In January, I was going to read 1984. To be honest, no one asked me to read this book in school, so strictly speaking, there was no imperative. But I was also an American student at the turn of the century interested in politics and government and the X-Files and -- how have I never read this book?
My grand plan, however, fell apart when neither my library branch nor by boyfriend's bookshelf turned up the hard copy I needed before boarding a plane to Central America.
In the week leading up to vacation, I was desperate to think of a book I would want to read now, as an adult, that I should have in school. Chaucer came to mind, from a humanities unit. Descartes. Neither seemed very appealing for the beach. An Alexandre Dumas novel? In French? I actually did plow through most of Dickens after college,..
Then, Wednesday, I was at Manierre Elementary School for WITS, and my partner and I finished Junie B. Jones Loves Handsome Warren after five long weeks. Yes, Jakyla had done the reading, but I had followed along for every invented word and breach of syntax. Surely, this had to count.
Only on closer examination, it was high school, and there's no way I can claim to have needed to be enjoying Early Readers as a 16-year-old. But it's either this or completely failing the Fifty Books/Fifty-two Weeks Challenge right out of the gate. This is my official request for accommodation. Thank you.
Junie B., by the way. I do not understand her beloved status. I found her a grating mash-up of toddler and teen, quirkiness matched only by her base naivete. Give me Harriet the Spy, Matilda, Anne of Green Gables or even Angelica from Rugrats any day.