Way back when I was a moronic teenager, I read this book called The Great Gatsby by someone named F. Scott Fitzgerald. There were more important things going on in my life than the novel—like planning a spring break trip to Florida—so I didn’t really give a hoot about Gatsby and his money, Daisy and her drama, or towns named after eggs. A girl wrecked a car. Someone got shot. No one lived happily ever after. And I needed a new bikini.
Fast forward to yesterday when my TBFF (teacher best friend forever—one of them anyway) texted to see if I was going to see the movie Friday. Ambivalent, I said something akin to “if I have nothing better to do.” That was the wrong thing to say. And I quote:
I laughed because the diatribe was so heartfelt and quick, as is my friend, but then I got serious. As much as I love literature and teaching, perhaps it was a treasonous feeling to dislike Gatsby? Maybe all that was keeping me from being a better person and teacher was this book? So, I decided to reread it before going to see the movie—if not for my own gain then to appease my friend, who, ironically, is not an English teacher, and who, hilariously, has continued sending me power-snippets like this:
Hopefully by next week I’ll have a fresh perspective, and then won’t feel like a poser when I go drool over Leonardo DeCaprio—which I promise is not part of my conscious motivation.
Let me know if you’re re-reading it, too. If I still hate it, I’ll need the motivation.