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When I was 13, my parents called me into the kitchen one evening to discuss a book they had seen in my room. My mother told me very calmly that she had been in my room, putting my laundry away, when she noticed... and here she very dramatically pulled out my copy of the offending novel... The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath.

They didn't want me reading this book, or Sylvia Plath in general. Neither of them had ever read this novel. My mother hadn't read any of her work. My father had apparently come across the poem "Daddy" at some point... He was not a fan.

They were worried, they said. They were concerned that I was already an emotionally distraught girl and reading such material would just make it worse. I didn't try to argue. I managed to convince them to let me keep the book long enough to finish the report I was doing on it.

And I became a lot better about hiding the books, films, and music that I brought into the house.
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