Educated: A Memoir

Educated: A Memoir ᄥ Format Kindle Read ❳ Educated: A Memoir For Free ⡽ Book Author Tara Westover ⣔ Chapter 1Choose the GoodMy strongest memory is not a memory Its something I imagined, then came to remember as if it had happened The memory was formed when I was five, just before I turned six, from a story my father told in such detail that I and my brothers and sister had each conjured our own cinematic version, with gunfire and shouts Mine had crickets Thats the sound I hear as my family huddles in the kitchen, lights off, hiding from the Feds whove surrounded the house A woman reaches for a glass of water and her silhouette is lighted by the moon A shot echoes like the lash of a whip and she falls In my memory its always Mother who falls, and she has a baby in her arms.The baby doesnt make senseIm the youngest of my mothers seven childrenbut like I said, none of this happened.A year after my father told us that story, we gathered one evening to hear him read aloud from Isaiah, a prophecy about Immanuel He sat on our mustard colored sofa, a large Bible open in his lap Mother was next to him The rest of us were strewn across the shaggy brown carpet.Butter and honey shall he eat, Dad droned, low and monotone, weary from a long day hauling scrap That he may know to refuse the evil, and choose the good.There was a heavy pause We sat quietly.My father was not a tall man but he was able to command a room He had a presence about him, the solemnity of an oracle His hands were thick and leatherythe hands of a man whod been hard at work all his lifeand they grasped the Bible firmly.He read the passage aloud a second time, then a third, then a fourth With each repetition the pitch of his voice climbed higher His eyes, which moments before had been swollen with fatigue, were now wide and alert There was a divine doctrine here, he said He would inquire of the Lord.The next morning Dad purged our fridge of milk, yogurt and cheese, and that evening when he came home, his truck was loaded with fifty gallons of honey.Isaiah doesnt say which is evil, butter or honey, Dad said, grinning as my brothers lugged the white tubs to the basement But if you ask, the Lord will tell you When Dad read the verse to his mother, she laughed in his face I got some pennies in my purse, she said You better take them Theyll be all the sense you got.Grandma had a thin, angular face and an endless store of faux Indian jewelry, all silver and turquoise, which hung in clumps from her spindly neck and fingers Because she lived down the hill from us, near the highway, we called her Grandma down the hill This was to distinguish her from our mothers mother, who we called Grandma over in town because she lived fifteen miles south, in the only town in the county, which had a single stoplight and a grocery store.Dad and his mother got along like two cats with their tails tied together They could talk for a week and not agree about anything, but they were tethered by their devotion to the mountain My fathers family had been living at the base of Buck Peak for a century Grandmas daughters had married and moved away, but my father stayed, building a shabby yellow house, which he would never quite finish, just up the hill from his mothers, at the base of the mountain, and plunking a junkyardone of severalnext to her manicured lawn.They argued daily, about the mess from the junkyard but often about us kids Grandma thought we should be in school and not, as she put it, roaming the mountain like savages Dad said public school was a ploy by the Government to lead children away from God I may as well surrender my kids to the devil himself, he said, as send them down the road to that school.God told Dad to share the revelation with the people who lived and farmed in the shadow of Buck Peak On Sundays, nearly everyone gathered at the church, a hickory colored chapel just off the highway with the small, restrained steeple common to Mormon churches Dad cornered fathers as they left their pews He started with his cousin Jim, who listened good naturedly while Dad waved his Bible and explained the sinfulness of milk Jim grinned, then clapped Dad on the shoulder and said no righteous God would deprive a man of homemade strawberry ice cream on a hot summer afternoon Jims wife tugged on his arm As he slid past us I caught a whiff of manure Then I remembered the big dairy farm a mile north of Buck Peak, that was Jims.After Dad took up preaching against milk, Grandma jammed her fridge full of it She and Grandpa only drank skim but pretty soon it was all theretwo percent, whole, even chocolate She seemed to believe this was an important line to