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.
