It’s almost time to head over to Cambridge, so I’m finishing up the book we soon-to-be students recently received.
When I got the package, after it finally made it’s way from the UK, I excitedly tore off the paper, impatient to see what I was expected to read.
I glared at the title. Really? All right, so I understand that for many people reading The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks may be somehow revealing, but for me, each of the topics it covers is getting old. From my studies, I’ve read more than enough about the biology of cancer, and in my english classes, half our books were about the plight of blacks in America. To tell the truth, I’m sick of it.
And when I say sick, I mean it. I actually feel unwell as the details of racism are continuously thrust upon me, and the graphic descriptions of cancer don’t help my queasiness.
Little in its pages is completely new to me, and I daily find myself reluctant to open it. I suppose my fellow participants of the upcoming discussion of the book may find it more interesting, more novel. I look forward to hear what they have to say.