Why are we reading, if not in hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened and its deepest mystery probed? Can the writer isolate and vivify all in experience that most deeply engages our intellects and our heats? Can the writer renew our hope for literary forms? Why are we reading if not in hope that the writer will magnify and dramatize our days, will illuminate and inspire us with wisdom, courage, and the possibility of meaningfulness, and will press upon our minds the deepest mysteries, so we may feel again their majesty and power? 
― Annie Dillard, The Writing Life

I stood in front of a class of 26 juniors whose homework had been to read the final six pages of Ernest Hemingway’s short story, “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.” Within the opening minutes of the class period, it became painfully obvious that only five of the 26 had actually read the assigned pages. This was not new, not an exceptional day. The majority of my students seldom read what was assigned but rather waited for me to summarize what they should have read. And tragically, this was necessary if we all were to move on to whatever task was at hand that day.

And so I asked (though I had long suspected the answer): What do you consider homework? They responded without thinking: math problems, worksheets, end-of-chapter questions. What if, I posed, your only homework was to read–not to answer questions, not to complete a worksheet–but to read? There were audible chuckles and visible smirks. Finally, one brave soul volunteered that reading would not even appear on the homework radar. I persisted: Really? You wouldn’t consider reading six pages if that was the only homework you were assigned? A resounding no followed. No, they would not consider reading because (it was all too clear) they didn’t consider it as real homework. At least not like a good worksheet or set of even-numbered math problems. In the galaxy of homework, reading was not even a quark or lepton. In most of their eyes, reading held no presence at all.

How could this be? Reading has transported me to historical and geographical worlds. I have looked through the eyes of characters who were so much like me and so very different from me. My world has expanded through reading, so that I was able to look and learn about the far reaches of this earth and beyond, as well as into the smallest, most intimate places and things. For years, I have had a ready-made answer to the question: What would you take if you knew you would be stranded on a desert island? Books! In any form–Audible, Kindle, print! Books, glorious books! For me, and I know for many, reading has been my greatest teacher, my most faithful companion, and the source of great wonder, wisdom, and pleasure. It has been–and continues to be–a sanctuary.

In 1955, author Rudolf Flesch published his ground-breaking and controversial book, Why Johnny Can’t Read–and What You Can Do About It. Flesch claimed that only the U.S. suffered from a remedial reading problem. British kids could read Three Little Pigs, for heaven’s sake! Only American children needed the dreaded remedial help. And this birthed a colossal industry of remediation specialists, curriculum, and materials. This industry continues to flourish, while parents and educators continue to lament the stagnant reading scores.

But let me be clear: my students were not in need of this type of reading remediation. They could read well enough; they simply chose not to read. They argued–convincingly, I must admit–that they didn’t need to read to pass classes. Some boasted that they hadn’t ever read an entire book, and they’d been on the honor roll for years. Most agreed that doing school was largely about showing up and completing paper work (worksheets, quizzes, tests, etc.). As a veteran teacher, I knew that what they were saying was true. I’d seen the honor rolls and the academic achievement awards passed out at end-of-the-year assemblies; students who didn’t read were standing proud and tall as they accepted a host of academic awards. And when some of my colleagues admitted that they had read little in college (some claimed to have never even bought the required books), I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised. Like many Americans, my students and some of my colleagues were not illiterate but alliterate: non-readers by choice.

Granted, there are–and always have been–happy, successful people who don’t read. They raise families, contribute meaningfully to their communities, and thrive. What I have seen in my lifetime and throughout my educational career, however, is that the percentage of non-readers is growing. Whereas once there may have been relative balance between readers and non-readers, the scales appear to be tipping heavily towards those who choose not to read. Some argue that this is due to the easy access of technology, while others contend that this is symptomatic of a society that values quicker, less rigorous rewards. Reading simply takes too much time and requires too much brain power. And reading, the old-fashioned print kind of reading, prohibits serious multi-tasking. I can testify to this, for I once walked into a parked car as I attempted to read and walk from the faculty lot into the school. I fear for many, reading is passé .

Like Annie Dillard, I read in the hope of beauty laid bare, life heightened and its deepest mystery probed. I read to live, and in the words of the Apostle Paul, to have life more abundantly. Granted, although I’ve spent a lifetime reading literature, I also read for information. Most of what I have learned about history, philosophy, theology, and science, I have learned through reading. The information imparted from the written words of the greatest historians, philosophers, theologians, and scientists has also brought me abundant life. In The Living, Dillard writes: She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live. That’s me. I read to fill up and live, to take in each word as one would breathe air.

One has to choose to fill up, though. And herein lies the painful reality of reading–or non-reading–today. I applaud those who work tirelessly and passionately to intervene early, so that more children have the phonemic tools required to become successful readers. And I commend those who, like me, commit to teaching students how to read, that is how to comprehend, the texts of our disciplines. All of this is good and necessary. But it’s not enough.