hold.Breakfast became a test of loyalty Every morning, my family sat around a large square table and ate either seven grain cereal, with honey and molasses, or seven grain pancakes, also with honey and molasses Because there were nine of us, the pancakes were never cooked all the way through I didnt mind the cereal if I could soak it in milk, letting the cream gather up the grist and seep into the pellets, but since the revelation wed been having it with water It was like eating a bowl of mud.It wasnt long before I began to think of all that milk spoiling in Grandmas fridge Then I got into the habit of skipping breakfast each morning and going straight to the barn Id slop the pigs and fill the trough for the cows and horses, then Id hop over the corral fence, loop around the barn and step through Grandmas side door.On one such morning, as I sat at the counter watching Grandma pour a bowl of cornflakes, she said, How would you like to go to school I wouldnt like it, I said.How do you know, she barked You aint never tried it.She poured the milk and handed me the bowl, then she perched at the bar, directly across from me, and watched as I shoveled spoonfuls into my mouth.Were leaving tomorrow for Arizona, she told me, but I already knew She and Grandpa always went to Arizona when the weather began to turn Grandpa said he was too old for Idaho winters the cold put an ache in his bones Get yourself up real early, Grandma said, around five, and well take you with us Put you in school.I shifted on my stool I tried to imagine school but couldnt Instead I pictured Sunday school, which I attended each week and which I hated A boy named Aaron had told all the girls that I couldnt read because I didnt go to school, and now none of them would talk to me.Dad said I can go I said.No, Grandma said But well be long gone by the time he realizes youre missing She sat my bowl in the sink and gazed out the window.Grandma was a force of natureimpatient, aggressive, self possessed To look at her was to take a step back She dyed her hair black and this intensified her already severe features, especially her eyebrows, which she smeared on each morning in thick, inky arches She drew them too large and this made her face seem stretched They were also drawn too high and draped the rest of her features into an expression of boredom, almost sarcasm.You should be in school, she said.Wont Dad just make you bring me back I said.Your dad cant make me do a damned thing Grandma stood, squaring herself If he wants you, hell have to come get you She hesitated, and for a moment looked ashamed I talked to him yesterday He wont be able to fetch you back for a long while Hes behind on that shed hes building in town He cant pack up and drive to Arizona, not while the weather holds and he and the boys can work long days.Grandmas scheme was well plotted Dad always worked from sunup until sundown in the weeks before the first snow, trying to stockpile enough money from hauling scrap and building barns to outlast the winter, when jobs were scarce Even if his mother ran off with his youngest child, he wouldnt be able to stop working, not until the forklift was encased in ice.Ill need to feed the animals before we go, I said Hell notice Im gone for sure if the cows break through the fence looking for water.I didnt sleep that night I sat on the kitchen floor and watched the hours tick by One a.m Two Three.At four I stood and put my boots by the back door They were caked in manure, and I was sure Grandma wouldnt let them into her car I pictured them on her porch, abandoned, while I ran off shoeless to Arizona.I imagined what would happen when my family discovered I was missing My brother Richard and I often spent whole days on the mountain, so it was likely no one would notice until sundown, when Richard came home for dinner and I didnt I pictured my brothers pushing out the door to search for me Theyd try the junkyard first, hefting iron slabs in case some stray sheet of metal had shifted and pinned me Then theyd move outward, sweeping the farm, crawling up trees and into the barn attic Finally, theyd turn to the mountain.It would be past dusk by thenthat moment just before night sets in, when the landscape is visible only as darkness and lighter darkness, and you feel the world around you than you see it I imagined my brothers spreading over the mountain, searching the black forests No one would talk everyones thoughts would be the same Things could go horribly wrong on the mountain Cliffs appeared suddenly Feral horses, belonging to my grandfather, ran wild over thick banks of water hemlock, and there were than a few rattlesnakes Wed done this search before