day 33: love for books
if humans were as rationals as we portray ourselves to be, i would hate books. reading should be a traumatic experience in my life.
yes, i was born to do drama. but let me explain what i mean with my introductory phrase.
it was one of these hell-like summers that are old news for a country that seats in the equatorial line. and heat makes people lose their patience as fast as a woke person will use the “literally Hitler” card on an internet debate.
when you are 9 years old, you are young, stupid, full of energy. my cousin was my partner in crime since we were toddlers. but that summer my mom wasn’t going to put up with my demonic behavior.
one day after breaking a window, or something like that, the details of what i did are not that clear anymore. i was grounded, and my punishment was reading an entire book — , O meu pé de laranja lima.
how could she? no pictures, a lot of words, and infinite numbers of pages. i hated my mom that day. i wanted to be outside playing with other children.
the book was about a boy in Brazil that was poor, he had a great heart but he was always getting in trouble. needless to say, little by little the book won me over.
i paid my dues, free at last. however, instead of going outside and play with other kids, i had only one question for my mom:
“do you have another book?”
