Confessions of a Slow Reader

I am an English major. I am also a particularly slow reader. If you consider these two statements somewhat contradictory, you are certainly not the only one. The first time I became aware of my tendency to read slowly was at the age of thirteen, during a family trip to Disney World. While the rest of my family got soaked at Splash Mountain and learned extensively about other cultures in the “It’s A Small World” ride, I spent hour after hour in a beige hotel room reading about the American Revolution. At night, when my parents and siblings emerged dressed head-to-toe in Mickey Mouse apparel and eager to share all their unforgettable adventures (have you ever been on Space Mountain? It’s magical) I was just about ready to cry. I wasn’t even halfway through my studying, and the following day they were going to Epcot! Sensing my frustration, my father said he would help me study so I wouldn’t have to miss the Eiffel Tower (the plastic, life-sized one, that is). After flipping through the pages of my textbook, he glanced up with a bewildered look and asked why I had highlighted so much of the material. I explained that unless I read a sentence first and then went back to highlight it, there was no way I would remember its meaning. My dad didn’t consider this a good studying technique and suggested I scan the pages instead of analyzing every single word as though it were a mathematic equation. I nodded obediently, knowing the task would be impossible for me to achieve. Needless to say, I did not get to ride on the Vikings’ vessel that year.

My high school years progressed with a similar discontent with myself. I constantly had to choose between spending copious amounts of hours reading and studying, and going to the movies or parties with my friends. Eventually, I grew tired of sacrificing my social life and began to lag behind academically. I still loved reading, but when I read, it was for my own pleasure, and I deliberately boycotted the books that were assigned at school. I wasn’t a rebel; I was simply misunderstood.

This pattern didn’t change until last semester—yes, my junior year of college. I finally began to appreciate the value of academically assigned reading. However, this discovery didn’t occur through osmosis; it happened because I allowed myself one of the most important elements in all human activities: time. I had been denying myself the value of time ever since I was that thirteen-year-old yearning to be on the verge of a blackout on a rollercoaster (I have since discovered that I am not a fan of amusement parks). I had begun an internship in the summer that ran through October, which is why I had decided to take three classes in the fall semester instead of the usual four. With the surplus time, I had the opportunity to pace myself. I realized that although my father might have been right in deeming my study habits inefficient back when I was thirteen, I had been wrong by trying to alter them, because that method worked for me. Not only did I finish all the books that were assigned for my three literature classes, but I also surprised myself by becoming one of the most active participants in class discussions.

This might seem like an overdue self-revelation to some of you, but I think that it was necessary to struggle through all the frustration and disappointment until I could finally give myself the credit, and most of all the time that I deserved. After all, the study of literature is not about speed, but about the meaning that it conveys to you. If it were about speed, however, I would advise everyone to read very slowly—you might be surprised by a newfound insightfulness. Also, don’t hate on highlighters; they are the instruments of the patient reader.