when a calf went missing from the barn In the valley youd find an injured animal on the mountain, a dead one.I imagined Mother standing by the back door, her eyes sweeping the dark ridge, when my father came home to tell her they hadnt found me My sister, Audrey, would suggest that someone ask Grandma, and Mother would say Grandma had left that morning for Arizona Those words would hang in the air for a moment, then everyone would know where Id gone I imagined my fathers face, his dark eyes shrinking, his mouth clamping into a frown as he turned to my mother You think she chose to go Low and sorrowful, his voice echoed Then it was drowned out by echoes from another conjured remembrancecrickets, then gunfire, then silence.The event was a famous one, I would later learnlike Wounded Knee or Wacobut when my father first told us the story, it felt like no one in the world knew about it except us.It began near the end of canning season, which other kids probably called summer My family always spent the warm months bottling fruit for storage, which Dad said wed need in the Days of Abomination One evening, Dad was uneasy when he came in from the junkyard He paced the kitchen during dinner, hardly touching a bite We had to get everything in order, he said There was little time.We spent the next day boiling and skinning peaches By sundown wed filled dozens of Mason jars, which were set out in perfect rows, still warm from the pressure cooker Dad surveyed our work, counting the jars and muttering to himself, then he turned to Mother and said, Its not enough.That night Dad called a family meeting, and we gathered around the kitchen table, because it was wide and long, and could seat all of us We had a right to know what we were up against, he said He was standing at the head of the table the rest of us perched on benches, studying the thick planks of red oak.Theres a family not far from here, Dad said Theyre freedom fighters They wouldnt let the Government brainwash their kids in them public schools, so the Feds came after them Dad exhaled, long and slow The Feds surrounded the familys cabin, kept them locked in there for weeks, and when a hungry child, a little boy, snuck out to go hunting, the Feds shot him dead.I scanned my brothers Id never seen fear on Lukes face before.Theyre still in the cabin, Dad said They keep the lights off, and they crawl on the floor, away from the doors and windows I dont know how much food they got Might be theyll starve before the Feds give up.No one spoke Eventually Luke, who was twelve, asked if we could help No, Dad said Nobody can Theyre trapped in their own home But they got their guns, you can bet thats why the Feds aint charged in He paused to sit, folding himself onto the low bench in slow, stiff movements He looked old to my eyes, worn out We cant help them, but we can help ourselves When the Feds come to Buck Peak, well be ready.That night, Dad dragged a pile of old army bags up from the basement He said they were our head for the hills bags We spent that night packing them with suppliesherbal medicines, water purifiers, flint and steel Dad had bought a truckload of military MREsMeals Ready to Eatand we put as many as we could fit into our packs, imagining the moment when, having fled the house and hiding ourselves in the wild plum trees near the creek, wed eat them Some of my brothers stowed guns in their packs but I had only a small knife, and even so my pack was as big as me by the time wed finished I asked Luke to hoist it onto a shelf in my closet, but Dad told me to keep it low, where I could fetch it quick, so I slept with it in my bed.I practiced slipping the bag onto my back and running with it I didnt want to be left behind I imagined our escape, a midnight flight to the safety of the Princess The mountain, I understood, was our ally To those who knew her she could be kind, but to intruders she was pure treachery, and this would give us an advantage Then again, if we were going to take cover on the mountain when the Feds came, I didnt understand why we were canning all these peaches We couldnt haul a thousand heavy Mason jars up the peak Or did we need the peaches so we could bunker down in the house, like the Weavers, and fight it outIf J D Vances memoir offered street heroin grade drama, Tara Westovers is carfentanil, the stuff that tranquilizes elephants The extremity of Westovers upbringing emerges gradually through her telling, which only makes the telling alluring and harrowing By the end, Westover has somehow managed not only to capture her unsurpassably exceptional upbringing, but to make her current situation seem not so exceptional at all, and resonant for