My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Browsing Category Book Lovers

451 Degrees Fahrenheit

by on ·Book Lovers, Opinion

Now and then, I do what I call a book dump. I’m exaggerating; I don’t throw away books; my conscience won’t let me do that. Instead, when I feel like I’m about to be buried beneath my books, I donate them to a charitable organization or give them to someone I know who enjoys reading as much as I do. A few years ago, I packed up three cardboard boxes of old books I had finished reading and gave them to a close friend. It was a painful but necessary act of generosity. I felt like I was bidding farewell to loved ones, but I had no choice but to downsize. My overfull bookcases, some closet shelves, and even one drawer on the nightstand were demanding space.

Now that I think of it, there was one time when I did dump books. It happened decades ago and was sort of a grand finale to my marriage breakup.

When my spouse and I called it quits, my kids and I remained in the beautiful, high-rise apartment we had moved into a year earlier. I loved our apartment. We decorated it meticulously. When my spouse left, in addition to his clothing, he took the only other inanimate objects he valued most:  his tall conga drum and an assortment of Last Poets and Nancy Wilson albums, but he left his books. Even before we married, he, like I, had been an avid reader, so together, we brought around 200 hardcover and paperback books into the marriage. Some of mine were first editions.

A few months after we split, I knew I couldn’t stay there. When I threatened to leave all of the furniture behind if he didn’t come and get it, he relented to my request, arrived with a U-Haul van, and took the plush sectional sofa, the large fish aquarian, the floor model stereo, and the few pieces of African Art hanging on the walls, but he left his books.

Judgment and speculations abounded among friends and relatives about why the breakup occurred. “You two seemed so happy,” a couple of close friends told me. I won’t engage in fault-finding. The fact is, we were both – as the saying goes – young and dumb when we married. I suspect that had we been more mature; we might have handled things differently. But that’s irrelevant.

On the last day, as I was preparing to leave the apartment, I dragged the three green trash bags I had filled with books into the living room and dumped the lot of them, one on top of the other, on the floor in the center of the room. I stared at the mound for a few minutes contemplating whether I should go through them and bring some favorites, but I couldn’t. My emotions were still raw over the whole hot mess. So, I hoisted my baby girl into my arms, took my two-year-old son’s hand, rode the elevator to the ground floor, dropped the keys off in the building manager’s office, and walked into the next chapter of my life.

Although it has been decades since then, I regret leaving that treasure trove of books behind. The Valley of the Dolls, Native Son, In Cold Blood, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Feminine Mystique, Black Like Me, The Learning Tree, Jubilee, Manchild in the Promised Land, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (a signed copy, gifted to me by my Aunt Sarah), and my spouse’s books including his collection by Iceberg Slim. I have since replaced some of my books because I want them in my library.

I am not exaggerating nor bragging when I say that I’ve given away hundreds of dollars of books after reading them in recent years. I’m a voracious reader (or a borderline book hoarder). Usually, I’ll read two or three books simultaneously. Nowadays, in addition to paper publications, I have digital and audible books consuming space on my Kindle and iPod.

The more I hear reports about book banning, the more I feel called to action. I imagine myself lacing up my sneakers, pulling one of my quasi-activist caps on my head, constructing a crude sign reading, “Stop Banning Books, Fools,” and then joining other advocates in a public protest. Perhaps it will be held at one of the most utilized rallying sites in the city, Lafayette Square, in front of the White House.

I know book banning isn’t new. It’s been around for centuries, and the uninformed contemporary book banners will likely continue their efforts to have certain books removed from schools and libraries until they grow tired of the fight or educate themselves. In the meantime, they can bet their MAGA caps and bloomers that if their child of a certain age wants to read a particular book, that child will find a way. Rebellion and resourcefulness are second nature for young people.

