The It of Childhood: Reading on a Roller Coaster

“You’re it, Sparky,” I said. And for a long, long time, he was.
— Last line from the beautiful, wistful, funny picture book Sparky,
by Jenny Offill, illustrated by Chris Appelhans

A lonely girl adopts a sloth she names Sparky. It’s the only animal she can identify that “doesn’t need to be walked or bathed or fed”—her mother’s requirements for a pet. Sparky won’t play games, can’t keep his eyes open, and fails to save his owner from humiliation at her Trained Sloth Extravaganza. But Sparky is what she’s got, and the girl’s loneliness, optimism, and determination make Sparky enough. Sparky is it. For a long, long time.

Childhood is a roller coaster that no one asks if you are ready to ride. The one I rode had some lulls along the way, but there were also way too many straights drops. Every child needs an it to help get her secret soul through all those years when no one asks if you’re big enough for the ride you’ve been strapped into.

My it was books.

Maybe yours was, too.

Nancy Drew was my first real friend, even though my mother said the mystery series was trashy. But Nancy, her carefree friends, boyfriend (boyfriend!), and supportive dad were as comforting as each mystery was thrilling. The first stories I wrote were Nancy knock-offs. My characters gasped a lot. Like candy I couldn’t stop eating, these books kept me engaged and excited. They also distracted me from a divorce, a move, and a new school.

Santa Claus brought the good literature my mother envisioned for me. The Witch of Blackbird Pond, about a young woman in Puritan New England, fed me the history and romance I craved. In addition, I was the only student in my class whose parents were divorced, so Kit’s “otherness” as an orphan and an outsider appealed to me, while her love of nature reflected the still comfort that my heart felt when I climbed trees.

A number of spy journals in my attic attests to the it-ness for me of Harriet the Spy. Harriet inspired me to write regularly, if not always kindly:

The people in this mall all look like they have nowhere to go and nothing to do.

Our next-door neighbors order a lot of cheap pizza (is there any other kind?).

When the teacher tells us to read silently to ourselves, George Andrews whispers the words. Annoying.

Harriet was another outsider who made me feel like I belonged. She frequently pushed me to new heights of boldness as I peered, unseen and unwelcome, into neighbor’s windows at dinnertime and, once, climbed into and nearly got stuck in a book dumbwaiter in the bowels of a university library as I eavesdropped on two young lovers.

During middle school, my own war of independence broke out. Johnny Tremain carried me along to another place in time where, although bad things happened, there were still good people doing good things. I was also a little in love with Johnny, a lot in love with Rab, and determined to be like strong, feisty, loyal Celia (beloved by both young men, of course). These book friends provided a moral compass during many times when the needle on my hormonal compass spun wildly round and round.

And after middle school? Where do I start?! Dickens, Austen, Mary Renault, the occasional frothy romance novel (Sweet Savage Love, anyone?) — the world of books grabbed my hand and said, “Hold on, here we gooooo!”

Don’t ride alone!

When the roller-coaster ride got rough and my stomach felt like it was coming straight up through my mouth, my hand was held by other books; by parents, teachers, and friends; and by small moments of solace. Lying on the grass, staring at the clouds. Letters from my grandmother. Oranges.

And trees. Lots of trees. That’s why my website features a girl reading in one. I’d shove a book down the back of my pants, a quartered orange wrapped in a napkin down the front of my shirt, and climb on up. I’d read until my body screamed from sitting on a hard limb. Then I’d close my book, look out on the world, and feel better about the roller coaster I was riding.

Books were it. Books were my Sparky.

They remain so still, as long as I’m at life’s amusement park.