When I was a child, my grandmother Adele took me to museums, restaurants, dances. She showered me gifts from her travels around the world. But I can only remember a book she gave me—one book that, to this day, I have not read. She presented me with her own favorite childhood book: Hans Brinker. My grandmother was happy to share this book with me. She even decorated the title page with her proud writing.
I tried to read it. I adored reading, and would dive into a new pile of books from the library all at once. But something about Hans Brinker just wouldn't let me in. The story was set in Holland, a long time ago. It felt dull and unfamiliar, even though I was a fan of classics of other times and places. I simply read the first pages over and over. I could not progress.
Standing on a bookshelf in our living room, the book was like something I avoided. It scolded me for not being interested, for not trying hard enough, for disappointing my grandmother. The book started to fit in, almost forgotten, until Adele asked. Had I read it? Did I like it? Always determined, she wanted to know the answer. I would make some kind of excuse, but feel bad, and open it again, hoping for a new reaction. The book weighed on me.
Years passed and finally Adele and I both accepted that I would never read Hans Brinker. Eventually I cleared the book from the shelf. The Hans Brinker experience led me to set a rule that I've lived by ever since: Do not ask about a book given as a gift and don't let anything become your barrier. What Adele originally wanted to do is to give book-giving special meaning, but she increased the possibility of the owner to be a disappointment.