What are the proponents of the book banning afraid of? I suspect the fact that knowledge is power frightens them. So they try to boost their position based on moral, religious, and political grounds. Books about the LGBTQ community, books containing references to sex and sexuality, rape, abortion, racism, the black experience, and especially slavery, fuel their fire of forbiddance.

Speaking of fire, I think it’s ironic that 451 Fahrenheit is included on some banned books lists. And I suspect contemporary book censurers have an agenda similar to the cast of characters in 451 Fahrenheit:  Suppress minds, hide the truth, and erase history. How sad.

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Singing Auld “Lame” Syne

by on ·Book Lovers, General, Holidays

In five days and 8 hours from now, the clock will strike 12. The timepiece on all things digital will roll over to 2022. Broadcast stations will switch from playing What are you doing New Year’s, New Year’s Eve? to Auld Lang Syne. And I’ll be doing the same darn thing I did last New Year’s Eve –sitting at home cursing COVID.

Do you ever wonder why when you have the choice of going out someplace and choose not to go, you’re okay with your decision, but when things beyond your control restrict you from going out, it pisses you off? That’s my dilemma again this year.

So I know where I’ll likely be on New Year’s Eve. At home, wearing lounge PJs. And since my Boo and I are teetotalers, we will open a bottle of sparkling cider, toast to the upcoming year with the hope that it will be free of COVID and all of its variants, and watch the ball drop on CNN. And while the Times Square crowd is singing Auld Lang Syne, I’ll be singing Auld Lame Syne thanks to COVID.

I know what I won’t be doing. I won’t be making Resolutions. I never do. Lightbulb moment! I could do some creative writing. Do I sense eye-rolling? Maybe I’ll write about books I’ve read this year. At least two dozen of them were completed. Others failed to hold my interest and were set aside.

That’s it. Maybe I’ll write the revelations of a bookworm and explain that I prefer reading non-fiction but have accumulated a variety of genres in my library — hardcovers and audibles — over the years.

I’ll share that the best book I read this year was Perfect Peace by Daniel Black. I agree with Goodreads description of it as “The heartbreaking portrait of a large, rural southern family’s attempt to grapple with their mother’s desperate decision to make her newborn son into the daughter she will never have.”

Last night, I finished Breath:  The Science of a Lost Art by James Nestor. In short, that book describes how breathing affects our body and how controlled breathing can help eliminate some illnesses and other physical ailments. I imagine that cynics reading this are satirically thinking, “If we don’t breathe, we die; end of story.”

Months ago, when I first heard about Breath, I had the same thought. After reading it, I discovered that it was way beyond my expectations. I’m not going to promote the book, nor will I devalue it. But I will say that I found it to be thought-provoking.

As much as I enjoy a good book, I admire the people who write them.

As every novice knows, if you want to become a pro, you must associate with and learn from them. I feel fortunate to count among my dearest friends authors like Alexander Reed Lajoux. She has written and co-written a slew of books available on Amazon, and she was kind enough to write the forward for Legacy.

Another friend and a former employer, publisher LaVern Gill gave me my first chance to write regular columns in her award-winning weekly newspaper. She too has books to her credit including, “African American Women in Congress,” published in 1997.

I will forever treasure the copy she gave me with the following inscription. To Loretta. How wonderful it is to have a friend like you, a writer with good and great ideas, a wonderful compassion for words and a gift for crafting those words in such a way as to give life and meaning. The best to you and keep writing & writing & writing. Love, LaVerne. 

 

Years ago, I suppose I was a groupie. I chased authors at every opportunity and got a few copies of my books signed, like Bloods, a national bestseller about Black servicemen in the Vietnam War. Not only did I take off half-day from my job to go to author Wallace Terry’s book signing at the Dr. Martin Luther King Library, but some years later, I worked on a job across the hall from one of Terry’s daughters. She was as amiable as her dad. Talk about a small world.

One year, decades ago, I got an autograph from Nikki Giovanni. I had been a huge fan of hers since I read her first poems and even named my newborn daughter after her. On separate occasions, I met esteemed author and photographer Gordan Parks and playwright August Wilson. Little did any of those literary geniuses know that while we were meeting and greeting each other with a firm shake, I was hoping that I could siphon some of their writing intellect.

It looks like that’s what I’ll be doing this New Year’s Eve — reading, maybe a little writing, and much reminiscing about pre-COVID years.

In the meantime, I am wishing for all of my readers, happiness, health, joy, and love in 2022.

Happy New Year!!!

 

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Confession of a Bookworm

by on ·Book Lovers, Lifestyle and Culture, The Way I See It

The pandemic has forced many live television programs to improvise. TV personalities who previously shared a broadcast desk in the studio have relocated to maintain social distancing. With some trepidation, news anchors, and the hosts of my favorite program, The View – are broadcasting from their homes. Certainly, they are aware that while viewers are listening to their talking head, we are observing the scene behind them.

I shamefully admit that I know that I am not the only one looking to see if the camera will reveal dust bunnies or a water ring on a shiny wooden tabletop or a picture hanging crooked on the wall. I also know that it is unlikely that the television audience will see those flaws because, before going on air, every conscientious TV personality will make sure that everything that can be caught by the eye of the camera is perfect. A lot of businesses may have closed since the pandemic began, but house cleaning services must be thriving.

Frequent users of Zoom will tell you that if there is a blemish within camera range or a zit on your face Zoom will magnify it.

Aside from small children and pets who thoughtlessly make an unexpected appearance behind the broadcaster, there is one thing that I notice is often prominently displayed. Books. Most of them are stored on bookshelves; others are cleverly placed on a tabletop to the left or right of the speaker, and sometimes adjacent to a vase of flowers or framed photos. Above all other props, books dominate.

I am not ashamed to admit that there have been a few occasions when the bookworm in me has slithered up close to the TV, sometimes tilting my head to read book titles behind the person at the forefront of the screen. I’m looking to see what books I don’t own and perhaps have never heard of that I think I might like to read. I’ve given up trying to whittle down my booklist. It’s impossible, because every time I check-off a book that I’ve finished, I wind up adding another one or two or three to the “must-read” column.

When I was working, I was buying books like a numismatist collects coins. With my bookshelves overflowing, I began storing books in boxes, on the closet shelf, on the nightstand, anywhere and everywhere in my home where there was space. For years, I used to promise myself that after I retired, I’d have time to read every book I owned. But when that time came, I discovered that the more time we think we have, the less time there is. Just as a job and things related to it like commuting, overtime, out-of-town travel, etc., leaves little time in each day for leisure undertakings – like reading – being retired doesn’t mean the time won’t get consumed by other activities. (Ah, so many books, so little time.)

Not to be judgmental, but I find it inconceivable that there are people who don’t like to read. I know some wonderful people who admit it. Certainly, they can read, and they do – only when necessary. Perhaps because I’ve had a love affair with books all my life, it is hard for me to imagine anyone who does not feel the same way, but you know – different strokes.

Educators tell us that books are nourishment. Brain food. Not only do they educate and entertain us, they also increase our vocabulary and improve our analytical and writing skills. I’ve found that reading also has a soothing effect. Can’t sleep? Grab a book, get engrossed in a chapter, and see if you don’t soon nod off.  Listening to an audiobook can also send you straight to dreamland.

I totally agree with booklover and 15th Century philosopher Desiderius Erasmus who believed, “Your library is your paradise.” His more familiar statement describes me to a T, “When I have a little money, I buy books; and if I have any left, I buy food and clothes.” Don’t tell the fashion police, but I’d rather be a bookworm engrossed in a good book, then a fashionista dressed to impress.

Before I die, I aim to finish reading every book in my collection. Sometimes, I think it might be intriguing to have inscribed on my gravestone, “Here lies a bookworm who read every book she owned.”

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