Best Seller

No, I didn’t misspell the title of this entry. I’m aware that ‘bestseller’ is one word. Rather, it’s one word when used to describe a book that has reached critical mass. The title of this post refers to something else entirely. In fact, it refers to the opposite. What do I mean? I’ll explain, but first, I need to make a stop in Phoenix, Arizona. It might be a lengthy stop, followed by a circuitous route back to the main point, but we’ll get there eventually. I promise.

 

Several months back, I decided to start travelling—a plan I formulated years ago but never got around to implementing. Shortly after making my decision, my family invited me to San Antonio, which provided the perfect opportunity to start my plan. Instead of flying like I usually do, I could drive and check out places along the way. Deciding to run with the idea, I ended up in Phoenix, where I stayed for several days. That led me to the Heard Historical Museum, which figured, as I’m an unabashed history lover.

 

While at the Heard, a museum docent led me and some others on a facility tour, where they described the various exhibits. One exhibit showcased the forced removal of Native youths from their land, after which they were placed into Christian schools. The docent didn’t take us inside, however, stating that the information was too intense for facility tours. If interested, we could return on our own once the tour concluded. I was interested, so I returned.

 

I say this with slight reservation, but I enjoy the darker side of history, the side that shows humanity’s inhumaneness. I’m not sure why, though. I considered this while heading toward the exhibit, figuring that I feared undergoing something similar, so I needed to learn about these incidents to spot them in the future. Or perhaps it’s my fascination with the many facets of the human psyche. Or maybe it’s simply the part of me that feels compelled to look at car accidents when passing by. Whatever the reason, I failed to pin it down by the time I arrived at the exhibit, so I disregarded this and instead learned the tragic tale of what befell thousands of youths. It was a sobering and infuriating story, which would also teach me something else.

 

While making my way through the exhibit, taking my time with the written text and photos, another reason emerged as to why I’m captivated by tales of woe. In fact, it’s something I had considered repeatedly as of late—the appreciation for my circumstances. I couldn’t help but contrast my life to the tens of thousands I learned about, who were violently torn from their communities, friends, and families, and shipped off to unknown and terrifying lands. What awaited them were years of physical and sexual abuse, disease and malnutrition, loss of identity, and, for many, premature and painful deaths. Through their photos, I saw their fear and confusion. I saw the ache of someone suffering abhorrent indignities and not able to comprehend why. My situation couldn’t be more different.

 

I live in a peaceful, upper-middle-class suburb of Los Angeles. My house is a climate-controlled three-bedroom two-bath. My fridge is stocked with a variety of healthy foods. I have all the amenities I need, including modern furnishings and electronics, as well as a reliable car in my driveway. I have almost no debt and the means to travel multiple times a year. My biggest complaint is that I’m not a bestseller, but how big of a complaint should that be? Seeing the brutality these youths endured for years helped answer the question, though I didn’t consciously perceive this immediately. What spurred it along was the image of a young man I stopped to observe.

 

I’m not sure why the photo of this teenager caught my eye, but I studied him for several minutes. Then more minutes passed, followed by others. Museumgoers steadily came and went, but I remained in place, staring at someone who had long since passed away. Who was he? What was his name? What was he thinking and feeling when they took the photo? What had he gone through while imprisoned, and what would he go through for the rest of his stay? What did he do after leaving, if he even left at all? And again, why did his image capture my attention? I didn’t have the answers to these questions. I only knew that all his hopes, goals, and desires were stripped away from him, while mine have remained intact.

 

No, I’m not a bestseller. I’ve sold a fair amount of books, but not nearly what I had envisioned. You know what? That’s okay. Unlike this young man, or the billions of others throughout history whose hopes were snuffed out by acts of violence, disease, and starvation, I have an opportunity to pursue my passion at my leisure. Furthermore, I do so in safety and comfort. And even when considering the people who weren’t felled by violence, disease, or starvation—say, a farmworker during the Middle Ages—what kind of life did they have? More than likely, it was one where they labored endlessly from the time they could walk to the time they couldn’t. What if they were inclined to music, poetry, or math? It didn’t matter because their circumstances prevented them from fulfilling their purpose. My situation couldn’t be more different.

 

I’m not saying people’s complaints don’t matter—they do, including my own. I’m also not saying to shrug off all setbacks because others have had it worse. I’m saying we should keep things in perspective. I’m saying we should take time to reflect on the positive aspects of our lives. This isn’t easy when technology bombards us with ceaseless examples of the success we long for, but it’s a worthwhile endeavor. It’s also worthwhile to aid this effort by learning about those less fortunate—the endless people who would give anything for our seemingly unsuccessful situations. By and large, that’s why I’m attracted to the darker side of history—because nothing centers me as much as understanding the pain so many have endured, such as the nameless youth I continued to observe.

 

You might be lost to history, young man, but not by me. I see you. I recognize you. I thank you for the invaluable lesson you taught me. You taught me to keep my complaints in context, especially those pertaining to my lack of literary success. You taught me to appreciate simply having the opportunity to write in the first place—something I should cherish far more than I do. I also won’t waste my opportunity. I’ll use it to become the best writer I can be, regardless of the outcome. I might never become a bestseller, but what I sell will be my best. You have a hand in this, good sir. That’s incontrovertible proof that your suffering wasn’t in vain. No matter what became of you, your suffering wasn’t in vain.