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Donating books taught me a valuable lesson

When I was a child, every Saturday morning my father took me to a second-hand store to buy used books. Several decades later and now living at the other end of the continent, I still have many of those books. Even more important, I never lost the habit of buying books. The problem is that books require a large enough room to keep them.

Lacking that space, I recently decided to check the books I have at home to see if there were any duplicates (I found a few) and if there were books in good condition and of good educational value, but that I didn’t want anymore (I found four boxes.)

I selected those books (most of them, in English) and I decided to donate them to the library of a nearby college. I called the library, made an appointment, and, at the time and date of the appointment, I delivered the books.

The amazement in the face of the librarian told me she did not anticipate receiving so many books. After opening the boxes, her face told me she did not expect seeing books of quality. She commented she was happy to see hardcover books about psychology, history, politics, theology, and other topics.

The librarian asked me why I was donating the books. I told her I was running out of room at home and I didn’t need those books anymore. And then she asked me where I got the books.

I then told her the story about my father developing in me the habit of buying and reading books. I also told her most of the books inside the boxes where books I bought. A few of them, I explained, were a gift received years ago when a former teacher retired and gave me some of his books.

The librarian asked me for the name of the former teacher. I told her the name. A few days later, the college sent him a letter thanking him for the donation of the books. I never received a similar letter and I don’t expect to receive one.

I wanted to know why, if I bought the books, I selected the books, I packed the books, and I delivered the books, another person, an American educator, received the gratitude.

After a few discreet calls, the answer was clear: the librarian didn’t believe me when I told here those were my books, because the books were in English, there were many, and they included “academic” topics.

In her mind (and the mind of many others), there is no way a Latino immigrant would ever read those books. So, the true owner of all those books should be an unknown American person. According to the librarian, I donated the books because I couldn’t understand them.

I learned my lesson. Next time I donate books, I will go to a well-known second-hand store, when they will not doubt about my intellectual abilities and, in addition, they will issue a receipt for tax purposes.

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