Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell

I read Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell when I was in eighth grade, for a school assignment. I’m fairly certain I was too young to appreciate its literary merits and I didn’t enjoy it at all. What was to enjoy for a twelve-year-old? The book consisted of two main premises: 1. the story of a rich, spoiled brat who hurt everyone who cared for her through her own selfishness and 2. the destruction of half our country through war and the devastation that followed. Depressing. 1000 pages of depressing.

I had a friend at the time, H, who ate the book up—loved every word, watched the movie three times, and viewed Scarlett O’Hara as her personal guru. Now, here was a twelve-year-old who connected with something there that I just didn’t see. I should have realized then that our personalities were not compatible, but it was another three years before I stopped talking to her.

I have, over the years, indelibly linked Scarlett O’Hara with H in my mind. I’m not even sure anymore which annoying traits were Scarlett’s and which were H’s—the pouting, the tantrums when things did not go her way, the uninviting of people to her birthday sleepover parties. Was that Scarlett?

One day, during our junior year of high school, H smacked my friend S on the head with a notebook because S had expressed her disinterest in accompanying H to the mall. I watched in shock, and for a moment our entire dysfunctional friendship flashed before my eyes. I was done. I made my Rhett Butler decision and walked away. Forever. I didn’t even bother to tell her that I didn’t give a damn.

Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell

tags: books book reviews spoiled brats Scarlett O'Hara Margaret Mitchell