My earliest memory of books is frustratingly hard to capture. I can’t conjure up an image of me resting my head on my Dad’s chest, feeling the words resonate as he reads me a calming bedtime story. Nor can I recall cosying up on the couch in my pyjamas, glancing up at my Mum’s warm smile as she turns a page of my favourite picture book.
The childhood memories that I do have are mostly fond ones. I grew up in a loving family, in a nice-enough house not too far from the beach. My siblings and I had lots of toys and many friends and there was never a hint that our lives were missing anything.
But there were a few things missing, and the one that I lament the most is books.
My parents were born in Cyprus, and their first language is Greek, so you could understand them not being huge fans of Dickens and the Brontë sisters.
But I honestly have no recollection of a single picture book in the house in my early childhood. No Possum Magic. No Animalia. No Gumnut Babies or Edward the Emu or Wombat Stew. Not even an old Greek fable or fairy tale.
My parents simply never read books to me.
When I tell this to my friends, at least those whose family history in this country goes back further than one or two generations, they’re always surprised. And I get it, because I’m a writer now, and a reader, too. I know there are worlds grander than ours begging to be explored in the pages of a good fictional book, and my wife and I read to our kids every day.
Research tells us that reading aloud to children is . It can strengthen the bond between parent and child, and .
There is some suggestion that migrants are to their kids, but we seem to have a long way to go in understanding what might be behind it.
The language barrier could be one thing, and the in children’s books might be another, not to mention the fact that ethnic minorities are often more vulnerable to than others.
Whatever the case, I would bet that my childhood experience with reading is not all that uncommon amongst the children of migrants in Australia. And my extremely unscientific survey of Facebook friends seems to back up my theory.
My parents aren’t readers or storytellers, but they are clever, decent people. Source: Supplied
“No, my parents did not read to me,” said a daughter of Portuguese migrants.
“They didn’t read to me at all,” said an Aussie-born Chilean.
“Not a chance!” wrote a son of Greeks.
“Definitely not,” replied a Dutch-born friend.
“Read? What does that mean?” joked a Filipino, who added: “No time for that, bruv…”
I think my Filipino friend’s comment, however flippant, contains a kernel of truth. And it goes some way to explaining why my parents never read to me.
They simply didn’t have the time.
My Mum and Dad are who’ve spent their lives slogging it out to give their children what they never had, a familiar story in our country and others like it. Moreover, they tell me they’re pretty sure their parents never read to them.
When I asked my Mum why there were no storybooks in our childhood home, her eyes glazed over as she shook her head and said, “I really don’t know.”
These days, despite her lingering accent, she takes on the task of reading to her grandchildren with enthusiasm, as does my Dad. To me, it feels like they’re making up for lost time.
There is one collection of books from my childhood that I remember very clearly: my very own set of Collier’s Encyclopedias. They were shiny black tomes with a distinctive gold and maroon stripe, giving me instant access to a wealth of information in a time before Google and Wikipedia.
There is one collection of books from my childhood that I remember very clearly: my very own set of Collier’s Encyclopedias.
We had the full set of 23 books, bought from a door-to-door salesman who sat in our loungeroom with a wide smile as he showcased his wares, oblivious to the fact that his profession and his books would soon become a relic from a bygone era.
My encyclopedias took pride of place in the formal loungeroom (another quirk of yesteryear), and my Mum remembers them fondly, too.
By the time we gave them away many years later, they were well-worn, just like all the junior fiction books I came to own and love in my teens: Unreal!, The BFG, To Kill a Mockingbird and The Catcher in the Rye, to name a few.
My parents aren’t readers or storytellers, but they are clever, decent people.
They might not have actively nurtured in me a love of reading, but they worked their butts off to create the conditions that enabled that to happen anyway.
They gave me and my siblings every opportunity to live rich and fulfilling lives. And for that, I am grateful.
