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years old, at the time, because my sister, who is two years and
seven months younger than I, I barely remember her. I don't remember
even whether she was born or not, at the time when I was struggling
to learn to read, and my mother was teaching me, and she had my
Sunday School teacher, and I think I remember that woman's name --
Mrs. Husbands, who was part of my life as a Sunday
School teacher, but a very important part of my life as someone
whom my mother hired (I presume, hired) to teach me to read.
And I remember very vividly that I would have preferred
to have been playing, rather than reading, and this must have been
clear to everyone, because they used the carrot approach for me. They
had bread and jam on the shelf, and I would be given the bread and
jam after a certain of interval of reading lessons.
I know my mother never heard of a psychology book. I am
pretty sure that Mrs. Husbands had never read a psychology book. But
this was very very practical psychology, because I gauged the time that
was involved in reading, or learning to read, by looking up at the
bread and jam, and realizing that if I got through this session, I would
be rewarded with the bread and jam.
The memory is tinged with this -- I guess what the
psychologists would call, the frustration of having to undergo this
process of reading, and the anticipation of getting through with it
and getting the bread and jam, and getting some verbal reward from
Mrs. Husbands and my mother. You know, they sort of were hovering over
And the fact of the matter is, I learned to read. I don't
remember a time in my life when I didn't know how to read.
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