The Book, the Belt & the Wound that Made Me a Reader

By Elena Tretyachenko

PROMPT — If only ...

I love reading. Books are my passion. I love to own them. A strange thing happens to me in bookstores — it’s the only place where I’ve ever felt the urge to steal. Not anything else, just a good book. I love to touch them, smell them, hold them in my hands.

At home in Russia, I have a large personal library.

My close friends always knew what to give me for my birthday: books. Every gift added something new to my collection. I can’t throw books away. I’ve even rescued some from public trash bins. I remember once taking home a big box when my mother’s friend threw hers out — she said books had gone out of style, no longer part of the modern aesthetic like they were during Soviet times.

My mother came from an intellectual family — she was practically born with a book in her hands. My father grew up in a rural family, but he loved reading too. So, I was born into a family of readers.

When I was a baby, my mother read to me constantly. Fairy tales, mostly. My favorite was Red Riding Hood. I made her read it over and over. I loved the pictures — touching them, looking at them, getting lost in their colors. She began teaching me to read early, and I learned how to syllabify quickly. But I was obsessed with illustrations. I would only pick books that had pictures. If there were no pictures, I didn’t want them.

My mother, on the other hand, began reading me books without pictures. One of her favorites was All Creatures Great and Small. I didn’t care — I still stuck to books with pictures.

By the time I reached fifth grade, we had moved, and I started at a new school. The literature teacher told me I needed to improve my reading — I was too slow. She gave me a summer reading list.

My mother bought me a stack of beautiful books with white pages and amazing covers… but no pictures. I lost interest. I didn’t want to read them. She explained, reasoned, insisted… and I resisted.

Then one day, my mother turned into a monster. Or maybe… my torturer.

She chose a book — it was the Soviet version of The Wizard of the Emerald City. She handed it to me and said, “Read.”

I said, “No.”

She took a belt and said, “You will read this book.”

The more I resisted, the angrier she got. She lost her temper and hit me. I cried and sobbed and read between breaths. The book was thick. I don’t remember how long it took — only that it felt endless. Pain. Fear. Tears. And the adventures of one girl. When I finally turned the last page, my mother sighed and said, “That’s all. Nothing difficult. You did it. See?”

I hated her in that moment.

Years later, when I reminded her of that day, she said, “It worked. You started reading everything after that.”

But that is not the way to teach a child.

She just smiled and said, “Pressure makes diamonds.”

And now, I truly love books.

I think that love was born not in fear, but in the moments when my mother read to me with warmth and care. It wasn’t the pressure that created my passion — it was the connection, the closeness, the magic of stories shared in a quiet room.

I’ve always resisted pressure. The moment I feel it — even a little — I pull away. I end relationships quickly. I avoid people who try to control or manipulate.

My mother has been learning, slowly, how to communicate with me without using pressure. But for a long time, even a book left on my desk or a well-meaning suggestion felt like an emotional trap. Her method left a deep wound. I carry that trauma, even now.

Still — I forgave her.

She did her best.

She was a product of her time, of a society where violence in education was considered normal — even necessary.

But I still wish she had chosen a different way. A kinder way.

What can I do now?

I’m a teacher myself.

And I stand firmly for education without violence.

But… is education without any pressure even possible?

That’s what I’m still trying to figure out.

I don’t think we can remove pressure from education, but we can replace fear with connection. And those change everything.

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Elena Tretyachenko is a writer from Russia currently living in Vietnam. Her work explores displacement, memory, and the strange moments hidden in everyday life.