Tara Westover Quotes

I have a birthday, same as you," I wanted to tell the voices. "It just changes. Don't you wish you could change your birthday?

We had been bruised and gashed and concussed, had our legs set on fire and out heads cut open. We had lived in a state of alert, a kind of constant terror, our brains flooding with cortisol because we knew that any of those things might happen at any moment. Because Dad always put faith before safety.

There was a date beneath the image: 1955. I realized that Mother had been four years old in 1955, and with that realization, the distance between me and Emmett Till collapsed. My proximity to this murdered boy could be measured in the lives of people I knew. The calculation was not made with reference to vast historical or geological shifts--the fall of civilizations, the erosion of mountains. It was measured in the wrinkling of human flesh. In the lines on my mother's face.

I worry that education is becoming a stick that some people use to beat other people into submission, or becoming something that people feel arrogant about. I think education is really just a process of self-discovery - of developing a sense of self and what you think. I think of it as this great mechanism of connecting and equalizing.

My companions moved through [Rome] differently, aware of its significance but not subdued by it. They were not hushed by the Trevi Fountain; they were not silenced by the Colosseum. Instead, as we moved from one relic to the next, they debated philosophy - Hobbes and Descartes, Aquinas and Machiavelli. There was a kind of symbiosis in their relationship to these grand places: they gave life to the ancient architecture by making it the backdrop of their discourse, by refusing to worship at its altar as if it were a dead thing.

Don't want your boyfriend to see you looking so glamorous?" He smiles and jabs me with ihs finger. He is looking at me strangely, as it to say, This is who you are. You've been pretending that you're someone else. Someone better. But you are just this.

To admit uncertainty is to admit to weakness, to powerlessness, and to believe in yourself despite both. It is a frailty but in this frailty there is a strength: the conviction to live in your own mind, and not in someone else's. I have often wondered if the most powerful words I wrote that night came not from anger or rage, but from doubt: I don't know. I just don't know.

Not knowing for certain, but refusing to give way to those who claim certainty, was a privilege I had never allowed myself.

The days slipped away quickly, as days do when you're dreading something.

He seemed smaller to me than he had that morning. The disappointment in his features was so childlike, for a moment I wondered how God could deny him this. He, a faithful servant, who suffered willingly just as Noah had willingly suffered to build the ark.

But God withheld the flood.

If the first fall was God's will, whose was the second?

I had come to believe that the ability to evaluate many ideas, many histories, many points of view, was at the heart of what it means to self-create. If I yielded now, I would lose more than an argument. I would lose custody of my own mind. This was the price I was being asked to pay, I understood that now. What my father wanted to cast from me wasn't a demon: it was me.

I begin to reason with myself, to doubt whether I had spoken clearly: what had I whispered and what had I screamed? I decide that if I had asked differently, been more calm, he would have stopped. I write this until I believe it, which doesn't take long because I want to believe it. It's comforting to think the defect is mine, because that means it is under my power.

It's strange how you give the people you love so much power over you, I had written in my journal. But Shawn had more power over me than I could possibly have imagined. He had defined me to myself, and there's no greater power than that.

The seed of curiosity had been planted; it needed nothing more than time and boredom to grow.

I could stay, and search for what had been home, or I could go, now, before the walls shifted and the way out was shut.

All abuse, no matter what kind of abuse it is, foremost, is an assault on the mind. Because if you're going to abuse someone I think you have to invade their reality, in order to distort it, and you have to convince them of two things. You have to convince them that what you're doing isn't that bad. Which means you have to normalize it. You have to justify it, rationalize it. And the other thing you have to convince them of is that they deserve it.

If someone had asked me, I'd have said Charles was the most important thing in the world to me. But he wasn't. And I would prove it to him. What was important to me wasn't love or friendship, but my ability to lie convincingly to myself: to believe I was strong. I could never forgive Charles for knowing I wasn't.

When I was a child,I waited for my mind to grow, for my experiences to accumulate and my choices to solidify ,taking shape into likeness of a person .That person or the likeness of one, had belonged.I was of the mountain ,the mountain that made me.It was only as I grew older ,that I wondered if how I started is how I would end-if the first shape a person takes is their only true shape.

There was a pause, then more word appeared - words I hadn't known I needed to hear, but once I saw them, I realized I'd been searching my whole life for them.

You were my child. I should have protected you.

I carried the books to my room and read through the night. I loved the fiery pages of Mary Wollstonecraft, but there was a single line written by John Stuart Mill that, when I read it, moved the world: "It is a subject on which nothing final can be known." The subject Mill had in mind was the nature of women. Mill claimed that women have been coaxed, cajoled, shoved and squashed into a series of feminine contortions for so many centuries, that it is now quite impossible to define their natural abilities or aspirations.

