Lend It to Me

Over a random phone call this morning, my father disclosed to me that he hated reading as a kid. Never once in my 20 years of life have I ever seen him pick up a book. Not even a magazine. So, this wasn’t exactly surprising. But, anyway, the phone call today went a little like this:

“Oh, that old book? Yeah, I had to read One Hundred Years of Solitude when I was in high school. I would fall asleep. I absolutely hated it and I never even read a sentence,” he said.

“Really, why not? I mean, how can you hate something you never even tried?”

“Well, you know I’ve never been the most cultured person. Once a teacher asked the class about important things in Italy and I didn’t participate because I didn’t know shit about Italy. Meanwhile, these fuckers were naming the Vatican and other places right off the top of their head.”

“Everyone knows the Vatican and—”

“Not everyone. Not the poorer children on the block who didn’t have A/C at home. Definitely not me who didn’t even have shoes for school. I mean when the fuck were we supposed to learn about Italy? In between shifts at the local textile business? Not everyone has had your education and parents to fund it. You don’t get to value shit like the Vatican and One Hundred Years of Solitude as a kid growing up in the poorest neighborhood of Venezuela.”

The silence was loud. And I mean that literally. You could only hear the static and faint breathing in the background.

“Well, it’s good you’re reading again. I know recently you’ve been lazy and sleeping—”

“Not lazy. Depressed. There’s a difference,” I corrected him.

“Right, well, it seems like you’re enjoying the book. You’ll have to lend it to me when you’re done. I have to get back to work. I’ll call later.”

I didn’t even process what he said until much later. He wanted me to lend him the book. Lend it to him. The same man who didn’t know what the Vatican was. The same man who doesn’t believe depression is real. All in an effort to understand his depressed daughter and educate himself?

It was odd, to say the least.

My dad has always stressed the importance of education since I was very young. As a kid, I would read almost a book a day. I saw it as a means of escape from a friendless childhood. A way of traveling and seeing new things. But today, One Hundred Years of Solitude taught me that it was also a way of reaching people. A way to get through to them. A way of learning basic empathy.