I am one of those who believe that language makes all that is human and humane possible. Martin Heidegger says that the naming of things brings their being into the Open. Without getting overly philosophical, the Open is simply our consciousness of the world around us, our distinctly human perception of it. In other words, without language we would be more than mute; we would be deaf and blind as well. What we perceive would be undifferentiated: a world ordered by instinct and physical need. An inhuman world. I believe Martin Heidegger.

     I also believe Helen Keller when she tells us what acquiring language meant to her. Without words, the world was an indistinguishable wash of sensations. She signaled for the satisfaction of a need as domestic pets do, but she could not name a thing or make a predication. She was a human being trapped in an inhuman world, and her higher sensibilities remained ungerminated. Without language she could not experience grief or compassion or real joy. So when she shattered one of her dolls out of what was for her a nameless frustration, the loss meant nothing to her.

     Then came the day she learned the word for water, and the sensation running over her hand became a thing brought into the Open. It stood out from the wash of other sensations; it was water and now it could be enjoyed, feared, understood. With the enthusiasm of the reborn, she took her teacher Anne Sullivan from object to object learning the words that made them real. When she got to her doll and the symbols formed across her skin, she wept. Only now did she understand what she had done: the shattered doll was brought into the Open. This awakening was both cognitive and emotional. Not only did objects stand out and shine in the light of language, feelings could be attached to them. Now she could grieve.

     Starting from very different places, Helen Keller and Martin Heidegger arrive at a common conclusion: human beings create who they are out of language. Language makes being human and humane possible. If you've gotten this far, I'll tell you another one of my beliefs: reading and writing are basic to civilization, commerce, and personal happiness. Teach a student to read and you aspire to the highest calling. What could be more important than helping others grow into their humanity?

     Nevertheless, those who teach reading and writing often work in the cold. Like cultural spies in a video universe, they may find themselves unappreciated in their own country. These teachers, however, are not just specialists, but parents, administrators, librarians, educators in formal and nonformal contexts, and literate citizens. They are fighting the current because it's the only direction they know.

     As a parent, independent teacher of writing, and library consultant, I have also worked in the cold. For those of us who are members of professional communities, even when colleagues gather together, there is often the pervasive feeling of being under siege. Justification after justification is fired back--study after study. Most of us realize that teaching will always be difficult work and that the relevance of learning will never go unchallenged. It comes with the job. But it is not good to work in the cold, to remain isolated within our professional, institutional, or social communities as if we were the only ones who cared.

     In July of 1993, I received an invitation from the Middle Grades Reading Network to become a Reading Stakeholder. We would meet at the Abe Martin Lodge in Brown County. In addition to reading specialists, the Stakeholders would include parents, administrators, librarians, and educators in formal and nonformal contexts. It was, in the lingo of political action, a broad-based group--and a chance to come in from the cold. We shared our values, pooled our past experience, and imagined a more literate future for our children. We sang, danced, and acted out our visions. When we returned to the present, we did not leave our dreams behind us but created action plans and agendas for each group of Stakeholders. On February 16 of this year, we met again to review and refine our work.

     One of my personal guidelines as a writer is to avoid using the word "empowerment." Sometimes, however, when the shoe fits exactly, one must wear it. I will say, therefore, that the Reading Stakeholders are an empowering group for all the right reasons. They have a clear set of common beliefs and values. They have translated these values into objectives and created action plans to achieve them. And they have stipulated the criteria by which to measure their progress. These are the technical elements that must be included in a sound plan.

     In addition to technical considerations, however, a plan is only as good as the will of the people to implement it. Personally speaking, I believe the Stakeholders have that will. We went through many exercises in the planning process, including a few dramatic performances as we wrote and acted in our own plays. These performances were visions of the future where reading had become a supported activity. Libraries were at the center of life in communities and schools. They were fully staffed and contained not only the classics but also literature dealing with contemporary issues for young readers. In the schools every teacher taught reading, not just the specialists. A Reading Bill of Rights insured that all students would have daily access to the library and to a formal time to read in silence. Teachers, moreover, did not simply teach out of books, the read them. They carried their latest "read" openly down the hallway. They discussed it with other adults or students. When students came home, they found parents who were also readers. Stakeholders saw the challenge of young adult literacy in the context of home, school, and community. Coordinated programs promoted reading as an activity central to each of these contexts.

     It was heartening to watch school administrators, teachers, reading professors, librarians, and parents becoming the players in scenes depicting these transformations. Students whisked into the future were stunned to find their illiterate parents reading and the libraries open to them and filled with books about their own concerns. Librarians were teachers; principals were students; parents were librarians; everyone was a reader. There was commitment in those performances as well as compassion. The young adult at risk of never reading a book is not easily converted. We saw the difficulty and the possibility of failure in our plays. Adolescents must see other kids reading as well as leaders, athletes, and teachers; and their parents must encourage reading at home. They must be surrounded by role models and find in books the struggle to answer their own questions. In July of '93, the reality of the challenge became clear and so did the possibility of a solution.

     At our second meeting in February of '95, I was especially glad to see the superintendents joining us. Their good counsel is appreciated, but just as importantly, their presence alone makes a statement about the centrality of reading as an educational issue. I had a chance to talk with a few of them, and they forcibly carved the time out of their schedules to join us. The legislature was in session; new mandates and budgetary formulas were closing in on them, and they still found the time. These superintendents have made a commitment to forging new alliances in their pursuit of bringing basic education to children. They also have come in from the cold.

     I don't know if this is what Jack Humphrey had in mind when he asked me to write an article about my personal impressions of the Stakeholders' meetings. I know he didn't expect me to begin with Martin Heidegger and Helen Keller, but their sense of the importance of language is where my own personal commitment starts. I believe that language has always been more than the power of speech: we must read and write in order to grow, and the work of creating who we are is never finished.

     Congratulations to the Stakeholders; I am proud to be counted among them. They are keeping faith with the at-risk student, for whom the exercise of language has too often been a series of failures in school and at home. There are thousands of these students in our communities, and for every one of them there are ten world-weary voices chanting they will always be with us. It doesn't matter; we still understand what our work is. At our February meeting, Jack McGovern shared the story, or perhaps I should say the parable, of The Man Who Planted Trees. It reminded me of a poem by Wendell Berry where the same homage is paid to the kind of work which continues to bear its fruit when the worker has passed on. In "Planting Trees," Berry tells us,

I return to the ground its original music.

I have made myself a dream to dream
of its rising, that has gentled my nights.
Let me desire and wish well the life
these trees may live when I
no longer rise in the mornings
to be pleased by the green of them
shining, and their shadows on the ground,
and the sound of the wind in them.

     I know we are doing the right thing when we set ourselves the task of bringing every student into the light of reading. What goal can we have other than reaching all of them? For the ones we reach and for the ones we do not reach, let us wish them well, as Wendell Berry among his trees, and be pleased by the thought of them shining. Whatever power they have when they leave us, may it be enough to carry them through when the need for right words arises. Without books, we begin to fall toward that dark out of which Helen Keller vaulted one extraordinary afternoon, when she learned with a handful of words how to love and grieve.