I remember reading that brownish-red book in the break room of a place I used to work. It was a story that I’d read many times before and like to read again from time to time:
The Diary Of Anne Frank.
But not everybody was so happy with what I was doing.
Out of the corner of my eye I started to notice that people around me were giving me funny looks. I have to admit that it was slightly uncomfortable, but okay whatever, I just kept reading. Finally someone blurted out,
“Why would you want to read that?!?”
Then someone else in the background chimed in,
“I had to read that in school. I HATED it.”
*Had* to read that? I thought of Anne Frank at 13 years old trapped in that tiny room, with diary and pen. How many adults would absolutely lose their mind in that situation, let alone a little girl? Yet she kept writing her story down day after day, with courage.
To me, it was a privilege to have that book in my hands and be able to read her story. That is why I am different.