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Tara Westover was seventeen the first time she set foot in a classroom. Born to survivalists in the mountains of Idaho, she prepared for the end of the world by stockpiling home-canned peaches and sleeping with her "head-for-the-hills bag." In the summer she stewed herbs for her mother, a midwife and healer, and in the winter she salvaged in her father's junkyard. The family was so isolated from mainstream society that there was no one to ensure the children received an education, and no one to intervene when one of Tara's older brothers became violent. As a way out, Tara began to educate herself, learning enough mathematics and grammar to be admitted to Brigham Young University. Her quest for knowledge would transform her, taking her over oceans and across continents, to Harvard and to Cambridge. Only then would she wonder if she'd traveled too far, if there was still a way home. With the acute insight that distinguishes all great writers, Tara Westover has crafted a universal coming-of-age story that gets to the heart of what an education offers: the perspective to see one's life through new eyes, and the will to change it.… (altro)
Nickelini: Quite different views of Mormon life, but both books are compelling reads of young women who suffered through horrific lives under the control of domineering and manipulative men.
BookshelfMonstrosity: These wrenching autobiographies examine how parents with fiercely held beliefs can damage their children on multiple fronts. Forbidden from engaging with the rest of society in normal ways, the authors endured shattering psychological abuse before their eventual escape.… (altro)
bjappleg8: Both books describe in intimate detail the supreme effort required to break free of fundamentalist beliefs and the pain of being cast out of their close-knit families as a result.
Carissa.Green: Sarah Smarsh's memoir is about a similarly-aged girl growing up in a rural area on the economic fringes, but Smarsh's memoir is more analytical and deals much less in the sensationalism of having a violent, mentally ill parent.
I thought I was going to join a book club and this was the book the leader had chosen. I'm a slow reader, partly because I'm too busy to "manually" read print, or, if I'm going to listen instead, because as much time as I spend driving it's more practical to consume books that way, because reading aloud takes longer than reading the same amount of words would to yourself --but now we're back to, "I'm a slow reader" so perhaps that's not even true with me. I'm not a 'glance at a paragraph and parse the important words' kind of reader, I'm a, 'relish every single word, tone, or nuance' reader. So, as soon as I agreed to attend the book club, I was anxious to get it and read it so I would be up to speed at the first meeting. Every library had multiple holds on every version of the book already, so when I saw it for sale at my favorite used-bookshop I snatched it up and began reading. I'd gotten permission to adjust my work schedule so I could attend the 1st meeting that was going to be about establishing a meeting time for the future meetings, and I wasn't sure what else. The day came and went and I didn't realize it until a week later when I thought, "Did I miss that meeting, or is it tomorrow?" Once I realized I had missed it, I thought better of the whole idea of attending---no time. I guess I'd been hoping they'd decide to conduct it online somehow--maybe in Canvas on a discussion forum, but I doubted it because most people who like joining book clubs probably like the real-time, face to face interactions of them. When I e-mailed my apology for not showing and simultaneously resigned my patronage, explaining my lack of time, there was no response, which I figure confirmed my doubt that anyone considered conducting it online. Meanwhile though, I'd started reading it, and while I thought my husband would enjoy listening to the audio, because there are many things in it I think he'd relate to, I was already hooked and couldn't wait for the audio. In fact, when my turn in the audio-book hold queue finally comes up, I wouldn't mind a second time through. That's saying a lot for the book because I'm typically not a repeat reader. There are too many excellent as yet un-read books that one must shun when one is re-doing one, so it's got to be REALLY good to be worth a second go. This one is. It's so good that I vowed to myself I would read anything written by this young lady, and had to Google her to see if her dissertation was available--uh-oh, is that a spoiler? I don't think so, it's kind of in all the summaries about the book if you don't suspect it from the title, but I apologize if it spoiled anything. I was distracted from my search by the video thumbnails though, and had to watch the Ellen Degeneres interview, so I don't know if it's available. Probably not. I expected her demeanor to be a little tough--a little tom-boyish, not because she wanted an education, as the detractors in her world might have thought, but because of the description of her childhood. But no. She's an adorably fragile looking thing. I'd love to explain the many reasons I liked this book, but I'll stop here. Otherwise, I really WILL spoil the book. Suffice it to say I think it's one of the very best autobiographies I've read. ( )
I read the print edition, and then listened to this audio version, well narrated by Julia Whelan, with my husband. It's a bit of a different experience listening with someone else, and wondering how they relate. There were some childhood similarities for my husband, but nothing as severe as Tara's experiences. ( )
What is the value of an education? In the memoir Educated, it is an opportunity to free yourself from the shackles of repression. Raised by survivalists in the mountains of Idaho, Tara Westover is taught the ways of her father. Believing that God will take care of all their needs, hospitals and doctors are forbidden. Women are to be subservient to men. Her mother becomes a mid-wife and healer with home remedies, her father a self-proclaimed prophet. When an older brother becomes violent, there is no one to protect her.
But Tara decides to educate herself, slowly opening her eyes to a new world. She is accepted to Brigham Young University and against her father's wishes she goes to college, eventually earning scholarships to Harvard and Cambridge. But through it all, the calls from family are strong and she struggles for acceptance from her parents and six siblings. Educated is an amazing story of survival. In Tara we see the courage and strength to rise up from suppression in the face of ignorance. ( )
This memoir has been recommended to me many times over since it came out, and I was more than impressed. I truly wish there was a way to more elegantly put how well written this book is. There is such great narrative detail in not just the setting and what was happening around Tara, but also a brilliant narrative description of the mental turmoil that she went through coming to terms with her childhood and the trauma she had faced. There was never a moment where I didn't feel connected and intrigued by the story, and I normally have a harder time with nonfiction stories. The accolades that this story has received are truly well deserved and I am glad to have finally read it. ( )
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The past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, & thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past. - Virginia Woolf
I believe finally, that education must be conceived as a continuing reconstruction of experience; that the process and the goal of education are one and the same thing. - John Dewey
Dedica
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For Tyler
Incipit
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My strongest memory is not a memory.