Recently, I read the Facebook post of a friend and colleague’s daughter. She is completing a long-term substitute post, and her fifth-grade class had just finished Wilson Rawls’ classic young adult novel, Where the Red Fern Grows. In her post, she writes that she and the entire class were moved to tears. At the end of the novel, Rawls writes:

After the last shovel of dirt was patted in place, I sat down and let my mind drift back through the years. I thought of the old K. C. Baking Powder can, and the first time I saw my pups in the box at the depot. I thought of the fifty dollars, the nickels and dimes, and the fishermen and blackberry patches.

I looked at his grave and, with tears in my eyes, I voiced these words: “You were worth it, old friend, and a thousand times over.“

Is it any wonder that nearly 60 years later, Rawls continues to bring his readers to tears, to fill them with feelings and words they will never forget? What happens to these tender 10-11-year olds who cry not only because they grieve the loss of the coon hounds, Old Dan and Little Ann, but who grieve the ending of the world they have entered, the characters they have known as friends, and the story that has stopped? It’s clear that something happens, for as they move more solidly into adolescence, more choose not to read.

Later, some will reminisce about this book as the last–and only–book they read. They will recall it fondly and even recommend it to others. But many will move beyond it, as if it were the threshold into adulthood, a rite of passage. As they move forward, many will choose not to read. When adults and teachers press them, they will argue that they can read–if they choose–but they prefer not to read. When experts insist that finding the just-right book will jump-start the love they once had for reading, many students will smile and fake-read for countless, precious instructional hours. And these same experts often look on, believing that their methods have hit pay dirt.

The real reading crisis today is one of will—not skill. And this is a deeper, more potentially damaging crisis. For it pervades school in many forms, not just reading. More and more students are simply refusing to do anything but physically show up and inhabit a seat. They come to class with no notebook, pencil or pen. Their books remain in their lockers (or on the back seat of their vehicles) for entire school years. These students aren’t particularly disruptive and aren’t regular visitors to the principal’s office. They just take up space, waiting for the day they will legally no longer have to take up space.

We may be tempted to regard this as yet another educational crisis, one that will undoubtedly birth a new iteration of specialists. And we wouldn’t be wrong: this is an educational crisis. But it is so much more than this. Truly, this is a social, cultural, and political crisis. This is a crisis that we all must own. Its proportions are far too great for educators alone to fix. For students who choose not to read or to do school sometimes choose not to vote, not to work, not to parent, and not to commit to anything that doesn’t yield quick, short-term rewards.

Thankfully, there will always be those who champion reading and those who devote their lives to creating the conditions and providing the skills for others to become readers. And there will be those writers who take Dillard’s advice to heart:

Write as if you were dying. At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients. That is, after all, the case. What would you begin writing if you knew you would die soon? What could you say to a dying person that would not enrage by its triviality? 
―The Writing Life

What if we were to read as if we were dying, to daily consume the greatest words written? What if we were to fill up with words as if we were terminal patients, enraged by triviality? Clearly, this would be a world-changer. But only if we first choose to read. Like anything, this type of reading begins with a choice.

Certainly that are those who, at one time or another, having chosen not to read turn again to reading. My greatest fear, however, is that when–and if–this desire returns, many will be so out-of-shape to read that any attempts will leave them discouraged and convinced, once again, that reading is just too much work. No one could convince me to run a 400 meters today. Once, I was in shape enough to win a state championship, but today? This would literally be the death of me. Even if I had the great desire to return to competitive running, I would understand that this would require years of re-conditioning and training. I couldn’t simply take the track and run well. But I fear that many naively assume that they can pick up serious reading at any time. Not without serious conditioning and time, I’m afraid.

I realize that there are those who will argue that there are other legitimate ways to fill up with wise, inspirational words. One can listen to others read, and one can view others perform. Still, even in this age of technological alternatives, there is a case to be made for reading. Like Dillard, I feel the real desire for the possibility of meaningfulness. I want to feel the majesty and power of life’s deepest mysteries. And much of this comes from the process of wrestling with printed words, from holding a book in one’s hands, from dog-earring pages and writing in margins, and from returning again and again to passages that perplex, inspire, and challenge us.

I don’t believe that all is lost on the reading front. I do believe, however, that the reading challenges we face today will require the efforts of a virtual village. This is a job much too big and much too important for teachers alone. Oh, teachers have done and will continue to do much more than their share. But if we are to resurrect reading for more than a few willing students, if we are to right the imbalance of non-readers to readers, and–most importantly–if we are to address the pervasive problem of individuals who choose not to fully participate in school or life, this will take a village.