There is a story, in my family, that takes place when I was ten years old. Although it’s about me, I don’t actually remember it, and I had to hear it the first time from my father. He was using it to illustrate a point he wanted to make to a bookstore clerk who was…concerned…that my then twelve-year-old self was buying “older” books along with my young adult sci-fi and fantasy (I actually can’t remember the book that prompted the conversation, although I had had issues a few times at the library and at school with “reading about my level”.).
So, as I was standing there, my dad explained why he didn’t think I needed policing in my book choices:
Well, when she was ten, I walked into the den and saw her reading Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale. When I mentioned that she might want to read that book when she was older, and it would make more sense, she looked up and told me ‘Oh, it’s okay; this is the second time I’m reading it.’ At that point, I decided she could read what she wanted.
And you know what? I could. Continue reading
