Books

I was in grad school in Haiti at the Faculté D’Éthnologie the first in time in three years that I returned to the States. My uncle was good at finding books, so I had sent him some titles and some hard earned/saved bucks to get me a few texts that my parents brought down to Florida where my sister lived.

So there I was completing my three-year required visit home, but not home, at my sister’s house.

At the airport, I indulged in a few paperbacks. This was before the days of Kindle and Nook.

When I arrived at my sister’s, my parents gave me the textbooks I had requested of my uncle. Deal done. Thank you, Uncle George. The money I had reserved did not cover the cost of the books. The rest was his Christmas present to me.

Suddenly, one night, my sister confronted me with all of my books — the texts as well as the leisure reading I had bought while traveling. She told me that having these books in her house attracted, in some way, bad spirits or whatever to attach themselves to her family. She wanted to remove them from her house.

I was desperate. I needed these books. If she didn’t want them in her house, she didn’t want me. I walked out. My mom followed. We walked to the Federal Highway. We had no money or credit cards or I probably would never have returned. Mom and I were freezing cold, and eventually went back to the house.

My sister decided that my books could stay in the trunk of her car for the duration. I accepted. The books flew home with me to Haiti. I finished the degree.

Lately, my sister likes to talk about books she has read without ever giving details. I don’t think she has read them. Even if she did, what did she have against my leisure books that she locked up in the trunk of her car just because there was a spider in the cover? What was going to visit her family on account of my books?

Her sister-in-law might be bipolar. I’m not sure of that. Just going from what I get from my sister who has a lot of trouble with her. I figure that based on what I studied all those years ago when I needed those books. The books were never in the same house as the sister-in-law. So they could never have precipitated any bipolar signs. In fact, in those days and in those books, “bipolar” was not even a term. It was called Manic-Depression.

My books did not do it.

My sister is miserable dealing with her sister-in-law. I’m sorry about that, but my books did not do it.

I am pretty sure my sister does not remember condemning my books to the trunk of her car, but I shall never forget it. Neither will I ever believe that she has read all the books she claims to have. After all, they would have brought on all the plagues she feared from my books.