Before the First Page: Libraries, Phonics, and the Architecture of Literacy

Long before literacy became something to be measured, assessed, or debated, it existed for me as an atmosphere. Much like the early experiences of reading modeled in programs such as Reading Rainbow, literacy first entered my life not as a mandate or a benchmark, but as an invitation; one grounded in curiosity, warmth, and the quiet assurance that books were places I was allowed to inhabit. It lived in quiet rooms lined with shelves, in the cadence of words read aloud, and in the reassuring predictability of familiar sounds. Before reading was an academic skill, it was a sensory and emotional experience, one rooted in safety, repetition, and access. Looking back now, I understand that my relationship with literacy was not formed solely by individual effort or innate curiosity, but by the presence of institutions, methods, and people who believed that learning to read was both possible and worth nurturing.

Libraries and phonics, often discussed separately and sometimes contentiously, were foundational to this process. Together, they constituted an invisible architecture that supported not only my early engagement with reading but also my eventual confidence, autonomy, and capacity for self-expression. In revisiting these foundations, it becomes clear that literacy is not merely a personal achievement; it is a collective responsibility.

Learning Before Literacy Had a Name

Some of my earliest memories of reading are not memories of books themselves, but of environments. Libraries, classrooms, and living rooms shared a common stillness, a sense that within these spaces, attention mattered. For many children, particularly those who experience the world differently, such environments are not incidental. They provide structure in a world that can often feel overwhelming.

Before I could read fluently, I learned through listening. The rhythm of language, the repetition of sounds, and the predictability of familiar words laid the groundwork for comprehension long before decoding entered the picture. Literacy, in this early stage, was relational. It was something shared between reader and listener, teacher and student, and narrator and audience. This distinction is often overlooked in contemporary conversations about reading instruction, yet it is essential. Literacy does not begin with independence; it begins with connection.

Phonics as Cognitive Scaffolding

In elementary school, I was taught how to read and decode the English language as though I had dyslexia, despite never receiving a formal diagnosis. At the time, this distinction mattered less than the method itself. Instruction was deliberate, explicit, and patient. Language was broken down into manageable, repeatable components, allowing me to understand not just what words said, but how they worked. What some might have viewed as remedial instruction functioned instead as an equalizer, offering clarity where assumption might otherwise have prevailed.

Phonics has, recently, become a point of contention, framed alternately as outdated dogma or as a corrective to pedagogical drift. Stripped of ideology, however, phonics is best understood as scaffolding. It provides learners with a reliable system for decoding language, particularly for those for whom reading does not come intuitively.

For disabled and neurodivergent learners, this structure can be transformative. Phonics offers consistency in a landscape where ambiguity often dominates. It allows language to become predictable, learnable, and ultimately empowering. This is not to suggest that phonics alone is sufficient, nor that all learners engage with it in the same way. Rather, it underscores the importance of evidence-based instruction that respects cognitive diversity instead of assuming uniform development.

The danger lies not in teaching phonics, but in assuming that literacy will emerge without explicit support. Disability justice reminds us that access is not about retrofitting systems after failure occurs; it is about designing instruction from the outset that anticipates difference. When decoding is treated as optional or implicit, those who struggle are often left to internalize failure rather than receive instruction. In this way, pedagogical choices are not neutral; they are moral, shaping who is included and who is quietly left behind. When decoding is treated as optional or implicit, those who struggle are often left to internalize failure rather than receive instruction. In this way, pedagogical choices carry ethical weight.

Libraries as Democratic Institutions

If phonics provided structure, libraries provided possibility. Much like Reading Rainbow once did through a screen, libraries transformed reading from a task into a relationship; one built on choice, exploration, and trust. They were spaces where curiosity was rewarded rather than rushed and where literacy was framed not as compliance but as discovery.

Libraries occupy a unique place in the literacy ecosystem. They are among the few remaining public spaces that ask nothing of their patrons, no purchase, no subscription, no justification. For many, libraries are the first site where reading becomes a choice rather than an assignment.

Beyond books, libraries offer access to technology, to programming, and to assistance that is informal yet deeply impactful. Librarians frequently serve as guides, connecting individuals to resources they might not otherwise know exist. For disabled people, libraries often provide adaptive tools, quiet spaces, and a sense of belonging that is difficult to replicate elsewhere.

