I Couldn't Read Until I Was 12

I know how to read. One would have to ask how I could write this if I didn't. But that's the surface meaning of the sentence. I know how to read means I know how I read. I know that I was carefully taught how words 'sounded' and their illogicality would have me crying on the floor, unable to string together a book.

I was taught phonetics.

I remember being taught them.

Over, and over, and over again.

It didn't work. Words didn't fit.

Oh, I'm sure on some level, I retained phonetic knowledge. But bridging the gap between that and reading was a completely different matter.

I couldn't read until I was 12. And then I taught myself.

I was homeschooled my whole life. Up until university, mind you. Some of you may be reading that and nodding along with an 'I could have guessed' attitude, and you'd be right in some capacity. Homeschooling wasn't exactly the stellar point of education I'd have liked it to be. But I don't think going to public school would have helped me read. I didn't learn to read like I should have. I couldn't understand how a word's spelling indicated its meaning. And public school, in the time of the 3-Cueing Model (and that still being the model in a lot of schools still), I think it would have been worse, actually. At least my parents taught me to sound out words. It just didn't work to get me to the proper end result.

My parents decided to homeschool me almost from the beginning. Most of their reasonings were flawed. One I agree with is that I struggled. I am autistic. Growing up, school in general, was hard for me. Emotional regulation in particular. They didn't think I would get the needed 1-on-1 education needed to grow.

We'll come back to that.

My parents did very well with laying the preparation for reading. They made sure I never hated books. Being taught to read, that struggle, that pain, meant I hated reading, but I never hated books. They would read books to me, aloud, or let me have free rein in the audiobook section. At 12 years old, in our tiny local library, I had listened to (or tried to listen to) every audiobook they had. My mother would have a friend of hers burn CDs for us of Harry Potter and Narnia.

I loved books.

But I hated to read.

I was in Taekwondo class for about 4 years. From the age of 8 to 12, I would attend near daily even classes, Monday to Friday. Monday through Thursday were normal classes. Fridays were weird. There were games, other exercise events, and about once a month, when I just turned 11, the head of the studio started days where he wanted students to bring a book and read from it. And he wouldn't take no for an answer.

I couldn't read.

The first time he announced this, I was terrified. My parents had me bring a book anyway. So I did the only thing I could think of to do. My favorite picture book, a rhyming one about cats called "Cats Sleep Anywhere," was one I had my parents read out to me. And then I memorized it.

I have memories of "reading" the book, over and over, making sure I had the whole thing memorized.

And then, that Friday, I had to get up in front of the whole class and "read" the book.

The head of the studio laughed at me. So did several of the students. Said that was far below my reading level and I couldn't bring that in anymore. I had to read a book at my reading level.

I hated him for it.

It's still one of my worst memories. All the work I put in, to be 'normal' and no one understood that work. They just saw the service of a little 11 year old 'reading' a picture book.

Reading lessons got worse after that. Bullying was a bit harder when you're homeschooled, but it still happens. I remember I was trying to read a book with my father at some point and nothing was making sense and I was having a breakdown. I refused to read it. It didn't make sense. Why did I have to learn to read when nothing made sense?

My mother came, man-handled me into the car, and drove me to the nearest public school. I was crying, pleading, even. She was saying that she'd enroll me in it if I didn't start reading. I'd had a lot of anti-public school propaganda taught to me at that age, but even I was aware that any bullying I faced now would be ten times worse. So I swore up and down I'd learn. She knew something was wrong, but the way she went about it is still one of my worst memories of her.

My reading didn't improve.

What was the point of making me have such a terrible memory of being forced into the car when I was so distressed if I didn't even learn anything?

I couldn't read at 12. And then something changed.

I didn't hate books, I just hated reading. It was around this time I started to want to be a librarian. They never judged me for being unable to read. They helped me. They understood. I think they probably knew I had some sort of disability when my mother hadn't even bothered to test me yet (and wouldn't until I was 16). But I was, if not into reading, very into cats at this stage. As if my singular picture book didn't give it away.

I remembered the little circular wheel-y shelf of paperback books at my library. And I saw the cover of Rising Storm by Erin Hunter on that. And I asked my father if I could read it. Originally, he said no. I'd later learn that I was to get the whole first series of the books from my grandmother.

My mother patiently read the whole first book to me. I was hooked. Into the Wild by Erin Hunter was my gateway drug. And I wanted more. The issue? My mother had no time to read me book 2, Fire and Ice. And there was no audiobook for the first series (at this time, it would take until the 2020s to have them, as originally there was only audiobooks for Starlight onward). My library, in fact, only had one audiobook for the whole series. And Warrior Cats is a big series. So my Warrior Cats reading order is the first book of the first series ... followed by the last book of the second series. I knew how the bad guy died before I even knew who any of the characters were.

In that time, my mother had gained no further time to read book 2 to me. And I needed more. I have the language for it now, but Warrior Cats was my third real special interest (definition: special interest is an intense interest or obsession in a specific, often niche thing. The word is used by the autistic community.) The others being my first: dinos, and my second: Harry Potter. The issue was, I couldn't do anything with this obsession. And I needed to.

So I taught myself to read.

I have the vaguest memory of sitting in my closet, pouring over Fire and Ice, painstakingly making my way through it. I loved it. It was hard and it was how I learned something I hadn't before. I couldn't read by "sounding it out." I had to learn by whole words. Each word, in its complete shape, had to be memorized. At the start, I found it near impossible to recognize new words as new words and I couldn't break them down. But I knew the basics. Mind you, I could recognize words like 'he' or 'it' or 'cat' - stringing them beyond the simplest words just wasn't possible.

Until it was.

I don't know at what month I started to read.

I couldn't read at 12.

And then I could.

I remember going up on one of those random Friday's and being told I was 'almost' at reading level. And then the next one after that I was reading more complicated books than someone two years my senior.

(I couldn't write yet either, not well, but that's another story.)

It was like a light switch had turned on in my head. I could read. And I couldn't put books down then. My mother would find me in my room, in bed, reading. She would turn off the lights and then a little flashlight would go on. I'd burn out the batteries in them until I was secretly being given better flashlights by my father and then finally my parents just gave up and let me keep my light on to read. I couldn't keep my hands off books.

At 13, I was able to pick up adult level reading material and understand all the words. I'd read out most of the physical books at the library's children section and was at least trying a bulk of the teen section. It got to the point where I'd picked up a random textbook (one phrased in a fun matter to make it easier for those who aren't familiar with science terms) and had started to explain science info to my mother.

I went into college at age 16. It would have been 14, but while I was at the correct education level to enter junior college, my life experience was not (and I'm glad I didn't at that age, I cried after leaving the consultation I was so stressed).

All of that to say that my autism saved me. I taught myself to read. I got lucky. And I had a lot of librarians on my side, trying to help me along.

From the age of 12, after I was able to read through a majority of the library set aside for my age range, librarians were superheroes. They were there when no one else seemed to be. That's when I knew I wanted to be that sort of person too. I wanted to be in the right place, at the right time, holding out a book for someone who needed it.

I still love reading so much. Faced with college, I had a choice to make. What major did I want.

And my choices were History or English Literature. Two highly reading heavy subjects.

I wouldn't be in the place to choose that had things panned out a different way when I was 12.

\\\

You've made it to the end of my little tale! Thanks for coming along with me. I'm Minte. I have a BA in English Literature and am a couple months away from a MA in Library and Information Services. I am autistic and proud and happy to talk about both my experience and knowledge. Have a lovely day!