My sister became a reader at the tender age of four, and my parents couldn’t stop boasting about it. Every time they recounted the tale of how she “just picked up a book and started reading,” I felt a little more frustrated and would often leave the room.
In contrast, I faced significant challenges. Looking back, I realize I probably had dyslexia. Reading aloud was a nightmare for me; I struggled with words that were too long and often found myself reading and writing letters in reverse. Even now, when I encounter lengthy words, my mind can drift off after just a couple of syllables.
While my peers seemed to breeze through reading, I stuttered and stumbled. Even learning new skills like knitting felt backward to me—my brain simply worked that way.
It wasn’t until I discovered Beverly Cleary’s “Ramona Quimby, Age 8” in the middle of second grade that I started to feel a spark of understanding. For the first time, I was not just skimming through a graphic novel; I was engaged with a story that felt manageable.
My sister had an impressive collection of Beverly Cleary’s works lined up on her bookshelf, the only tidy part of our shared room. I wasn’t allowed to touch them, having watched her cherish those books for years.
After sneaking a read of that first book, I found a new perspective on my sister’s bookshelf. I was eager to dive into Cleary’s other stories, but instead of borrowing from her, I began checking out my own at the local library, where the selection was even more extensive.
Reading became more enjoyable without the pressure of hiding under sheets with a flashlight, fearing my sister might snatch the book away from me. The bright covers and playful titles of Cleary’s books felt inviting, and I connected deeply with Ramona and her everyday struggles—her relationships with her father, Beezus, and her mother made me feel at home within those pages.
Ramona could be exasperating at times, but I found something transformative in those books: I was experiencing emotions and escaping into another world. That feeling hooked me. I hesitated to read anything else for months, worried other authors wouldn’t compare to Beverly or that I would lose the joy I found while reading on the hammock, ignoring my sisters’ pleas to help with making applesauce from fallen apples.
Sometimes, I wonder what my reading journey would look like if I hadn’t picked up a Beverly Cleary book. Would I have ever embraced reading? It’s easy to start believing what teachers say about your reading skills, but Cleary’s stories changed that narrative for me.
Would I have discovered the same joy through another author? I doubt it. Cleary’s books were entertaining, consistent, relatable, and simple—realizing this opened up a new path for me, one where I thought I could write stories too.
When I heard about Cleary’s passing, it felt like a personal loss. It made me reflect on the impact her books had on my life. Though she is no longer with us, the gifts of her writing will forever remain. The significance of her influence on my life—and the lives of countless others—cannot be overstated.
You can read more about similar experiences and insights in our other blog posts, such as this one.