How Dare You. Thank You, Toni Morrison

If you've never read Toni Morrison, you may not appreciate this post.
I was a disillusioned member of the Sailor Squad. As a kid I soaked up every young adult sci-fi or fantasy novel available without realizing how much I read. I remember A Wrinkle in Time and Methusela's Gift affecting me the most profoundly. Propelled by all this lush fantasy and low self-esteem, in middle school I turned to cheap anime, most notably Sailor Moon, with her perfect pigtails and sparkling explosions, to dominate my world. I missed out on hand-holding, preliminary cussing, make-up and fashion, exchanging them for season marathons, intellectualism and misinformed superiority. My three anime friends and I were so detached and nerdy that our more popular peers gave us the nickname "the Sailor Squad." We wore it proudly. Those books, that escape, became what I lived for. More importantly, they became my future. You can imagine my disappointment, then, when my interest in them rapidly dwindled, and by freshman year of college I read (tops) one novel-for-fun a year.
Many factors contributed. Cathedral High School surrounded me in spirit, stress, and opportunity. I became a star member of the theatre and choir programs, which housed the performing that probably removed the need for literary fantasy in my life. In addition, I looked down upon those unpleasant middle-schoolisms in arrogance, not wanting to subject myself to anything remotely "Sailor." I read so much for AP English that the last thing I wanted to do in my free time was read. I regret it now. Reading recommendations which like-minded undergrads breezed through during their high-school years fill my to-read list, which has been on an unpleasant hold.
There have been exceptions, especially recently. I tried Tolkein over the summer and was smiley, though somewhat disappointed by the sheer detail. That man named every speck of sand in Middle Earth. I read the fast-paced, youthful The Night Climbers for a book club last year and relished it. But it wasn't until this semester that an unknown genius sucked me (is sucking me) back into the power of the novel, no magic necessary.
Her name is Toni Morrison; her book is The Bluest Eye.
Outrage. Chronic discomfort. Anger. The screaming passion of someone mixing my organs together, causing goosebumps and paralysis. Speechlessness.
I am nearing the end as I come up to breath and post this catharsis. Despite the rate at which I hungrily turn the pages, taking breaths is both jarring and necessary. I despise, and crave, the hellish world she creates. I despise it for its brutality, its distance from my perfect world, and its utter invasion. I crave its honesty--no, Truth--its delicious words, its sexual tension and command for an outcry. It is more real than the reality to which we submit.
This novel was a reading assignment for my Reading Cultural Studies class, and I thank the fantastic Dr. Juan Mah y Busch for assigning it. To think I wouldn't feel this elation and revulsion, all in one unbearable moment, if it weren't for homework.
There is one world of a difference between my reactions to this novel and to those of middle school and before. Other than the change in classification from "juvenile" to "adult," (X-rated might be more appropriate), this book deals completely in the "real" world. No magic powers, ends-of-the-rainbow, space suits. Just Lorain, Ohio, black people, white people, and the hell ensuing. Here's the best passage I could find within a few minutes.

With only occasional, and increasingly rare, encounters with the little girls he could persuade to be entertained by him, he lived rather peaceably among his things, admitting to no regrets. He was aware, of course, that something was awry in his life, and all lives, but put the problem where it belonged, at the foot of the Originator of Life. He believed that since decay, vice, filth, and disorder were pervasive, they must be in the Nature of Things. Evil existed because God had created it. He, God, had made a sloven and unforgivable error in judgment: designing an imperfect universe. The most exquisite-looking ladies sat on toilets, and the most dreadful-looking had pure and holy yearnings. God had done a poor job, and Soaphead suspected that he himself could have done better. It was in fact a pity that the Maker had not sought his counsel.

I hereby finally affirm that Heather Moline is once more a novel gobbler, but has moved on from the Sailor Squad to rolling joyfully in the grime of racism, sexism, poverty, and reality, all thanks to Toni Morrison.