Yet libraries are not immune to neglect. From a disability justice perspective, the erosion of libraries represents more than the loss of books; it signals the withdrawal of collective access. Budget cuts, political pressures, and ideological attacks narrow the pathways through which marginalized communities encounter literacy. When libraries are diminished, access to books and reading becomes a privilege rather than a shared civic good. Budget cuts, political pressures, and shifting public priorities threaten their capacity to serve as literacy anchors. When libraries are diminished, access narrows, and literacy becomes increasingly stratified along socioeconomic lines.

Disability, Delay, and the Myth of Failure

One of the most persistent myths surrounding literacy is that difficulty indicates deficiency. This belief is particularly harmful to disabled learners, whose developmental timelines may diverge from standardized expectations. When reading is framed as a race rather than a process, those who require more time or alternative methods are too often labeled as lagging.

In reality, literacy development is nonlinear. Fluency does not equate to comprehension, nor does speed signify depth. For many, confidence emerges only after years of quiet persistence, supported by patient instruction and accessible resources. The tragedy is not delayed literacy but unsupported literacy.

Recognizing this requires a shift from deficit-based narratives to ones grounded in equity, interdependence, and respect. Disability justice asks us to move beyond individual perseverance stories and to interrogate the systems that determine who receives support, when, and under what conditions. Literacy is not a referendum on intelligence; it is a skill shaped by opportunity, instruction, belief, and collective investment. Literacy is not a referendum on intelligence; it is a skill shaped by opportunity, instruction, and belief.

What Literacy Makes Possible

Programs like Reading Rainbow understood something that policy debates often forget: literacy is affective as well as functional. It shapes how we see ourselves in relation to the world. When reading is framed as joyful and attainable, it becomes a source of confidence rather than comparison.

The value of literacy extends far beyond employability or academic success. To read is to participate, to engage with systems, to question authority, and to articulate one’s own narrative. Literacy enables civic engagement, self-advocacy, and the ability to navigate a world increasingly governed by text.

For disabled individuals, this capacity is particularly significant. Literacy becomes a tool for autonomy, allowing individuals to access information, understand rights, and contribute meaningfully to public discourse. It is no coincidence that barriers to literacy often mirror broader patterns of exclusion.

What We Owe Future Readers

If literacy is collective, then responsibility must be as well. Parents, educators, policymakers, and communities all play a role in shaping the conditions under which reading can flourish. This includes investing in libraries, supporting evidence-based instruction, and resisting the temptation to conflate efficiency with effectiveness.

It also requires patience, an acknowledgment that learning unfolds differently for different people. Early exposure, consistent support, and accessible resources are not luxuries; they are prerequisites for equity.

Reading as Belonging

As I reflect on my journey with literacy, I am struck not by milestones, but by moments of quiet recognition: the realization that words could be trusted, that meaning could be constructed, and that understanding was within reach. I am reminded of LeVar Burton’s gentle refrain, an invitation to take a look. That ethos, grounded in encouragement rather than evaluation, mirrors the environments that ultimately allowed me to grow as a reader. Libraries and phonics did not merely teach me how to read; they taught me that reading was for me.

In an era increasingly defined by speed and spectacle, literacy remains an act of patience and care. Protecting its foundations is not an exercise in nostalgia but a commitment to the future.

Before the first page is turned, a world of possibility must already exist, built by access, instruction, and the enduring belief that everyone deserves the chance to read and to belong.

A Note of Thanks

To those who have taken the time to engage with this reflection, I offer my sincere thanks. Reading itself is an act of attention, and in a world that increasingly fragments our focus, such attention is no small thing. I am grateful to educators, librarians, advocates, and fellow readers, disabled and non-disabled alike, who continue to defend access to literacy in all its forms. Your presence in this conversation affirms what this piece has sought to convey: that reading is never a solitary achievement but a shared and sustaining endeavor.

Ian Allan

Self-Advocate for The Arc of Northern Virginia

Ian Allan is a self-advocate with a deep commitment to policy literacy, systems change, and disability justice. Through The Arc of Northern Virginia, he works to ensure that people with intellectual and developmental disabilities are not merely served by systems, but are actively shaping them.