I saw my reflection in the glossy book cover. It was the kind of book with the tell-tale scripty title font that seemed to chant “I’m full of shit… I’m full of shit.” I’ve always been a little perturbed by Christian dogma. But in my friends trembling hands, the book charmed me. She offered it with such desperation, and motherly trepidation.

“I think you ought to read this, it’s supposed to be a very good book.” Her eyes teemed with hope. I took the book into my own hands, and studied the back cover. “What is a Christian woman (yadda yadda) invites women to recover their feminine heart (yadda yadda) defined in the image of a passionate God…” I kept my eyes fixed on the words, which seemed to blur in some conglomerate of numbers and bad graphic design.

“Sure, I’ll read it” I said, empathizing with her (somewhat).

Something has been plaguing me lately. I could be like every other misunderstood daughter, and loathe my parents for not understanding me. But I’m feeling something that’s much more painful. I understand why I’m misunderstood… there’s such a barrier between our generations and ideas. Instead of cursing them under my breath, I blur my vision and think real hard. I think about how I wish we could communicate.  How wonderful it would be to be accepted for who I am, and not an inclined image of myself. How I could engineer some sort of bridge to communicate with them. I try.

But this wasn’t the gift I was looking for. I’m perfectly open to a book given with the right intentions. Perhaps I would more willingly read the book if I thought it was given in order to expand my thoughts, inspire me, or perhaps even teach me. However, I can’t help but feel like this is a “to do” list in literary form. It is as if my pseudo-mother is trying to mold me into everyone’s ideal. But I’d rather not have anything a priori. I want to become who I become, and I want them to respect that.

So, I crack the spine, and deftly place it on my desk. I know she’ll come in tomorrow morning, to bring a pie or what not, and she’ll see the book on the desk. It will be face down on the desk, open to page 56. She’ll think, “she’s reading it… she’s going to be the good, clean, feminine Christian school girl I’ve always dreamed she would be.” Then she will smile, and more confidently put the pie to cool on the table.

I accepted the gift. Like a half-assed sycophant. It’s going to remain face down on the desk, randomly arranged in different positions. No, I’m not going to read it – but I’ll crack the spine for her.