When I moved in with Steve Rogers I brought so many books with me that we had to start assembling shelves. I brought trunks filled with grocery bags full of stacks of books. The books represented the majority of the physical possessions worth bringing with me. They are one of the few things I will allow myself to collect. Even if I haven’t read them, even if I am taking a recommendation on faith from a trusted source. I enjoy having them. I have been collecting since I was, like – ten.
“I’ve gone ahead and ordered a bookshelf for your books. It should be here next week. Do you think this one has enough space? Do you like the color?”
I am not used to this. I am not used to letting people who aren’t family buy things for me – luxury items. It’s unfamiliar. Most things I have needed and used in my life have previously belonged to someone else – clothes, books, CDs, furniture, a car. Which is honestly how it should be. To this day, even just allowing people to pay for my food makes me feel like I am indebted to them in a way that I am not always sure I can pay back, so I mostly don’t let them. As a rule I don’t expect anything in return when I give gifts away to other people, so I’m not sure where the anxiety over being in debt to another person is from. But it’s an ever present feeling in the realm of exchange. I am not used to this particular kind of generosity from anyone who isn’t family. Not the inherent generosity of a nice time spent together, the generosity of “if you want this I will take care it for you without batting an eye.” There is a fundamental inclination not to ever need or want anything from anyone that I cannot get for myself and that will never fully go away. Receiving is complicated. Even from people who have plenty to give, who like giving.
But he’s asking if I like the color, so I give in and tell him that the color is good. He insists that it feels necessary to try and make this place into a home – before me, this apartment was clearly a place where A Man Lived By Himself. It’s different now.
When the unassembled shelves made it to the apartment we took them out of the boxes and peeled away the layers of styrofoam packaging and sorted the pieces by type across the floor in the living room and he dug out a box of tools from the bottom of a closet somewhere and we carefully, meticulously read the instructions on the paper from the box. And we built a bookself together. It was a good bookshelf.
The books are nestled in no particular order among the knick knacks, as they should be. They are proudly on display in the study and in the living room and in a pile by the side of the bed. I am fond of them.
We built something together.