The Perplexing Book

 

Sitting through a coffee shop, watching a tiny child page through a large picture book. 

It's the kind of book that seems more common place today than it did when I was little. From the cover, it's aimed at establishing or raising a child's self-esteem in a world that too often, wants to tear everyone down. 

Most of the books I had when I was little were thinly veiled morality stories. Yurtle the Turtle. An illustrated collection of bible stories. And the midwestern favorite, "The Giving Tree". I never liked any of them. I could tell they were preachy. Yurtle was a jerk, yes, but I could never understand why all the other turtles didn't simply ignore him. The bible stories were rarely opened, their aim all too clear. And "The Giving Tree" was just as horrifying then as it is to me now.

I did have one book though, that perplexed me to this day. 

I was in elementary school, sometime between second and fourth grade, when Nancy Carlson staged a visit. The parent's were notified ahead of time of course if they wanted to purchase a book and have it signed. I remember having a vague want for one, but I didn't expect it to be fulfilled. I cannot remember exactly why. I think in part, I didn't see the point, nor did I find any of the books interesting. I was already reading encyclopedias and highly technical books at the library, so books for my target age group were simply uninteresting. 

To my surprise, Mom did order me a book, "I Like Me". As you might guess, there's no plot in the pages. It was little more than a series of affirming statements from anthropomorphic pig. I had it signed, complete with a sharpie drawing of the character saying "I like you!"

At the time, the entire incident perplexed me. It was one of those rare moments in my upbringing when my mother seemed like an actual caring parent. It stood out in stark contrast to the baseline barrage of belittlement, punishment, and fearmongering all "for my own good", of course. I didn't understand why she had bought me this book. And why this book? It was as if someone else had stepped into her shoes and made the decision. I remember paging through it more than once alone as a child, trying to figure out just what went through her head.

Over a decade later Mom was gone after a horrifying battle with cancer. Dad was selling the house and had rented out a huge dumpster to empty out as much of the place before moving on. I took the opportunity to throw out most of my childhood possessions. Yurtle went. The book of Bible stories went. An album of my childhood photos -- discreetly -- went into the bin. Old toys, clothes, the scant award, and anything with my old name on it was mercilessly targeted. For a self-loathing teen, spurred on by the wholesale disposal of an entire house's contents, my goal was nothing less than total erasure. 

But I stopped with that book. I don't know why. I still don't know why. I told myself it might be valuable as it was signed. I told myself it was a small thing, easily stowed. I shoved it into a box with my paper journals and tried not to dwell on how damn confusing it was. 

It's still in that box today, stowed in some dark corner of my hundred year old house.

And for the life of me, I still don't know why.