Reading Chinua Achebe Part 1: High School

Posted by Sharif S on Mar 24, 2013 in Blog Ends, Writing | 1 comment

So like many people I learned about the death of Chinua Achebe through Facebook, and then confirmed it with Wikipedia.

I’ve only read three things by Achebe: Things Fall Apart, a short story I hated and don’t remember, and some essays that gave me mixed feelings.

Things Fall Apart is one of my “which books had a profound impact on you” books.  I’ve read it about 4 times.  The only long form piece I’ve read more is Shakespeare’s “Hamlet.”

High School: Okonkwo was me.  Full of rage and ready to pounce on anything that would give me the opportunity to fuck it up, verbally or physically.  I once had a place of status among my friends, but I learned what depression is and began questioning my faith in God.  This was around the time many of my Catholic friends were going through confirmation.  I talked with them hoping that they could help me with my crisis of faith, which I don’t know if any of you have had this before, but it hurts.  But my questions were echoed to members of my friend’s churches, and they were told that I was “the devil trying to lead them from the path of Christ.”  I wasn’t the devil, but I was burning into impotent ash.  I was a kid who was lost, confused, and in pain, but I guess that’s just as dangerous to people whose faith is no stronger than wet newspaper.

Religion had seemed to take away all of my friends.  My best friend who taught me how to make inappropriate jokes decided that he was going to become a priest.  And apparently one who wishes to be like Christ cannot hang out with sinners.

My grades were falling.  Nothing made sense.  I was fighting with my family, friends, enemies, strangers… everyone was my antagonist.  The people who understood me seemed far away.  They weren’t in the honors classes.  Yet this fucking book understood.  The people I skated with understood.  They appreciated that I was the voice of reason while at the same time down to punch someone in the face.  My English teacher understood and came to my rescue when things got out of hand (Forgive me, but I’m not ready to tell that story yet).

I was a slow reader, still am.  I needed longer with the book before returning it to the library.  My English teacher knew that usually I would just prematurely surrender the book.  This time I wanted to finish it.  My English teacher was understanding.  The best English teachers are.  I think this is why Holden trusts the English teacher in Catcher in the Rye.  This is why the written word won’t die.

I went to New Mexico with my mom for a few days.  My mom told me to use this as an opportunity to relax but also catch up on the school work that had seemed too pointless and overwhelming during my state of depression.  I took Things Fall Apart with me.  The TSA opened my bag, because one of their sensors said my public school textbooks had suspect chemicals, which were later cleared as not being a bomb.  I told my English teacher about this, and she told me to throw the book away.  I told her that the book seemed just fine.  She then told me to keep it and pretend we had to throw the book away.  Then she pulled out a little card with student’s names and book titles.  Next to mine she crossed out the words Things Fall Apart.  It’s on my bookshelf, just behind my green screen.

Reading Chinua Achebe Part 2: Community College