many others The New York Times Book Review Living proof that some people are flat out, boots always laced up indomitable a heartbreaking, heartwarming, best in years memoir about striding beyond the limitations of birth and environment into a better life USA Today Riveting Westover brings readers deep into this world, a milieu usually hidden from outsiders Her story is remarkable, as each extreme anecdote described in tidy prose attests The Economist A coming of age memoir reminiscent of The Glass Castle. O The Oprah Magazine Incredibly thought provoking so much than a memoir about a woman who graduated college without a formal education It is about a woman who must learn how to learn The Harvard Crimson Heart wrenching a beautiful testament to the power of education to open eyes and change lives.Amy Chua, The New York Times Propulsive Despite the singularity of her childhood, the questions her book poses are universal How much of ourselves should we give to those we love And how much must we betray them to grow up Vogue A subtle, nuanced study of how dysfunction of any kind can be normalized even within the most conventional family structure, and of the damage such containment can do Financial Times Westovers extraordinary memoir is haunting in the best way, delivering a powerful coming of age saga Paste Westovers one of a kind memoir is about the shaping of a mind In briskly paced prose, she evokes a childhood that completely defined her Yet it was also, she gradually sensed, deforming her The Atlantic Whether narrating scenes of fury and violence or evoking rural landscapes or tortured self analysis, Westover writes with uncommon intelligence and grace One of the most improbable and fascinating journeys Ive read in recent years Newsday This gripping coming of age story shows a womans world being opened through education Refinery29 Raw and unflinching lyrical and literary Library Journal An astonishing account of deprivation, confusion, survival, and success Kirkus Reviews At its heart, her memoir is a family history not just a tale of overcoming but an uncertain elegy to the life that she ultimately rejected Westover manages both tenderness and a savage honesty that spares no one, not even herself Booklist Educated A Memoir Tara Westover Educated and millions of other books are available for Kindle Learn Enter your mobile number or email address below we ll send you by Westover s book is a distressing discomforting alarming startling exposure her Mormon fundamentalist family memoir nonfiction but names identifying details have been changed Bookreporter The short prologue to memoir, EDUCATED, begins with lovely description the farm, swaths sagebrush thistle coming down hills toward house But this idyll tranquility nature soon shattered Review Atlantic Ann Hulbert, literary editor Atlantic, author Off Charts Hidden Lives Lessons American Child Prodigies Book Discussions Memoir Book Author Edition Hardcover, Random House I read in just few sittings, words tumbling over one another as life tumbled chaotically through childhood into adulthood writing stellar, story harrowing revealing, showing reader graphically ambivalence feels Andrew Luck Club an account struggle self invention It tale fierce loyalty, grief that comes from severing closest ties IndieBound first Praise For If J D Vance offered street heroin grade drama, carfentanil, stuff tranquilizes elephants NPR NPR coverage News, interviews, critics picks Feb , new book, House, pp out four heartbreaking, heartwarming, best years about striding beyond limitations birth environmentTara Official website understood it was fact, than any other, made my different didn t go school Wikipedia born historian She known bestselling Bio authorBorn Idaho father opposed public education, she never attended spent days working junkyard stewing herbs mother, taught herbalist midwife Home Facebook Westover, right, lecturer David Harlan interact today during freshman seminar class at University Memoir, university Common Read Turns Her Isolated Childhood Gripping In early s, preteen living They were isolated people, even extended family, except church A Psychologist Take on Educated asks us deeply reflect identity Educated, opens up thought provoking dialogue power identity, mental answers questions PBS our May pick NewsHour New York Times club Now This, joins Jeffrey Brown answer readers, plus Jeff announces June And now families like mine there no crime worse photographed London Antonio Olmos Observer Review grew preparing End Days rural Educated: A Memoir

 

    • 4.1
    • 360
    • Format Kindle
    • 0525528059
    • Tara Westover
    • Anglais
    • 13 March 2017