RIP Hank Chinaski

I know it’s a timeless debate: do people change? Some people say, absolutely. Others would argue that no, you don’t, you are who you are. I probably land somewhere in the middle, but veering towards yes, of course we change. But I think it’s also complex. Does maturing equal change? Does becoming firmer in our beliefs equal change? Or is that something that would qualify as something else? What actually constitutes the change we are talking about when we ask, “can a person change?” I sure as shit don’t know, but I do know this: if you want to see how much you have evolved as a person (or not,) revisit a favorite book from your twenties.

I recently did this. Went back and read Ham On Rye, which was a book that I was obsessed with at the grand ol’ age of twenty. I gobbled it up, then went on to devour every other book in the Charles Bukowski collection. I laughed, I gagged, I felt empathy, and I felt connected to Hank Chinaski in a way I hadn’t connected to a character before. Which is incredibly weird when you compare our two upbringings, no mistake about it. Or maybe it was that I had never read anything like it before, the language, new. The rawness, unfamiliar. I was always a big reader but read the books that were popular at the time, or passed around at school, or my mom’s leftovers. This book was recommended to me by a boy, a boy that will get his own chapter (or two) someday, that I worked at a bookstore with. Much of how my life ended up is a result of this boy, including finding my voice as a writer. I wish I couldn’t give him credit, but it would be disingenuous to say otherwise. He was the one that introduced me to much of the music that shaped me, books beyond bestsellers, and poetry. (OK fine, he was more than just a boy I worked at a bookstore with- I was so in love with him for so long, and he destroyed me in more ways than one, and it’s OK now.)

So, Ham on Rye. I could see why this boy loved it then, and reading it now, I can see how I would have loved it then too. Aside from the newness of Bukowski, it made me more interesting to be able to talk about him, and it made me more interesting to the boy. More than that, I was young- twenty- and figuring out how to see the world and where I fit in as a woman. Maybe the reason Bukowski resonated was that he viewed women the way the world does, as something to desire but not respect. Maybe he was just dropping me right into reality, and it was the most truthful book I had ever read. Maybe it reflected how I felt about myself- as a woman, it takes a lot of strength to not hate ourselves when all we’ve been taught through history is that we are worthless. Who knows. I certainly can’t go back and read it again for the first time with my twenty-year-old brain, so some of this is just conjuncture. But I can wager a guess. But I wish I had written about it then so I could compare notes. But reading it this time was not the same. It felt… gross.

I did not laugh. I did not find humor, nor the rawness I so loved. I didn’t read a compelling story- it took everything in me to actually finish it this time around. I read the sad story of a sad boy written by a sad man; I read the story about abusive parents and terrible coping strategies - even when you account for the day and age. I read a story about objectifying women from a very early age and taking advantage of them whenever possible. I know Hank is a fictional character based loosely on Bukowski’s life, but I’m pretty sure it’s not that loosely based, and that it is no surprise he turned out to be a womanizer and raging alcoholic. I’m surprised that was the worst-case scenario, honestly. Reading it again didn’t elicit empathy, like the first time. Just pity. Pity for a sad, sad man raised by shitty parents, who probably hated women because his own mother didn’t stand up for her child and allowed him to be beaten, starved, medically neglected.

And maybe that means I’ve changed. Or maybe that means I’ve matured. Which again, begs the question, are they the same, or are they different. And I honestly don’t know. But oddly, this same boy from the bookstore gave me another book: To Kill a Mockingbird, and you know what? I can re-read that book over and over, and nothing about my feelings change even a little.

I had never read To Kill a Mockingbird in school, like so many others did. I guess I just took different English classes. And when he heard that I had never read it, he gave me the one and only gift I ever received from him: my own copy. I loved it, although I didn’t fully understand it. I lived in the Bay Area. I grew up in California. I knew about racism, of course, but mostly from history books and in my limited experience, felt pretty confident that it was mostly a thing of the past. Like, who is a racist anymore, it’s 2000! A new millennium! So, I didn’t understand all the language, and I couldn’t understand how people could have ever felt like that, and I was appalled nonetheless by the abhorrent language and behavior described in the book, the injustice of it all, and, conversely, in awe of the courage and fortitude of Atticus Finch. I think this is also why I love the movie, A Time to Kill. How easy is it to walk away from doing the right thing, when the people around you hate you for it? Threaten you for it? And Atticus, Brigance- they stay put. They show up. They do the work. Fictional characters? Sure, but symbolic of the things that matter so much to me.

I read this book every few years, and once I moved to Texas, it somehow became the same, but different, book. I understood it so much more. The language, the sentiment. Texas is the South. They may not call themselves The South, but it is. The culture, the history, this place was- is- cloaked in Confederacy. The discomfort that arises when I read it as a geographical Texan, versus reading it like a fictional story with a poignant message as a Californian, is not something to underestimate. But point being, To Kill a Mockingbird still makes me cry like it did the first time, it still makes me feel sad and angry and uncomfortable about racism, racists, bigots… all the things. That hasn’t changed from 20+ years ago, unlike Ham on Rye. And maybe that’s not a fair comparison, because one is a literary classic and one is not, but I think my reactions would be the same regardless. One book reflected how much I changed as a person, and one convinced me that I am the same that I have always been, as far as my morals and ethics go. So then, what really constitutes personal change? Does a person change? If you had asked me that right after finishing Ham on Rye this time around, I would have said of course, and this is a perfect example. It’s what prompted this essay: if you want to know how much you’ve changed, go back and revisit your favorite book from twenty years ago. But then I remembered To Kill a Mockingbird, and now I’m not so sure, because the part of me that cries at night at the injustice of it all has always been there and is never going away. So maybe we don’t change, I don’t know. Maybe someone that has more knowledge on this subject can chime in. But what I do know, is that I am OK knowing that the way Bukowski talks about women no longer sits well with me, and that I am one hundred percent sure that I’m never going to wake up one day thinking that racism is acceptable. Ever.

And for the record, if you read To Kill a Mockingbird and thought, or think, that Atticus is the problem, please delete/block/whatever led you to my page to read this because I have no use for your viewership or support. And if I’ve learned anything from this little bit of introspection, is that if you find this twenty years from now, I’m still going to feel the same way. RIP Hank Chinaski, Atticus Finch forever.