Can Books Change the World?

July 2:  Books expose you to people, places, and situations too which you might not otherwise have access.  I learn a lot about who I am and who I want to be from books, good fiction, in particular.

My definition of a good book is not one that is perfectly written, but rather one that through its story and characters broaden my horizons.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy beautifully written books, authors with a gift for words and crafting sentences that evoke vivid imagery.  I also love a good page turner, especially when my mind is not so interested in delving deep into the inner workings of the world.  But there’s nothing quite like a book that lingers long after the last page because of its heart and its message.  A book whose journey changes you, even if ever so slightly.

Some would find this discomforting and not criteria for a good book.  I get that.  Self-examination is hard.  I appreciate that it’s not for everyone.  But I find hope in self-examination.  The desire to examine is the desire to understand and relate.  Like digging for gold, it’s like digging for possibility and potential in the stream of self.  Books have taught me compassion and how to courageously be in the world.  Books fulfill my incessant need to explore and my desire to transform limiting beliefs.

All these words just to provide context for my appreciation of two books that recently landed in my lap.   Americanah, by the Nigerian author Chimananda Ngozi Adichie, was my book club’s June selection.  Small Great Things, by Jodi Picoult, is a book my sister-in-law sent me in June.  I have more books than I have time to read so unless it’s a book club book, a new book often sits on my shelf collecting dust as I slowly work through my backlog.  But in this case I read Picoult’s book on the heals of Americanah.  My sister-in-law and I have only recently started sharing books; reading Picoult’s book sooner rather than later gives the two of us something to talk about.  And something about her high praise, that this was Picoult’s best book, made it too difficult to put on the shelf for another day.

Much to my surprise, the books tackled the same subject — race, in particular being black in America.  I confess, a few chapters in I considered shelving Small Great Things until later.  It is possible to reach overload on heavy topics and some of Picoult’s characters made me squirm.  But these are not good enough reasons to avoid or put off for later such an important topic.  Especially now when the world feels more divided than ever, when differences that should enrich our world feel more like shackles.

It’s kind of extraordinary and perhaps courageous for Picoult, a white woman, to take on this subject.  The black experience will never be her experience.  But she is not shy to write about controversial subjects and her books are often well-researched and presented in a fair and balanced way.  She felt called upon to write about this subject.  In her Author’s Note she says she wants the book to encourage dialogue about a subject that is difficult to put words too.  The book is not perfect and is intended I think for a white audience, but it’s nonetheless thought provoking.

I’m not familiar with Adichie’s motivations.  Coming from Nigeria, living some of the time in the United States, her book felt more autobiographical, a statement on being not just black in America, but a non-American black in America.  One of the interesting observations in Adichie’s book is this, spoken by the Nigerian character who immigrates to the States to go to college, “I came from a country where race was not an issue; I did not think of myself as black and I only became black when I came to America.”

There were humbling moments in both books and reading them made me realize that I am not as racially aware as I thought.  I found myself imagining what moments of every day life, ones I take for granted in their ease and accessibility, would be like for someone who is not white — like buying flesh colored bras or bandaids or seeking out makeup tips from one of the many beauty magazines at the checkout counter of my grocery store.  In discussing these books with others I realize that while I consider myself to be aware of my surroundings, I’m usually not aware in a way where I would notice the subtle differences in the way others are being treated.  I see what I want to see.

It takes courage to talk about this subject because I don’t have the words and I make myself vulnerable stumbling around in front of others trying to find the words.  In that inelegance I may say something I did not mean and offend someone without intending too.  My need to pause and process could be perceived as indifference.  It takes courage to really listen to someone’s story and even more to appreciate how their experiences shape their life.  We are our stories and those stories deserve to be heard and honored.  It takes courage to speak up for someone or something that we don’t agree with.  That kind of courage comes from a self-confidence that I did not possess in my early years.  Speaking out, stepping up in the defense of someone else, even in a constructive non-threatening way, is now an invitation for fear-based rhetoric, to receive as much hate as love, to be judged.  The irony is that this must be what it’s like to live every day as someone who our society thinks of as different.

I’m a good and kind and fair-minded person, but I realize after reading these books that I still have a long way to go in my own racial awareness.

Today I express gratitude for both of these books and for the authors for sharing their experiences, research, and imagination.  I am grateful for a book’s ability to increase awareness and encourage different ways of thinking.  I am grateful for the impact books have on my life.