I have always loved Goodwill. So much so that I consider it a personality trait. Over fall break, I was sorting my online junk and found this initial draft of a personal narrative I had to write back in high school. I forgot how much this piece meant to me. I am also learning how, in hindsight, I have to credit Goodwill with my current major and my future career ambitions. Somewhere along the way, trips to Goodwill and my love for books crossed paths, and now it is impossible to separate the two.
So here it is, why I love Goodwill:
Pride and Prejudice. Brideshead Revisited. New Moon.
The titles of the paperbacks on display run together into a never-ending list of literature, some great, some terrible. Since my sophomore year, every Friday after school, I add an extra right turn to my route to arrive at Goodwill. Every time I walk through the sliding glass doors, I am hit with the musty, yet comforting smell of washed, pre-loved cloth, and I head straight for the large wooden bookcase in the back of the store, behind the old furniture. I begin on the top row and scan. I skip over the familiar, those that have been on display too long and have been recognized too many times to be of interest. I pick up the new, leaf through the beautiful and smell the particularly old. I begin a stack, internally rationalizing to myself why I need a particular novel or short story, even if I already own it (“But this one is in much better condition than the other one,” or “But that copy was annotated and now is hardly readable”). Once all five rows of books have been perused, I move to check out and wait in the inevitably long line that forces me to reconsider buying anything at all. When it is finally my turn, I heave the stack onto the table and watch the saleslady count the stack and insert my chip card, always forgetting to hit US Debit instead of VISA and then having to start all over. Thirty minutes later, I leave with new stories in which I may immerse myself.
I eventually was buying used books at a faster rate than I could read them. Once my bookshelf was full, I made towers on the floor, testing how high they could go before structural collapse. My mom began to dread seeing the familiar blue plastic bag that could only carry one thing, knowing it meant more stacks, more clutter.
I can’t stop. They continue to pile on. I slowly crack them open, enjoying the adventure, knowing another is waiting for me in the next literary skyscraper.
I collect used books because I love reading. I know when I grow old and senile and have no career or company, books will be my solace. I will keep these treasures as markers of what inspires me. Something to turn to again and again for comfort, like coming home.
Beyond this though, my used books have shown me the remarkable ability of humans to leave part of themselves everywhere they go. Through annotations, side notes, physical condition, I see the state of one’s books as a lens into an individual’s interests, passions and life. I am determined to make my collection into a physical embodiment of the themes that engross me.
The characters I meet, the adventures upon which I embark and the places I go exist on two planes of existence: the page and the real world. The more I read, the more I see connections between my surroundings and the fictional universe. I see Elizabeth Bennetts throughout history: Eleanor Roosevelt, Malala, my best friend Riley. I see the world through the lens of the reader and the observer. Because of books, I now have a literary lens through which to see the world, and this view has changed how I carry myself, how I approach situations and how I consider the future. The stories I read burrow themselves deep into my soul and latch onto wherever my personality lies, adding some new nuance to my identity. The stories I read change my life.
And in the end, it somehow all comes back to Goodwill. The oft overlooked thrift store at the end of my street. Goodwill gave me my literary world. How could I ever express adequate gratitude for that?