Ifemelu, the protagonist of Chimamanda Adichize’s novel, Americanah, describes her thoughtful, introspective, attentive boyfriend in a way that made me start the page over again just so I could have the pleasure of reading it again. The second time through, it had me extricating myself from my nest of snow-day blankets and slippers and mugs of tea in search of a pen and my commonplace book so I could write the line down.
“She thought of him as a person who did not have a normal spine but had, instead, a firm reed of goodness.”
Maybe you know one of these people. I hope you do. While the rest of us are bumbling around being selfish, these people are finding the most surprising ways to be selfless.
Since Adichize’s line has been on my mind, I notice these people more and more often. They always seem to find those little, thankless tasks that I immediately feel guilty for not doing. Students pick up trash or move paper from the garbage can to the recycling bin. They return lost folders and forgotten laptop chargers to their owners. They say hello to an unpopular or lonely classmate. These firm-reed-of-goodness people are teachers who send encouraging messages to each other and principals who congratulate teachers on their accomplishments. They are neighbors who shovel sidewalks and drivers who pause to let you turn left onto a congested street. They are housemates who share food or wash dishes or let you watch your favorite television show undisturbed. They are people who keep their mouths shut if they don’t have anything nice to say and people who can discuss contentious subjects with civility and tact.
This week, I’ve noticed the post-holiday blues and the doldrums of winter grabbing hold of me and those around me. Things seem imbalanced, off-kilter, under the weather. Students are whiny and I snap at them too easily. Coworkers complain. Friends are sick or discouraged. Things just don’t seem to work out in February.
Now, I wouldn’t always describe myself as an optimist, but since I read that jolting line last week, I can’t stop seeing the glimmer of that reed of goodness everywhere. And I can’t stop imagining a world—an extraordinary, beautiful world—in which we all have the reed of goodness at our centers instead of a spine.
Your spine keeps you upright. It holds your head up and lets you look around and notice your surroundings. Nerves and muscles spiral around that spine and shoot outward, controlling your walk and your reach and even your thoughts and emotions. Now imagine that spine and its branches replaced with a reed of goodness. The reed (that natural material, because I think goodness is natural in all of us) would compel you to stand up straight, head held high, looking for places that need goodness. It would move your feet toward those in need. It would direct your mind to the feelings of others. A firm reed of goodness always knows the way to go.
At the same time, a reed is flexible. It can bend when needed and make room for new ideas or new people. This bending and accommodating isn’t an indication of weakness; rather, it’s a sign of resilience. A reed bounces back, always ready for the next challenge. Reed-of-goodness people don’t lack a backbone—they’ve got something better.
If we all replaced our spines, I think the world would stand a little straighter. Noticing those reed-of-goodness people has inspired me to find my own places to do good. I try to imagine that flexible, supportive, pure goodness running the length of my back, pushing me to go the extra mile for someone. In an unselfish way, I hope someone notices. I hope people do a double take and wonder what makes me tick. I hope my good deeds are a catalyst for someone else’s.
Maybe that’s sappy. Maybe unrealistic.
But I think it deserves a shot. Don’t underestimate the joy you can spread with a good deed—the joy that doesn’t only reach outward but that soaks in as well, sending a shiver of goodness down your spine.
Abby Zwart (’13) teaches high school English in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She spends her free time making lists of books she should read, cooking, and managing the post calvin.
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I love the imagery in your writing, Abby. I’m just about to start on Americanah by Adichie. I’m sure there will be many start-the-page-over-again moments!