“There. And there. And what about that closet?” Dutifully, I
opened it and found the backpacking gear that I’d almost forgotten about. Yes.
Yes, I will backpack when I live in Israel. Choosing what to take is like
deciding what kind of person I will be next year.
“Yep. That.” The reassuringly bespectacled man sought for a
place to check off “tent and backpack” on his clipboard, and instead scribbled
something in the margins. “What about the couch?”
“Nope, that I’m selling.”
Like every other person who has ever walked into my
apartment for the first time, his unoriginal first comment had been, “you have
a lot of books.”
“Yes. Most of my weight will be in books.” No decision to
make there. Leaving them would be like walking out of my apartment without my
ankles.
“Not so many English bookstores over there, is that it?” I
smiled in acquiescence, though I know for a fact of at least three used bookstores
better than Charlotte’s in the Jerusalem and Tel Aviv areas.
“So, I think that’s a wrap. We’ll get a quote to you next
week.” I handshook him out of my apartment, and then stood in the center,
surveying all my earthly possessions. Never before when I moved, from Maryland
or Jerusalem or Norway or Toronto, have I had this number of things to move
with me. If I don’t watch out, I’ll become the kind of packrat weighted down by
physical junk and unable to shuck it off to roam the world with nothing but a
backpack.
What kind of person will I be next year? A person with
backpacking gear, ready to escape and explore. A person with a futon, ready for
all the friends who have promised to visit. A person with a frog pitcher, some
seashells, and a broken clock, who has a history in found objects. A person
with books, who spends more time with her favorite authors’ minds than with
most living human beings. A person who cannot part with her books.
But, I mused, I also want to be the kind of person who gives
away books.
 |
| Time to make some choices |
So I packed my first box, brutally tearing possibilities
from my shelves, and brought them to school today. I split it open in front of
my favorite class, wordlessly, watching with breath as bated as the Never Bird
peeking between her feathers to see what Peter did with her eggs. I felt my
throat close. Terror dilated my pupils. Am I really giving away books? Maybe
there’s still time to snatch them back.
“Fullmetal Alchemist!”
Ha, I could have guessed that fit.
“Ooooh, poetry!” Oh! That’s a surprise. ‘Ware Wordsworth,
child.
“Was this signed by the author?” Oh. That was given me by
the head of the Maryland English department, in recognition of something or
other… I should probably keep it. But if all I want is the first page? Take it,
child.
And what is the quiet wunderkind going to go for, as he
restlessly turns the contents of the box thoroughly, methodically, onto the
desk beside him?
“Can I have more than three?” Hm. Fascinating. I should make this an
exercise on the first day of school, instead of the last, and see what my
students clamp their paws upon. Nothing lends insight like seeing children
choose books.
A gentle flow of elation pulses through me. My students are
gamboling about the books like puppies. I have
never had this joy from my books before—the exaltation of giving. In the future,
I will be a reader, and a giver, of books.
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