That was cool.
Because following a woman as she adapted to the destruction of her way of life was exactly what I needed to pull me through the decimation of my family.
My teacher chose the book because its portrayal of Southern plantations like Tara crumbling after the Civil War had enough history woven in to qualify as homework.
But I chose the book because it was free, since I found a copy on my mother’s bookshelves. Also, I figured a novel would be less boring than my other options.
And from the first page I was hooked on the unapologetic audacity of Miss Scarlett O’Hara, though at first we seemed to have nothing in common but seeing no point in being demure.
She was wealthy, I was not. She was boy crazy, I was not. She spent her days in fancy dresses and hairdos she didn’t want to muss up while dreaming of marriage, and I spent mine dreaming of the days when I could still climb trees because I wasn’t suddenly expected to wear stupid skirts and sandals.
But soon I had more in common with Scarlett than anyone else.
“Did your dad give you a big hug this morning?” my Spanish teacher asked when I returned to school after my mother’s death. Though all my teachers were told what happened, Mr. Riordan knew the most about my family since he also taught Driver’s Ed, and learned all about my parents while taking me home after lessons.
So he was the only person at school to even mention the crash that cratered my life, a kindness my face made him immediately regret. He turned to the blackboard and tried to erase his question, while I sat at my desk and tried to remember the last person who hugged me.
Not my father, who was still in bed when I left the house.
Not my best friend, who just sat quietly next to me when I began sobbing into my lunch, realizing my mother would never make me another sandwich.
Not my sister, who had moved out after making it clear our mother’s death would not suddenly make us close: “You just want to talk about it to make yourself feel better.”
No, the last hug had been at her memorial, a day that wrapped me in supportive arms and words that felt like a life jacket keeping me afloat.
But soon the sympathy moved on, my sister moved out, and now it was just me and my father swimming with no land in sight.
And when I began to wonder how much longer I could keep my head above water, and who would even care if I stopped trying, Scarlett floated by, reminding me she had handled far worse.
Because she came home to a mother gone and a father gone useless, but also had a household to support. To eat she had to figure out how to grow crops, I just had to figure out how to buy food and cook it.
It made perfect sense to me that the friend I needed was in a book, since I had always found more acceptance and companionship with girls like Pippi Longstocking and Harriet the Spy than girls I met in real life.
An odd kid from an odd family with a secret not even we talked about, I had never learned to confide in others about what was really going on in my home. And I wasn’t about to start when it was just my father and me left, because I feared I would be taken away to live somewhere even worse.
I do recognize that many people find the depictions of slavery in “Gone With the Wind” to be very painful reminders of an unforgivable chapter in American history, and might feel that Scarlett O’Hara, who fully embraced the ownership of fellow human beings, should not be celebrated in any way.
But the grit Margaret Mitchell breathed into that deeply flawed character helped me survive a devastating chapter in my life that I truly believed was not survivable. And I feel that not giving both the author and her character credit for that help would be more unforgivable than her portrayal of a shameful chapter in American history.
Because on mornings when I just couldn’t get out of bed, sure no one would care if I never went to school again, the only thing that helped me push off the covers and stand up was picturing Scarlett steeling her shoulders to the next task. Then she picked up her skirts, and we both walked out my bedroom door.
***
Real-life role model: After my father remarried and moved away, my grandmother stepped in to protect and support my sister and I as we moved into adulthood, becoming an even more important inspiration than Scarlett O’Hara for the next 30 years.
But my grandmother was a very reserved, even prickly, person who kept everyone at arm’s length, even her granddaughters. And it wasn’t until after she died and I found her journals that I finally felt close to her, and realized how much she inspired me. So maybe I’ve always needed to read people on the page to really understand them?
See her journals and hear about her long, full life in this video:
