My Guilt Book

When I was 20, my mother took me to Asheville, North Carolina. I’d wanted to go there since a high school friend decided to attend the local college/hippie commune. She said Asheville was a really artsy town with lots of interesting shops. I took that to mean that Asheville was a smaller version of the Village, complete with Gaps and Starbucks. So when my mother took me on a day trip, I expected a day full of her purchasing clothing for me so I could return to GMU for my last year looking hip and stylish.

Asheville wasn’t quite what I expected. We ate lunch at a South American restaurant where plantains came standard with each entrée. I then learned what a plantain was, and have avoided all things plantain since. And to my disappointment, we didn’t find a Gap, Old Navy, or Urban Outfitters, but we did find a used bookstore.

I love used bookstores. I spent a couple hours wandering through one in London four years ago and came out with two of my now favorite books, The Christmas Mystery by Jostein Gaarder and Alias Grace by Margaret Atwood. I loved going to the Strand when I lived in New York, and for the past few years have attended the yearly book sale the local library (the same one where I got my parking ticket) holds and come out with more books than I could actually carry.

Anyway, we spent some time in the used bookstore in Asheville. I picked out a few books-I don’t remember what they were-and then my mother handed me a book. “I read this recently, and I want you to read it,” she said. I think she’d actually sought the book out, hoping she’d find it to give to me. She paid for our purchases, and we left.

I didn’t read the book, but over the last six years, it’s haunted me. I tried and tried to read it soon after she bought it for me, but I could never get through the first few pages. I gave up, knowing I never intended to read this book, but I couldn’t manage to give the book away. It followed me through every move for the last several years-first back to Fairfax, then to New York, and finally back to Virginia and my married apartment. I kept it on my shelves partially so my mother wouldn’t see it left at home and partially to remind myself of what a disappointment I am.

A few weeks ago, Husband and I undertook the daunting task of sorting through and packing up our books. We’ve never counted, but I think each of us must have brought at least 750 books, if not more, to the marriage. We packed up all of our books, except for the ones we expected to read this summer. When we came across Stones from the River, by Ursula Hegi, I moaned and groaned, and curled up on the floor in the fetal position. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I replied.

“Um….”

“Okay, see, this book,” I started. “My mom bought it for me like six years ago, and I’ve never actually read it, and I’ve felt guilty for not ever reading it, but I’m really not interested in it, and I don’t really want to keep it, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of it because I feel so bad because she really wanted me to read it, and I never did.”

“Well, what’s it about?”

“A German midget.”

“Um, okay,” he said, and thought for a minute. “Why don’t you make this one of your summer reading books. Then you have to read it.”

“GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” I yelled. “Well, okay. Fine.”

So I read it. After six years, I finally read the damn book about the German midget, and I loved it. It was one of those books where, once I started reading it, I couldn’t stop. I tried to make Baby eat longer at each stretch in order to be able to read just a little more. I even read in the car, even though reading in the car makes me dizzy and queasy. It’s not the best book I’ve ever read, but it was certainly worth a read, and now I don’t have to feel guilty every time I see it.

But now the book’s made guilty for another reason. Part of the story takes place during World War II, and the main character and her father help Jews and others being persecuted by the Nazis. I’ve always had a secret fear that I would have made a good Nazi, or if not a Nazi, an ordinary citizen who didn’t do anything to help those being persecuted by the Nazis and after the war said they were just following orders or trying not to disrupt the status quo. I’ve always feared this because I like rules so much, and I generally try to follow rules or stay within the existing parameters. I don’t really like to stir things up or do things that will make me stick out terribly. Plus, I can be really mean if I want to, and sometimes, even if I don’t want to.

I’d really like to think that if I were in a situation where some grave injustice-like the Holocaust- were occurring I’d be brave enough to do something about it, like hide people in my attic (if I had one) or give away my car to someone who needed it more or deliver secret messages or whatever was necessary to curtail the evil that was happening. After all, as a Christian, countering injustice is something I’m called to do. As a Christian, I’m not supposed to tolerate any type of injustice, much less inflict it upon others. But when I’m confronted with something, such as Stones from the River, which causes me to think about what I would do in frightening situations, life-risking situations, I can’t honestly say I’d do what was right. I hope I would, but I also know myself well enough to know that I am lazy. I am complacent, and I am terrified, even though I am an almost 27 year old, of doing something that will get me in trouble or kill me.

I didn’t feel particularly inspired by the fictional tale of the German midget, but it did make me think, once again, about what I would do in her situation. I really can’t say what I’d do. I’m weak enough to hope that I’m never confronted with anything like that, and I’m smart enough to know that I can’t accurately predict what I’d do. I hope that if I am faced with a scary choice, a life altering choice, I will do what’s right, that I will do whatever I can to erase the injustices. I have to believe that my God, and the people around me, will help me find some strength I’m not sure exists.