Teen Writers Bloc

I was already in first grade by the time my parents figured out I’d memorized every book on my shelf. “I am Eloise. I am six. I am a city child,” I said, repeating every word as I flipped the pages on cue, imitating my beautiful blonde mother. At six years old, I was a convincing actress with a mind full of books, but I couldn’t read. Or so said Mrs. Witch, the teacher at my new private school.

That’s when my mom and I started our tradition.

Every night, she snuggled next to me in my four post princess bed, gold bracelets clapping as she ran her hands through my partially grown out bangs, and handed the book over to me. At first we switched off every page, as I struggled to sound out syllables well below grade level. As my confidence and pace developed, we traded off after each chapter. Mom and I read back and forth from 1991 until 1994, spanning the middle grade literary canon: Pippy Longstocking, the Betsey, Tacy and Tib series, SuperFudge, everything Roald Dahl, the Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, half of Anne of Green Gables, because it was too sad, All of a Kind Family, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Then my class took a field trip to Louisa May Alcott’s Concord, Massachusetts home, and I just had to read Little Women.

I was in fourth grade, too old to share story time with my mother, but consistent practice and dedication had paid off, and for the first time I was reading above grade level. It took so long to read out loud and with the movie, starring Winona Ryder, set to hit theaters just in time for our Jewish Christmas of movies and Chinese, I suggested we finish the book separately. It was the last story we read together. And that, perhaps, made it the most special one.

So this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my mother, and for the Little Women, whose story made me feel big.

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