At first glance, Ronny looked like every other kid in the first-grade classroom where I volunteered as the Reading Mom. Wind-blown hair, scuffed shoes, a little bit of dirt behind his ears, some kind of sandwich smear around his mouth.
On closer inspection, though, the layer of dirt on Ronny’s face, the crusty nose, and the packed grime under his fingernails told me he didn’t get dirty at school. He arrived that way. His clothes were ragged and mismatched, his sneakers had string for laces, and his backpack was no more than a plastic shopping bag.
Along with his outward appearance, Ronny stood apart from his classmates in other ways, too. He had a speech impediment, wasn’t reading or writing at grade-level, and had already been held back a year. His home life was a shambles with transient parents who uprooted him at their whim. He had yet to live a full year in any one place.
I quickly learned that beneath his grungy exterior, Ronny possessed a spark, a resilience I’d never seen in a child who faced such tremendous odds.
I worked with all the students one-on-one to improve their reading. Each day, Ronny’s head would twist around as I entered, his eyes imploring, “Pick me! Pick me!” Of course, I couldn’t pick him every day.
On his turn, I’d give a silent nod, and he’d fly out of his chair. He sat awfully close and opened the book as if unearthing a treasure. I watched his dirt-caked fingers move slowly under each letter as he struggled to sound out “Bud the Sub.” It sounded more like “Baw Daw Saw.”
Each word was both a challenge and a triumph. Regardless of the outcome, the biggest grin would spread across his face, and his eyes would overflow with pride. It broke my heart each time.
The year passed quickly. Ronny made some progress but hardly enough to reach grade level. He was the only one who didn’t know that.
A few weeks before school ended, I held an awards ceremony. It took me a while to figure out an award for Ronny. I finally decided on “Most Improved Reader.” I presented him with his certificate and a Little Golden Book that cost forty-nine cents.
Tears rolled down his cheeks, streaking the ever-present layer of dirt as he clutched the book to his chest. He never let go of it that day.
A few days later, I returned to visit. I saw Ronny on a bench near the playground, the book open in his lap, his lips moving as he read to himself.
His teacher appeared beside me. “He hasn’t put that book down since you gave it to him,” she said. “Did you know that’s the first book he’s ever actually owned?”
Fighting back tears, I approached Ronny. “Will you read me your book, Ronny?” I asked. He scooted over to make room for me.
For the next few minutes, he read to me with more expression, clarity, and ease than I’d ever thought possible. The pages were already dog-eared.
When he finished, Ronny closed his book, stroked the cover, and said with great satisfaction, “Good book.”
A quiet pride settled over us as we sat on that bench, Ronny’s hand now in mine. I at once wept and marveled. What a powerful contribution the author of that Little Golden Book had made.
At that moment, I knew I would get serious about my own writing career—to care enough to write a story that changes a child’s life.
I strive to be that author.