Blood rushed to my brain; I felt an animating surge of adrenaline, of possibility, of a frontier being pushed outward. Of the nature of women, nothing final can be known. Never had I found such comfort in a void, in the black absence of knowledge. It seemed to say: whatever you are, you are woman.

They were her words. But hers or not, those words, which had so comforted and healed me, were hollow. I don't believe they were faithless, but sincerity failed to give them substance, and they were swept away by other, stronger currents.

Mom said Dad was wasting his time, that nobody could talk Tyler out of anything once his mind was made up. 'You may as well take a broom and start sweeping dirt off the mountain,' she said.

I just didn't feel like seeing him, or hearing his voice, so I didn't.

My friends in Cambridge has become a kind of family, and I felt a sense of belonging with them, that for many years, had been absent.... I preferred the family I had chosen to the one I had been given....

Sometimes our ideas about love are really simplistic. We think of it as something that fixes everything, or, if the love is real, then you definitely have to stay in the relationship. The only way to really respect love is to respect its limits, and respect that it doesn't give you the power to change other people. That's why you can love someone and still choose to say goodbye to them. It's not necessarily a question of whether you love them, it's a question of whether they belong in your life.

It was not that I had done something wrong so much that I existed in the wrong way. There was something impure in the fact of my being.

The most powerful determinant of who you are is inside you," he said. "Professor Steinberg says this is Pygmalion. Think of the story, Tara."
He paused, his eyes fierce, his voice piercing. "She was just a cockney in a nice dress. Until she believed in herself. Then it didn't matter what dress she wore".

When other students asked where I was from, I said, 'I'm from Idaho," a phrase that, as many times as I've had to repeat it over the years, has never felt comfortable in my mouth. When you are part of a place, growing that moment in its soil, there's never a need to say you're from there. I never uttered the words 'I'm from Idaho" until I'd left it.

I'd like to hear more about them classes." he rasped one morning near the end of summer. "It sounds real interesting."
It felt like a new beginning.

Positive liberty," another student said, "is freedom from internal constraints.

The hill is paved with wild wheat. If the conifers and sagebrush are soloists, the wheat field is a corps de ballet, each stem following all the rest in bursts of movement, a million ballerinas bending, one after the other, as great gales dent their golden heads. The shape of that dent lasts only a moment, and is as close as anyone gets to seeing wind.

I can help," he said, "but you'll need to tell me what's bothering you." His voice was gentle, and that gentleness was cruel. I wished he would yell. If he yelled, it would make me angry, and when angry I felt powerful. I didn't know if I could do this without feeling powerful.

It was as if I had stepped through a mirror and was living a day in the life I might have had, if I'd stayed on the mountain. My life had diverged from my sister's, and it felt as though there was no common ground between us. The hours passed; it was late afternoon; and still she felt distant from me, still she refused to meet my gaze.

The word and the way Shawn had said it hadn't changed; only my ears were different. They no longer heard the jingle of a joke in it. What they heard was a signal, a call through time, which was answered with a mounting conviction: that never again would I allow myself to be made a foot soldier in a conflict I did not understand.

I couldn't articulate how the name made me feel. Shawn had meant it to humiliate me, to lock me in time, into an old idea of myself. But far from fixing me in place, that word transported me. Every time he said it - "Hey Nigger, raise the boom" or "Fetch me a level, Nigger" - I returned to the university, to that auditorium, where I had watched human history unfold and wondered at my place in it. The stories of Emmett Till, Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King were called to my mind every time Shawn shouted, "Nigger, move to the next row." I saw their faces superimposed on every purlin Shawn welded into place that summer, so that by the end of it, I had finally begun to grasp something that should have been immediately apparent: that someone had opposed the great march toward equality; someone had been the person from whom freedom had to be wrested.
I did not think of my brother as that person; I doubt I will ever think of him that way. But something had shifted nonetheless. I had started on a path of awareness, had perceived something elemental about my brother, my father, myself. I had discerned the ways in which we had been sculpted by a tradition given to us by others, a tradition of which we were either willfully or accidentally ignorant. I had begun to understand that we had lent our voices to a discourse whose sole purpose was to dehumanize and brutalize others - because nurturing that discourse was easier, because retaining power always feels like the way forward.

I could tolerate any form of cruelty better than kindness. Praise was a poison to me; I choked on it.... The ugliness of me had to be given expression. If it were not expressed in his voice, I would need to express it it mine.

I had to think before I could answer. "I can stand in this wind, because I'm not trying to stand in it," I said. "The wind is just wind. You could withstand these gusts on the ground, so you can withstand them in the air. There is no difference. Except the difference you make in your head."

He stared at me blankly. He hadn't understood.

"I'm just standing," I said. "You are all trying to compensate, to get your bodies lower because the height scares you. But the crouching and the sidestepping are not natural. You've made yourselves vulnerable. If you could just control your panic, this wind would be nothing."

"The way it is nothing to you," he said.

