Where the Wild Things Inspire
When I was in kindergarten, there was a book in our class bookshelf that grabbed my attention with a bold cover that seemed to come to life in my head. I would stare at it and imagine what the monster’s voice would sound like or the laughter of the little boy, who I pretended to be me. The book in question was called Where the Wild Things Are.
Every day, I went to the bookshelf to look for it, only to have already been taken by one of my 5-year old colleagues. Somehow, I kept missing my opportunity to check this gem out and it started to irk me.
One day, I decided to take matters into my own hands and make a run for the bookshelf and beat the other kids at their own game. Just before activity time, I focused on the book’s position on the shelf. I planned how I would run around everyone and finally get that little piece of magic in my grubby little hands. It seemed like the perfect plan to me. Unfortunately, there was another kid named Brian who was one step ahead of me. He had approached our teacher just before morning snack and asked if she could get the book for him – the little punk. I played with him a few times at recess and knew he had a way of cheating the system so his request bothered me on many different levels. He once put empty tires – yes, they let us play with these –on the bike trail that surrounded the playground, and said the teacher told him it was okay to do that. By the time we talked him into moving the tires, recess was over. We all knew that deep down, that was his plan all along. Darn you Brian and your selfish out of the box thinking…DARN YOU!
In a sad moment of desperation, and in a feeble attempt to trump Brian, I asked the teacher if she could do the same thing for me after he was done and she said “Yes.” I reminded her activity time was limited so she gave Brian 5 minutes to finish looking at it and pass it on to me. Woot!
When I finally got the book I had the most horrible realization: I couldn’t read half the words. For some reason, I thought wanting a book would magically give me the gift of reading. Unfortunately, I had a bad habit of daydreaming during class and didn’t do all the reading exercises. I was now paying the price. At that moment, I regretted not knowing what Dick and Jane did together with Spot.
There was one thing about this book that made the story come to life without the use of reading: beautiful illustrations. I was mesmerized by the flow of the drawings and the expressive characterizations. I knew the little boy in the animal costume was having the time of his life, and I found that very appealing. I looked at the pictures for the rest of activity time, unable to put the book down. I decided at that moment I wanted to learn how to read so I could look deeper into the pictures and see what the monsters were saying to the boy.
To this day, that little book holds a special place in my heart. Whenever I see it, I become the little kindergartner who was under the book’s spell. I’m thankful to have that memory.
Earlier today, Maurice Sendak, the gentleman who wrote and illustrated the book, passed away after an illness brought on by a stroke. I would have loved to have met him to share my story of my quest to read his book. In a way I’m still the little boy looking for adventures, which was no farther than a book in a classroom. With much aloha Maurice, may you rest in peace with the wild things!
