I’ve always loved to read, but I haven’t always had faith in my own taste. It’s why I spent much of high school reading “the classics” (read: straight white male canon). And while I’ve since moved on to a much more diverse library, I do tend to trust the taste of others – and I do tend to second-guess myself when I don’t enjoy books I think I “should.”
I read The Color Purple as part of a feminist book club I belong to (and yes, if you’re counting, that means I currently belong to two – count ’em, two – feminist book clubs). Because of COVID-19, we ended up having our discussion via Zoom and discussing, not just The Color Purple, but also Fried Green Tomatoes, which the group had read before I joined. And while I very much enjoyed the conversation – the reflections of America, the explorations of POC communities, the approach to wlw relationships… my enjoyment of the book came entirely from an intellectual level.
I wanted to like this book so badly, to embrace its epistolary storytelling and uncoventional looks at love. The characters’ struggles, while clear, never moved me; the ending felt inevitable, and not in a satisfying way. It took me weeks to get through – a feat, during confinement, when there’s not much else to do. Yes, I was glad to get to read a novel from the point of view of someone who likely never would have been able to tell her own story. Yes, I appreciated the juxtaposition between the two sisters. Yes, I enjoyed watching the male characters evolve from two-dimensional children to slightly more three-dimensional adults. Yes, I loved the thwarting of gender norms from the point of view of someone whose wisdom is entirely un-self-aware. But despite all of these attributes, it just… never quite clicked for me.
And despite feeling guilty about it at first, feeling like I used to when taking a test in school: sneaking glances around the room to see if everyone is having as hard a time as I am.. I’ve decided, ultimately, to be OK with that.