My friends in Cambridge had become a kind of family, and I felt a sense of belonging with them that, for many years, had been absent on Buck's Peak. Sometimes I felt damned for those feelings. No natural sister should love a stranger more than a brother, I thought, and what sort of daughter prefers a teacher to her own father?

But although I wished it were otherwise, I did not want to go home. I preferred the family I had chosen to the one I had been given, so the happier I became in Cambridge, the more my happiness was made fetid by my feeling that I had betrayed Buck's Peak. That feeling became a physical part of me, something I could taste on my tongue or smell on my own breath.

What is a person to do, I asked, when their obligations to their family conflict with other obligations - to friends, to society, to themselves?

But Dr. Kerry was right: it wasn't the clothes that made this face, this woman, different. It was something behind her eyes, something in the set of her jaw-a hope or belief or conviction-that a life is not a thing unalterable. I don't have a word for what it was I saw, but I suppose it was something like faith.

…I could trust myself: That there was something in me, something like what was in the prophets, and that it was not male or female, not old or young; a kind of worth that was inherent and unshakable.

Curiosity is a luxury for the financially secure.

I remembered attending one of Dr. Kerry's lectures, which he had begun by writing, "Who writes history?" on the blackboard. I remembered how strange the question had seemed to me then. My idea of a historian was not human; it was of someone like my father, more prophet than man, whose visions of the past, like those of the future, could not be questioned, or even augmented. Now, as I passed through King's college, in the shadow of the enormous chapel, my old diffidence seemed almost funny. Who writes history? I thought. I do.

I had been taught to read the words of men like Madison as a cast into which I ought to pour the plaster of my own mind, to be reshaped according to the contours of their faultless model. I read them to learn what to think, not how to think for myself. Books that were not of God were banished; they were a danger, powerful and irresistible in their cunning.

To write my essay I had to read books differently, without giving myself over to either fear or adoration.

There was little hope of overpowering the history my father and sister were creating for me. Their account would claim my brothers first, then it would spread to my aunts, uncles, cousins, the whole valley. I had lost an entire kinship, and for what?

I had discerned the ways in which we have been sculpted by a tradition given to us by others. A tradition of which we were either willfully or accidentally ignorant. I had begun to understand that we had lent our voices to a discourse whose sole purpose was to dehumanize and brutalize others.

There was a sting in this arithmetic: in knowing that in the divine calculus of heaven, one man could balance the equation for countless women. (Regarding polygamy)

The conversation was slow, halting. Audrey asked me no questions about England or Cambridge. She had no frame of reference for my life, so we talked about hers

My strongest memory is not a memory. It's something I imagined, then came to remember as if it had happened. The memory was formed when I was five, just before I turned six, from a story my father told in such detail that I and my brothers and sister had each conjured our own cinematic version, with gunfire and shouts. Mine had crickets. That's the sound I hear as my family huddles in the kitchen, lights off, hiding from the Feds who've surrounded the house. A woman reaches for a glass of water and her silhouette is lighted by the moon. A shot echoes like the lash of a whip and she falls. In my memory it's always Mother who falls, and she has a baby in her arms.

The baby doesn't make sense - I'm the youngest of my mother's seven children - but like I said, none of this happened.

I hear of the ongoing drama on the mountain - the injuries, violence and shifting loyalties. But it comes to me now as distant hearsay, which is a gift.

I did not study. I tried to read but the sentences meant nothing. I needed them to mean nothing. I couldn't bear to string sentences into strands of thought, or to weave those strands into ideas. Ideas were too similar to reflection.

An education is not so much about making a living as making a person.

In that moment part of me believed, as I had always believed, that it would be me who broke the spell, who caused it to break. When the stillness shattered and his fury rushed at me, I would know that something I had done was the catalyst, the cause. There is hope in such a superstition; there is the illusion of control.

I'd always known that my father believed in a different God. As a child, I'd been aware that although my family attended the same church as everyone in our town, our religion was not the same. They believed in modesty; we practiced it. They believed in God's power to heal; we left our injuries in God's hands. They believed in preparing for the Second Coming; we were actually prepared. For as long as I could remember, I'd known that the members of my own family were the only true Mormons I had ever known, and yet for some reason, here at this university, in this chapel, for the first time I felt the immensity of the gap. I understood now: I could stand with my family, or with the gentiles, on the one side or the other, but there was no foothold in between.

I am not the child my father raised, but he is the father who raised her.

The future could be different from the past. Even the past could be different from the past, because my memories could change.

A witness. An impartial account. The fever of self doubt had broken long ago. That's not to say I trusted my memory absolutely, but I trusted it as much as I trusted anybody else's, and more than some people's.

All I had to do was swap my memories for theirs, and I could have my family.

At the Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Antica, I stood before Carrivagio's Judith Beheading Holofernes and did not once think about chickens.