To Thine Own Self Be True
But if I'm going to talk about the books that changed my young life irrevocably, I have to talk about Maud Hart Lovelace's Betsy-Tacy books. It's the story of best friends, Betsy and Tacy (and occassionally Tib, though she keeps moving back and forth from Milwaukee), growing up in a small town in Minnesota at the turn of the 20th century. My Godmother introduced them to me when I was eight--I think on the same cross-country road trip where I read the entire Chronicles of Narnia from beginning to end--and I read all ten books in the series over the next three years.
I've been consulting them ever since. In high-school I re-read "Betsy in Spite of Herself", to remind me what happens when you try to be someone you're not. Last year I went to Europe for the first time, and not only read "Betsy and the Great World" on the way to Paris, but visited a London pub (the Cheshire Cheese) where Dickens used to eat, and where Betsy couldn't go inside because in 1914 it didn't serve women. I got engaged on that trip, and I've probably re-read "Betsy's Wedding" three times since then. It's not so much about her wedding--that's taken care of in the first few chapters--but about the first year of her marriage, and her married life has a lot in common with what I hope for from mine: mutual support, professional success, and really great parties.
At all the most important junctures of my life, I have on some level asked myself, "What would Betsy do?"
Now, when I was growing up, Betsy and I had a lot in common. She lived in a small town in the Midwest; I lived in a small town in the Midwest. She got in trouble for reading too much; I got in trouble for reading too much. She wanted to be a writer; I wanted to be a writer. She played make-believe with her friends; I played make-believe with my friends. As opposed to all the heroines I read about wandering through the backs of wardrobes or wrinkling through the space-time continuum, Betsy was real. She was just like me, if I had been born eighty years earlier.
And she was awesome. She led me to reading Ivanhoe and keeping a journal, and she set me off on a lifelong quest for friends who think the fact that you're not just like them is a good thing. As Anna Quindlen put it in her forward to the latest edition of "Heaven to Betsy", the Betsy-Tacy books "are ultimately books about character, and especially about the character of one girl whose greatest sin, throughout the books, is to undervalue herself. For those are the mistakes Betsy finds she cannot forgive, when she sells herself short ... Betsy does best when she serves herself, when she is true to herself."
I can't think of a lesson it was better to learn, especially between ages eight and eleven, so that I could have it for the whole rest of my life.















