Citazioni
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...I had finally begun to grasp something that should have been immediately apparent: that someone had opposed the great march toward equality; someone had been the person from whom freedom had been wrested. (p. 180)
...something shifted nonetheless. I had started on a path of awareness, had perceived something elemental about my brother, my father, myself. I had discerned the ways in which we had been sculpted by a tradition given to us by others, a tradition of which we were either willfully or accidentally ignorant. I had begun to understand that we had lent our voices to a discourse who sole purpose was to dehumanize and brutalize others--because nurturing that discourse was easier, because retaining power always feels like the way forward. (p. 180)
I had decided to study no history, but historians. I suppose my interest came from the sense of groundlessness I'd felt since learning about the Holocaust and the civil rights movement--since realizing that what a person knows about the past is limited, and will always be limited, to what they are told by others. I knew what it was to have a misconception corrected--a misconception of such magnitude that shifting it shifted the world. Now I needed to understand how the great gatekeepers of history had come to terms with their own ignorance and partiality. I thought that if I could accept that what they had written was not absolute but was the result of a biased process of conversation and revision, maybe I could reconcile myself with the fact that the history of most people agreed upon was not the history I had been taught. Dad could be wrong, and the great historians Carlyle and Macauley and Trevelyan could be wrong, but from the ashes of their dispute I could construct a world to live in. In knowing the ground was not ground at all, I hoped I could stand on it. (p. 238)
It's strange how you give the people you love so much power over you, I had written in my journal. ... He had defined me to myself, and there's no greater power than that. (p. 199)
I had been taught to read the words of men like Madison as a cast into which I ought to pour the plaster of my own mind, to be reshaped according to the contours of their faultless model. I read them to learn what to think, not how to think for myself. (p. 239)
I had begun to understand that we had lent our voices to a discourse whose sole purpose was to dehumanized and brutalized others--because nurturing that discourse was easier, because retaining power always feels like the way forward. (p. 180)
My life was narrated for me by others. Their voices were forceful, emphatic, absolute. It had never occurred to me that my voice might be as strong as theirs. (P. 197)
This moment would define my memory of that night, and of the many nights like it, for a decade. In it I saw myself as unbreakable, as tender as stone. At first I merely believed this, until one day it became the truth. Then I was able to tell myself, without lying, that it didn’t affect me, that he didn’t affect me, because nothing affected me. I didn’t understand how morbidly right I was. How I had hollowed myself out. For all my obsessing over the consequences of that night, I had misunderstood the vital truth: that its not affecting me, that was its effect. (p. 111)
I believed then—and part of me will always believe—that my father’s words ought to be my own. (p. 172)
What was important to me wasn’t love or friendship, but my ability to lie convincingly to myself: to believe I was strong. I could never forgive Charles for knowing I wasn’t. (p. 189)
I wonder now if the day I set out to steal that tax return wasn’t the first time I left home to go to Buck’s Peak. That night I had entered my father’s house as an intruder. It was a shift in mental language, a surrendering of where I was from. My own words confirmed it. When other students asked where I was from, I said, “I’m from Idaho,” a phrase that, as many times as I’ve had to repeat it over the years, has never felt comfortable in my mouth. When you are part of a place, growing that moment in its soil, there’s never a need to say you’re from there. I never uttered the words “I’m from Idaho” until I’d left it. (p. 206)
I had to think before I could answer. “I can stand in this wind, because I’m not trying to stand in it,” I said. “The wind is just wind. You could withstand these gusts on the ground, so you can withstand them in the air. There is no difference. Except the difference you make in your head.” He stared at me blankly. He hadn’t understood. “I’m just standing,” I said. “You are all trying to compensate, to get your bodies lower because the height scares you. But the crouching and the sidestepping are not natural. You’ve made yourselves vulnerable. If you could just control your panic, this wind would be nothing.” “The way it is nothing to you,” he said. — I WANTED THE MIND of a scholar, but it seemed that Dr. Kerry saw in me the mind of a roofer. The other students belonged in a library; I belonged in a crane. (p. 237)
...vindication has no power over guilt. No amount of anger or rage directed at others can subdue it, because guilt is never about them. Guilt is the fear of one’s own wretchedness. It has nothing to do with other people. (p. 327)
I am not the child my father raised, but he is the father who raised her. (p. 328)
Ultime parole
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Tara Westover was seventeen the first time she set foot in a classroom. Born to survivalists in the mountains of Idaho, she prepared for the end of the world by stockpiling home-canned peaches and sleeping with her "head-for-the-hills bag." In the summer she stewed herbs for her mother, a midwife and healer, and in the winter she salvaged in her father's junkyard. The family was so isolated from mainstream society that there was no one to ensure the children received an education, and no one to intervene when one of Tara's older brothers became violent. As a way out, Tara began to educate herself, learning enough mathematics and grammar to be admitted to Brigham Young University. Her quest for knowledge would transform her, taking her over oceans and across continents, to Harvard and to Cambridge. Only then would she wonder if she'd traveled too far, if there was still a way home. With the acute insight that distinguishes all great writers, Tara Westover has crafted a universal coming-of-age story that gets to the heart of what an education offers: the perspective to see one's life through new eyes, and the will to change it.
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