I’ve had enough with not trusting authority figures.
As a child, I refused to listen when my parents read me bedtime stories. Quite simply, grown-ups lied. If they weren’t making ridiculous claims about Santa Claus or the tooth fairy, then they were leaving out the good parts of the story–the parts of fairy tales I was sure included murder and swear words.
Now, as an adult, I live in the era of the bailout, of the dying book. Grown-ups continue to lie, but when they share the truth, it sounds something like, “There’s not enough room in the budget for you.”
The clear solution? Double-back to the 90s and appreciate those late twentieth-century advances.
For example, I’ve recently discovered books on CD. Yes, there are Kindles, and, yes, I can download books and listen to them on my MP3 player. But there are still books on CD for long drives up and down Interstate 77. While I’m on the road, actresses I’ve never heard of hiss through the speakers. They bring their voices down low if they’re reading a man’s dialogue, and they make their voices gentle when they’re reading the part of an interesting and smart woman. When the CDs skip, I imagine the actress has hiccoughed right at a “good part,” and I press a button to make her say it again (even though I know there will be another fit of hiccoughing).
This was what I missed when I yanked the storybooks from my parents’ fingers–a human voice telling me a story. And because I will not endure an abridgment, these grown-ups leave out nothing–not one murder, not one swear word. I figure if another person can read to me (old school), and if I can trust that story, then there’s still hope for us yet.