My Ridiculous Fear

Yesterday, I circulated around my classroom to see my seventh graders' selections for their third marking period Independent Reading Project. I allow my students to read whatever they want in hopes they will read a book they enjoy. I smiled as I noted copies of John Green and Mike Lupica books and sighed when one of my student's held up a copy of Of Mice of Men already bookmarked. I squealed with delight when I saw Pride and Prejudice and told my student she was going to meet and know my all time favorite heroine in literature, Elizabeth Bennet. As I walked past the last grouping of desks, one student proudly held up her book and said, "This is the third time I'm reading this book." I frowned and asked, "Why don't you pick a new book? Maybe one by the same author?" With the exception of the books I teach, I rarely return to books I've already read. Mostly because there are far too many books I want to read and not nearly enough time. I have multiple lists of books I want to read on Amazon, Pinterest, and in my library account, and as an English teacher and former English major, I have an ongoing mental list of "classics" I have yet to tackle.

I know this may sound ridiculous, but another reason why I don't revisit books is out of fear. When I was in tenth grade, I read Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird. It was the first book I read that made me realize the power of words. Albert Camus said "Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth," and To Kill A Mockingbird revealed many truths to me. Whenever someone asks me what inspired me to become an English teacher, my experience with that novel is one of them. Last summer, I finally forced myself to re-read it. I found the same copy I read when I was in tenth grade; its yellowed pages only amplifying my growing fear. What if the book I so loved at fifteen turned out to be overhyped and mediocre? As I read the first few chapters, I felt anxious. It was good, but worthy of inspiring my future career? I was nearing an existential meltdown, worried my life was based on a a lie. But a few chapters later, I remembered what I felt over twenty year ago and closed the back cover a few days later with my truths in tact. When asked why she never wrote another novel, Lee responded, "I said what I wanted to say and I will not say it again." Perhaps Harper Lee and I share some similar fears.

I did recently re-read, Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar for my book club. I did not feel the same sense of trepidation I felt with To Kill A Mockingbird, but I did spend a lot time reflecting on my previous two visits with Esther Greenwood. I first met Esther when I was twenty years old while vacationing with three of my friends in Ocean City, New Jersey. After my friend finished reading the book, she passed the novel, sodden with sand, off to me in the middle of our trip. As I lay on the beach, I felt a close connection with Esther. While I did not relate to Esther's battle with depression, I completely related to her feeling stifled. Like Esther who excelled at academics, I too had excelled as a model member of my religious community, but like Esther, I began to question my motivation.  Was I motivated by faith, or perhaps just by my own intrinsic desire to excel? Like Esther, I balked at the expectations of my "society" to get married and then be in subjection to my husband. Like Esther I wanted more than a Buddy Willard telling me my opinions were foolish and worthless while raising his children. Like Esther, I felt limited by the "infinite security" set before me.

Five years later, Esther and I met again. She had remained the same, but I had not. After making some difficult choices, I was finally hitting my stride as a teacher and one of my new students who had already read The Catcher in the Rye felt she wanted to read something different for our "Coming of Age" unit. I suggested we do an Independent Study on The Bell Jar together. As we read the novel and discussed Esther's plight, I believe she found a truth in the novel which I hope she still carries with her.

My most recent visit with Esther will most likely be my last. The Bell Jar isn't exactly middle school material. But as I finished reading The Bell Jar for the third time, I thought about the person I was and the person I am. More than fifteen years later, I still loathe Buddy Willard. I still feel an immense compassion for Esther and the polarizing literary figure who created her and was her. And I still remember thinking of that moment at the beach, as Esther contemplates drowning herself in the ocean, she hears her heart beating "I am I am I am." And I still remember thinking in that moment "Who I am" and all the infinite possibilities.

Even though there are too many books and too little time, I think I will be overcoming my fear and dusting off a few book jackets to remember who I was and who I am.