American Childhood

Aaack. I just didn't care for this one. It was a real slog to finish.

The beginning part of the book was excellent with the author stating how, as young children, we slowly slowly wake up to ourselves and our reality. I liked that. I remember that feeling. I also quite liked the vignette about the mysterious lights that would fly through the darkened bedroom, from one wall to the next to the next and having to come to terms with what it was, why it was there, being afraid even though you knew it was nothing really. So kudos to the author for tapping into something most of us experienced as young children and really, it's probably one of the first memories we form because we have to use our rational minds to figure this one out for ourselves.

But the rest? Ugh. Annie Dillard's childhood was nothing like my childhood. We both grew up in highly industrialized cities, so there is that. But she came from old money, country clubs, dance lessons, cotillions, private schools, big homes, eccentric parents, summer homes and camps. Etc. Etc. I came from a working class family period. I lived in the same small cape-cod home my whole life. I went to Catholic school, and though private, it was religious based, sacramental. We of this school had blue collar parents, civil servant parents, teachers... I grew up at the tail-end of the baby-boomer years not the beginning like Dillard. I was the youngest child not the oldest. I was not a tomboy. I never practiced my pitching. I never threw a snowball at a car, never collected insects (egads!). I didn't have grandparents and that connection. I never had private art lessons; almost never visited a museum period, and when I did finally, it was with my school for a field trip... I was never encouraged to go to college. It was never mentioned. Ever. My parents did not go to college.

That's fine really. I don't especially NEED to feel same-same to be able to enjoy a book. I DO need to be able to identify, somewhat, just in the tiniest way to an author though. I have to feel some kinship in some small way, any way, some common experiences, some similar temperament... something. Alas, I could not identify with Annie Dillard in anyway whatsoever. I didn't particularly even LIKE her much. She was annoying. I don't care for attention seeking, hyperactive, pretentious, know-it-all types. Those kind of people annoy me to no end. And that's the kind of person this author seemed to be. During her high school years I wondered if perhaps she wasn't a bit bi-polar or something. She certainly seemed unduly angry and troubled.

So, yeah, whatever. It was okay. The end.