Annika Weber

I learned to read quite late. My mom had been reading and apparently she’d become excited about a number of supposedly good things—imagination, creativity, young children’s desire to learn. My dad had also become excited about a number of supposedly good things—the law, Robert Caro, among others. That seems gendered, and it is.

At first I went to a Montessori school five blocks from my parents’ offices. They worked in different places, but chances are, those places were equidistant from the skyscraper where I first learned to use scissors. I liked all the triangles, but my affinity for equidistance was a little hazier. You were either the best at using scissors or you were worse. Montessori education rides on the belief that children are interdependent and that their curiosity leads to initiation which leads to curiosity which leads to—you get the idea. 

There was a playground on the roof of the Montessori building, where I made friends with Nikita. Nikita decided that the playhouse to the side of the playstructure belonged to her. Yes, I could be her friend. In return, I would stand by the door and tell everyone else to leave. Combined with the impatient and unforgiving use of scissors, it was decided that I should switch schools.

Then I transferred to a Waldorf school five blocks from a large park. Waldorf education rides on the belief that, with focus and pedagogical freedom, children can develop spiritually, emotionally, physically, creatively, and socially so that the whole is more than the sum of the parts. One day, we were sitting in a circle, finger-knitting and talking about our weekends. “My family visited the Space Needle,” I said, “and my brother fell off the top.” When the other kids asked how he was doing, seeing as he fell off a dubious 600 foot monument to global solidarity and planetary exploration, I clarified that he broke his leg. The kids nodded like it was the most reasonable thing in the world. That weekend, my mom started getting phone calls. “Is Anders okay?”

One day, my mom’s dad accompanied one of our long walks through the park. There was a patch of grass to the side of the playstructure. That’s where my grandpa decided to tell a story. I don’t remember what it was about but I remember that no one played on the structure. He held a dandelion to the sky. Mrs. Andrea told him to put it in his pocket. Not enough creativity leftover for the kids. In addition to appropriate limits on grandfather time, Waldorf people knew that kids born after the equinox couldn’t possibly move on to first grade. 

So I transferred to an elementary school that rode on a belief in virtues. In other words: a number of supposedly good things, one being creativity. If reading was a virtue, I was seriously vicious. I also didn’t know the rules against peeing in the treehouse and kissing the doorholder on a dare. I knew how to long-walk, I guess. 

Noa Daisy knew how to read. You were either the best at reading or you were worse. Noa knew she was the best. One day, she came over to our house. It was almost Christmas and we had a big box of holiday books. Noa took one of them: the one about a postman who goes door to door, paying visits to all the most notorious fairytale animals. She read it through, quickly, boldly; for my mom, first, and for me, second. Noa left. I cried. I insisted. “I will never learn how to read!” I don’t remember what my mom said.

I do remember what I said to the assistant teacher when he tried to help me. I can recreate the exact moment, actually: the feeling in my throat/chest when he kept explaining and I couldn’t explain back. Maybe he was reading, expecting that I would read in return. In any case, I couldn’t respond. “I already know that!” 

A first grader! No matter your thoughts on creativity and imagination, I did not know. And everyone told me so. 

“Children want to learn,” said my mom, my dad, and Maria Montessori. “Children need to practice balance,” said my mom, my dad, and Rudolf Steiner.

Near the end of first grade came the opportunity to prove myself. RINGO: Reading Bingo. It was all I could think about. All I remember is performing Boa Constrictor by Shell Silverstein in front of the class. I was eaten and then I won. 
In second grade, there was one math class and three tables: the wolves, the orcas, and the otters. Perhaps believing in interdependence, the teachers thought we wouldn’t notice that some of those animals ate the others. Finn Larsen and Jack Flaggert sat together at the wolf table. I don’t know what the teachers were on, thinking wolves were above orcas, but Finn and Jack were clearly on top and they knew it. I got a virtue award for creativity (a supposedly good thing).

In third grade, they placed me in the wolf-equivalent. Apparently I was still a little vicious when it came to assertiveness. It was also the case that I no longer peed in the treehouse. I embarked upon another virtuous program called “goals.” Whenever I spoke in class, I made a mark. Collect enough marks, and I could turn them in to my teacher in exchange for a reward. I didn’t even care about candy, but I started speaking.

Every Friday throughout the assertiveness time, Anders and I left school with my dad’s parents. My grandma was a special education tutor. Compared to my parents’ animal stories, my grandma’s books were the most boring pieces of cardboard I had ever seen, but I learned to read. My grandma also taught me proportions: on a napkin at a pizza restaurant in an underwhelming Western Washington suburb. I can’t get my head around probabilities, but I love proportions. Feel free to misunderstand, but that includes peeing.