I finished The Help (Kathryn Stockett) today.
I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.
You see, I didn’t grow up here, my parents aren’t from the South, and well, this book wasn’t what I learned in college about life in the South, in 1962.
It’s taken me weeks to read it, my heart hurt so much. In my head, the stories I was read had to be from something 100 years ago. I kept rolling the date in my head: 1962. My parents generation. One generation removed from such injustice, not four, as I naively thought before. It just always seemed far away, a long time ago.
As recently as 50 years ago, black women had separate toilets in the white houses they worked in. Seriously? I grew up in Central America, Panama, to be specific. There is every shade of brown and the shade is not an issue. There were locals that were lighter than me. Color did not segregate (now, money sure did), but not color.
So a separate bathroom in a garage for the help? It still makes me nauseated.
If my parents taught me one thing, it was that God loves me, and ALL the children of the world. He does not distinguish-but the Creator wouldn’t, would He?
The Help opened my eyes to how far we’ve come, how far we’ve yet to go. It also convicted me about my children. The impression we can make on them. We have one shot at helping them see others through His eyes. One shot to love and be the one that loves them the most.
One character disregards her daughter, all together. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve hugged extra, kissed more, looked in to their eyes and smiled…I’m in love with them.
The book is heart wrenching, but also full of victory and truth.
It’s a reminder that we are all human. We hurt, laugh, love, and at the end of the day, all put our pants on the same way.