What happens to you when you die? That was the question I had asked myself everyday since my grandpa died. I had woken up late that morning, given it was a Saturday, and there were no government "time for school" alarms going off. I wouldn't have awoken until nine if it hadn't been for the racket down the hall, which later revealed itself to be coming from the room at the end of the hall that we weren't allowed in. "we" being my mother, Concordia, and my sister, Cleo.
My father had left us late the previous year to work full time with the government, a decision my grandpa did not approve of. My grandpa was the rock of our family, the one the provided us with the strength to keep going and kept our falling from falling apart. My sister and mother had fought since my father left, with her being only nine compared to my age of 14. I became reclusive when my father left, so I guess it had an effect on all of us. But my grandpa became more secretive, spending hours on end in the room at the end of the hall, the one we weren't allowed in anymore. From what I remember it was a library, full of banned books, though I had never told anyone that fact.
Originally, when I heard the noise, I thought it was Cleo falling down the stairs, which she does more often than I ever thought possible, but when I looked over she was sleeping in her bed next to mine, dreaming seemingly jovial dreams. Considering the noise was starting to sound less like falling down the stairs and more like fighting, I tiptoed, though I don't think anyone could hear me over the noise, down the hall and peeked into my mother's room. She was rocking in her chair crying noiselessly. As the young child I still was I did not know what to do when you see your parent cry, it is always a moment of paralyzing fear. I left not knowing what to do, to investigate myself.
The sight I saw on the stairs that morning still stands in my mind, clear, like it happened yesterday. It started out as three government officials standing outside the door of my grandpa's "restricted" room.
At the time I had known the books and music weren't normal, but I had never guessed he was hiding them from everyone but me and he could get hurt because of them. The officials had guns by their sides, but they were ready if anyone tried to enter they would shoot. Just then two officials came out of the room, one had my grandpa in cuffs and one had a gun to his head. I heard the second one order, "Move or struggle and I shoot", my grandpa went still. I thought he had seen me so I hid behind the stair post, blocking the officials line of view from me. I heard multiple, "oofs", and a gunshot. It was a piercing bang, and I felt my own soul shatter. "Had to do it", one of them justified, like they knew I was there, "He fought back, best drag him out and tell the boss.", I felt sick. The two men left, dragging his limp lifeless body by the arms, as if he were nothing to them. The worst part was he was nothing to them, just another inconvenience. Another member of The Rebellion to kill off.
The officials left with a bang, throwing a small bomb off behind them. I ducked and covered my face when the room blew the smithereens. It was my grandpas life, in that room, and everything I loved. Watching that bomb blow I could feel my heart being ripped out of my chest.
From a young age the ban of books affected me. Before the book ban my grandpa read me books before bed, I loved all genres but fantasy was always my favorite. Escaping to a world with less problems and mythical creatures to play with, like dragons and fairies and all sorts of spells to cast. The first books my grandpa ever read to me was Harry Potter. Harry Potter became my love; I would write short stories about the characters and read the books over and over. I read Edgar Allan Poe and Charles Dickens, too. It made my mind work in new and different ways, helping me excel in school from a young age.
Another thing banned was music. CD's and records were banned a long time before books were but all music was banned two years after books. The government takes away the things that give us knowledge, and knowledge is power. I loved music, and so did my mother. On cleaning day we would dance around the house singing to our favorite Elvis or Green Day songs.
The weeks following the incident were not interesting, no one touched the blown up room and no one really talked about what happened at all. It had terrible emotional effects on me but we were taught at a young age not to talk about our feelings, though my grandpa always taught me otherwise. I still believe he taught me the right things, even if it was thought wrong by most people he taught me for the better good of myself.
My school got out before Cleo's so I had days to myself throughout the month of May. I got up everyday with no enthusiasm. Your heart beats to the music , is what my grandpa used to say, but how can my heart beat when there is no music? So I went through the days reading through old beaten, burned books and eating government issued, tasteless food.
One afternoon I came to find myself alone in the house, my mother and Cleo had gone out shopping. Running out of original ideas for short stories and no homework to do led me to boredom. So, as a curious child, I decided to go and explore the room at the end of the hall, that still hadn't been touched. When I pushed open the door ashes fell from the ceiling and flew up from the floor causing me to cough uncontrollably. I entered the once beautiful room to find most of the books half burned and a gaping hole in the floor. Where the bookshelves used to be on the left wall were multiple half broken shelves with books scattered around the floor in front of them. Where there used to be boxes full of records in the corners there were now some halves of records skewed about. But what would have been the centerpiece of the room was laying in a hole in the floor, a chandelier. This chandelier was more grand than anything I had ever seen, it was three feet wide and three feet long with glittering jewels on every winding tendril of metal. It seemed almost tragic something so beautiful could ruin so much.
I wavered, then made my way gently to the middle of the room, skimming my fingers along the dusty walls as I went. There were boxes in the middle of the hole made by the chandelier. Boxes that looked like they had been hidden under the floorboards; they were dustier than everything else, as though they hadn't been touched in ages, but they weren't covered in ashes, nor did it look like they had been burned. I made my way over and knelt down, leaving large footprints behind me, almost like I was on a secret mission. But I could feel the ghost of my grandpa here, he was haunting his belongings. Life goes beyond death, even when your body is gone your soul is still here haunting the earth forever. He left behind a feeling of strength, giving me the hope I needed to get through the lose and stand up straight and fight for my rights.
When I popped the lid off the first box it held the only tape recorder I had ever seen; my grandpa had shown me pictures of ones just like this but I thought they didn't exist any longer. It appeared to not be anything special so I moved on to the next box, this one was filled with the books that were my favorite when I was younger. My grandpa must have seen his death inevitable and hid all his favorite belongings where they would not get ruined by the blow. The third box I opened was heavier as I lifted it towards myself, and when I popped it open it was full of tapes, 10, to be exact. All the tapes were the same, with a piece of worn tape on every side that side either "Side A" or "Side B". Naturally a curious person I wanted to know what this was, so I popped the tape in the recorder and hit "Play". Silence, broken by an electronic voice saying, "This is the Record Rebellion and if you've found these takes I assume I have gone, though I hope my life went towards the greater good of the rebellion. I will not state my name until completely necessary for the sake of the future of me, but now, it is time dear listener, for you to take over." The voice was unplaceable, though it sounded like a man. There was a pause before a different voice, a woman this time, said, "Flip to side B", almost talking to me like a two-year-old. So I listened until I heard the front door open and my name be called.
The next few days I listened, as someone who I later knew to be my grandpa, told me about the rebellion to get back music and books. One line that he had said always stuck out to me, "I realize now they took it from us because, those words and those lyrics, had so much power to change a person and a person has the power to change the world."
Now I sit, in my own library, with my own kids. My house is always full of music and the sound of my children squealing. My house is full of books, however many I want, just because I fought back. Some days I still think about my grandpa and how strong he was. He would be proud of where I am today though, he would've loved seeing me fight for what I wanted and be successful. Success comes to your hands through hard work, it is never given by just wishing. The influence of the right people give us the power to change something, to work towards success. Whereas the influence of the wrong people will cause you to sit there waiting for success to drop into the palm of your hand, when it won't. Work for your own success and fight your own fight, is what my grandpa taught me in the end, even if he wasn't here to see me succeed, he gave me the power to do this all on my own.
