¡Marianísima!

The first time I taught, I was a young-looking 28 or 29. Many of my students were in their 20s. I looked like one of them. I had to convince them I was the teacher. Last Tuesday when I walked in to my classroom at the local junior college, I had to bite my tongue not to blurt out, “I am not your teacher.”

I’m a student again, though I don’t have a back-to-school photo to prove it. While I’ve taken workshops for fun and attended seminars for work, I haven’t been an official student since the 90s. My classmates weren’t even born yet.

Why am I back in school? I’ve always loved learning, but I never took an economics class. The older I get, the more that feels like a gaping hole in my education. In high school, it’s a common subject, but it wasn’t taught in mine. In college I was nearly killed by pre-calculus, so anything that involved graphs or required calculators terrified me. I’ve since figured out a lot of economics from self-study and reading newspapers but felt I’d learned all I could on my own.

Now I have Macroeconomics two days a week — complete with textbooks, a scientific calculator, quizzes, and tests. Here’s to hoping it’s enlightening. Now, I’ve got to go read about the GDP.

On a recent overnight visit to a friend’s, I forgot toothpaste. She said, “There’s a tube in the vanity,” so I pulled it out and commenced brushing. A few seconds later, I nearly gagged on a mouth full of berry-bubblegum suds. Beggars can’t be choosers, I know, but I spit it out and asked for grown-up toothpaste.

If you ever need proof that taste change as you get older, just try kids’ Crest. Or think back to all the things you hated as a kid. I hated cheese. I couldn’t stand scrambled eggs unless they were cooked to death. I couldn’t understand why grownups drank nasty-smelling, fiery-tasting alcohol.

Even though palates evolve, we often crave pieces of our childhood, whether cookies, mac ‘n’ cheese, or a favorite book or movie. I LOVED The Chronicles of Narnia as a child. A world of talking animals and children turned royalty – I loved it all. I’ve been meaning to re-read them. But part of me is afraid: afraid the magic that transported me as a pre-teen will seem pathetic and dingy; afraid the allegory will be too heavy-handed; afraid it will be as dissatisfying as eating a bowl of multi-colored sugar bombs for breakfast.

Should I keep Narnia safely ensconced in my memory? Or should I dust off the book and get to reading?

Curiosity is going to kill this cat. Will it kill Aslan, too?

Says right there: a story for children. Do I dare?

I forgot the unread book that’s been on my shelf the longest.

I’ve read pieces and parts. Sometimes I’m curious about how I would react to it as a whole, though to date that curiosity hasn’t been strong enough to compel me to action.

The Bible falls in the category of “books bought for class,” the class being sixth grade religion. I don’t remember much of what we learned in that class, other than how to locate passages by chapter and verse and the names of the books in the Pentateuch. I probably thought I was cool because I knew the word Pentateuch. (I wasn’t cool.)

If I don’t remember my Bible studies, what I do remember from sixth grade? A nun who screamed at students when she was frustrated, and used phrases like “You exasperate me,” “Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?” and “Do you have an auditory deficiency?”

But when she wasn’t screaming, she taught us about art and culture from other countries, showing us photos of the Taj Mahal and a miniature Pietà. I can still hear her saying, “Michelangelo would roll over in his grave if he saw this plastic replica of his masterpiece.” She made me dream of traveling. I don’t sanctify or edify her, but when I saw Michelangelo’s David, I said a little thank you to her memory. I’ll do the same should I ever make it to India.

I love learning new words, especially multisyllabic or lyrical ones. Or a word that perfectly defines what you’re trying to describe. Recently I learned (from Facebook, of all places) that Japanese has such a word. Tsundoku – (n.) buying books and not reading them, letting them pile up unread on shelves, nightstands, etc.

Though I just learned the word, I’ve had this compulsion for a long time. I LOVE books. I love the potential they hold, their ability to transport, to teach, to entertain. As a reader, writer, and packrat, I amass books. They’re my friends, and as such, I have a hard time letting them go.

That said, my love of books is tempered by my fear of becoming a hoarder. With a finite amount of space, I cannot keep every book I read. I’ve gotten much better about borrowing from the library or friends, and now if I want something new and popular, I use my kindle. So what’s the problem? Tsundoku! The last time I moved, I rearranged my bookshelves so all the unread books were on the top shelves. But they’ve since spilled over to my nightstand, coffee table, and desk (not the floor, though; that feels wrong to me). The collection continues to grow.

In planning this blog post, I decided it would be fun to photograph all my unread books. It took three trips up and down the stairs to carry them all, and I had to use my dresser as a staging area.

So many words…

What did I learn from the process? The following:

• I have 57 unread books. Fifty-seven!
• 13 – loaned to me
• 8 – I’ve started before
• 6 – about Ireland
• 5 – bought for classes

Let’s go back to the eight I’ve started before. I need to remember what my dad – possibly the most voracious reader ever – said a long time ago: “If you don’t like it, don’t finish it. Maybe go back to it later, but if you still don’t like it, let it go. There are too many good books to read, so don’t torture yourself with ones you don’t enjoy.” So, sorry Bill Bryson, but if Mother Tongue doesn’t speak to me this time (no pun intended), it’s going away. Same for Innumeracy.

I read about 30 books a year. With 57 unread books, I won’t be able to read anything else for two years. Some of these books linger around because I feel like I should read smarter – more non-fiction or more literary works. Instead, like neglected friends, they hang around and make me feel guilty. Clearly, I need to have an expiration date on books not yet read.

Here’s the plan: I am going to return the loaners and re-borrow them later if I want them. Then I’m going to read these books between other books. If I don’t like them, I’m going to donate them. I need to make room on the shelves for new books that entice me.