In Grade 1, Davis went on strike.
"I won't read any more books!" he said.
On library day at school he refused to even look at the book racks, instead hunching over with arms folded on the big fading couch in the corner by the plants.
Week after week the librarian encouraged him to at least wander with his classmates in the picture book section.
Dark scowl.
The teacher was concerned. "He's a very good reader," she said. "This is usually a student's favourite time of the week."
She tried picking a book for him and sending it in his backpack. We tried sticker charts and rewards. He would have none of it. And for some reason it became a bit of an issue, because he seemed angry and disconnected from a previous joy of reading.
Finally it came out in one big spill. "I hate reading kids books!" he said one night. "They lie. They say it's good to be different, it's good to be yourself," he looked down, "And then my class sits in desks all in a row and they make everyone be the same and write the same way and do art the same way, and forget all the smiles in those books!"
