Becoming an Expat Meant Leaving My Books Behind

Some people collect art. I collect books. Or at least I did until I decided to upend my life and move to Spain. And somehow, in that move, my collection of books was decimated. And now I am a well-read Black girl without her books.

Let’s be honest, my book collection wasn’t decimated by some unknown force, I destroyed it. I gave away almost all of my books before I left, and now I imagine them lost and forgotten, bereft of meaning outside of my collection. Moreover, I feel lost and bereft of meaning without my books contextualizing my existence.

How it Started

About eight months after we left the United States, I was interviewed for an article about being an author and a mother, and I was asked to name my favorite fictional mother. Immediately my eyes swept over the books on my bookshelf, as I hoped to jog my memory about a maternal character I loved. But there were so few books on the shelf, I couldn’t recall a single mother that fit the bill. And then I actually felt a moment of panic as I tried to remember all the books I’d read over the years with mothers, and I could only come up with a handful. But I’ve been reading since I was four years old, so my faulty memory had to be a lie, but there was nothing on the shelf to prove otherwise. The proof of my devotion to the written word was gone.

 And that’s when the mourning began.

That’s when I realized what I had lost.

My Books Were Touchstones not Trophies

My books weren’t just literary trophies occupying a shelf. My books were touchstones that marked distinct moments in my life. My travel books reminded me of all the places I had been before or the destinations I still yearned to experience. My Koran was a memory from time spent in Casablanca as an exchange student in high school. My collection of novels by Jamaican authors were souvenirs from the Calabash literary festival where my soul and spirit collided with the embodiment of global,Black literary joy. Even if I didn’t enjoy the stories told on their pages, each and every book was a testament to the life I’ve lived, the loves I’ve loved and the dreams I still carried. 

So, why did I get rid of them?

The Patron Saint of Book Donation

Real talk, shipping books is expensive. Shipping books overseas is really expensive. I’m not independently wealthy so I knew I would have to decrease the size of my collection, the problem was, once I’d selected the books that I decided were keepers and packed them all up, they didn’t fit into the shipping container. And we didn’t figure that out until the day the truck was coming to our house to take the shipping container to the ship. And so, rash, hasty and painful decisions were made under pressure and duress. And I ended up with a small collection of what I thought were my most important books. 

So, that’s how my book collection went from hundreds of books to less than 100 books. Actually, that’s not even the full story. Before we even made it to the shipping container show down, I donated boxes upon boxes of books to charitable organizations, prisons, schools, and even a library in East Africa. I donated dozens of books to my department at Temple University, and gave some books to my students. I was literally the patron saint of book donation.

And in some ways that gives me peace. Knowing that there are literally people all over the world, in various circumstances, who do not have access to quality literature – particularly literature that reflects the diversity of the Black experience – who now have books in their hands because of my donations, is actually quite gratifying. 

So, where does that leave me? Content that my collection of books will live on in the hands of new owners. Satisfied that the majority of my books will have a second life inspiring, entertaining and educating others. Able to admit that financially it made no sense to spend more money shipping my books to Europe when we needed said money to buy practical items like beds and a kitchen table. I mean, I couldn’t ask my kids to sleep on a pile of books. (Could I?)

How Will it End?

So, here I am in Spain, designing my life to reflect my life’s passions and I am missing the things I am most passionate about, my books. So, I’m asking myself, do I rebuild my collection?  Buy copies of books I already read? Or simply start fresh from where I am now? Of course, whatever I decide to do to rebuild my literary collection is complicated by the fact that I live in a country where English isn’t the primary language and bookstores that stock books in English – more specifically, books in English written by authors of color – are hard to find. 

Part of me loves the idea of going on treasure hunts to find copies of the books I’ve read before. I’ve noticed there are second-hand stores here and used bookstores where one can often find donated books in English. But then there’s another part of me who is intrigued by the idea of truly “starting over” and building a new book collection that reflects my life going forward. Maybe more international authors. Maybe more books in Spanish. Maybe more books about life after 50.

Who is a Well-Read Black Girl Without Her Books?

At this point, I don’t have an answer, but I do know that I still feel bereft without my books. I feel like something is missing in my life, particularly because my new life is so focused on reclaiming my love of reading and writing. But also, because in this new country, sometimes I forget who I am, and the books on my bookshelf always reminded me. I am a Well-Read Black Girl. 

What would you do if your were me? How would you approach rebuilding your book collection?