By Design

Sketch. Plan. Imagine stories you want to exist in the world. I wrote blog posts about the value of a space you create even when it isn’t regularly visited, and considered the ridiculousness of thinking you can anticipate the resources someone else might want. Both have been true.

Make lists of the books you read. Yesterday was Book Lovers Day. Each time I scrolled social media, images celebrated their opportunity. The irony was not lost on me that I’m still learning lessons about barriers to loving books despite a life of outreach lived through them.

Last November, I gave my dad a “year of reading” for his birthday. My handwritten certificate, reminiscent of the childhood-kind for hugs and chores, promised that I would provide books until the year was over, books that he could keep or give to someone else. My dad repeatedly said he didn’t have the stamina to read books, just magazines and newspapers. Still, I wanted a break from his questions. The books could answer so many of them with details he could soak in at his own pace.

Sketch. Plan. Make lists. I began with books I had read, attempting to represent a variety of identities and themes. I tried to balance joy with research-heavy nonfiction chapters. I added and deleted from a Barnes and Nobles cart seeking books that were both conversational and that could be in conversation either with each other or my dad’s questions.

Dad acknowledged the gift as “out-of-the-box,” opening each as they were delivered. He sped through some, questioned others. And he finished one book, then another, after another. The reason?

Originally, I had accepted his answer of stamina. Except, his reading never wavered. His chose to read one page, then one more, one afternoon, and then one more–even when summer hours lengthened, even when interest was cut short. Perhaps he had underestimated himself and as he read, he believed he could read more, he believed in reading more.

On his table by his chair in his room, Dad's books waited. Ownership, but not the purchase transaction, ownership of action. My life in educational outreach was defined by expanding libraries for strangers. For my father, despite my reassurances, due dates loomed and trips to a shared space were required. These public actions were a type of pressure. He was not avoiding books. He was avoiding the social institution around them. Educational outreach was by design, except by design, it was too often too public. Ownership of each and every moment he chose, and the freedom to choose emboldened him. He chose more moments to engage than less. Something I never intended.

The question that remains: if and when he chooses, who will read what next?