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.

Hi Mr. Saunders,

When I was a chubby and shy eight year old, my family moved from a perfect California beach town to the backwoods of Western Maryland –- a hyper-conservative, small town where confederate flags flapped proudly in the wind.

Being half-Moroccan and Muslim, I was immediately bullied. Boys I liked called me a ‘terrorist’ and a ‘beef cow.’ Girls I thought were my friends told me with a smile that I would be going to hell.

I was already there.

But, in the 7th grade, I escaped.

I watched the fireworks at Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday party, listened to the songs of old Tom Bombadill, and walked around the perfect, golden woods of Lothlorien. The Lord of the Rings took me away from my painful and lonely reality – and that was a great gift.

But, this story also gave me more than an escape.

In it, I saw Gandalf choose goodness over power. I saw the lingering humanity in Gollum that is renewed through kindness. I saw Sam carry Frodo up the steep cliff of Mount Doom when he is too weak to walk on his own. I saw true friendship, and the possibilities of human love and kindness.

And I saw hope. Hope that things would get better for me.

As Tolkien wrote:

‘The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.’

Stories that only confirm life’s peril and darkness by reflecting our pain back to us can be beautiful and true, but I think they miss out on their real power. I believe we all need stories that lift us up, that counterbalance life’s inherent sadness, that give us hope for better days. They are the stories that help us live. Even without Hobbits or Wizards or Elves, they are the stories with magic.

Thanks for reading.

Anissa