Books, like people, make such good companions. Getting us through the bad times and helping us celebrate the good times. Making us calmer or piquing our energy. It’s amazing what we remember about certain segments of our lives and what we were doing during certain events.
But what about the books we were reading during those significant moments?
Thinking back, I realize I associate different periods of my life, or certain occasions, with the books I was reading at the time.
In 1977, the summer I turned 15, I read La Familia Sanchez, the story of a boy coming of age in the Mexico City slums. (The author’s name long ago escaped my memory, and I can find no record of it online.) I planned to go on a trip to Mexico with my grandparents and wanted to immerse myself in Mexican culture. That book, and its story of innocence amid extreme poverty and longing, stays with me, echoing our American advantage.
Continue reading at Washington Independent Review of Books.
