by these men of cloth, and we were always entertained with humorous stories and friendly banter. We also leaned priests were very human. I sometimes thought that perhaps they envied Dad his family, and I know they respected man for way he conducted himself and his life. The night one of priests told Mum (a converted Methodist) that there was a place reserved for her in heaven because she had borne so many wonderful children “into Gods’ church” (we were all christened Catholics) she laughed and said “right, you won’t be seeing me at church anymore then” Dad laughed fit to cry. Mum, true to her word, didn’t turn up at church much after that, only for weddings and funerals.