Read Educated Online

Authors: Tara Westover

Tags: #antique

Educated























































Educated
is a work of nonfiction. Some names and identifying details have been changed.

Copyright © 2018 by Second Sally, Ltd.

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

RANDOM HOUSE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

NAMES: Westover, Tara, author.

TITLE: Educated : a memoir / Tara Westover.

DESCRIPTION: New York : Random House, [2018]

IDENTIFIERS: LCCN 2017037645 | ISBN 9780399590504 | ISBN 9780399590511 (ebook)

SUBJECTS: LCSH: Westover, Tara—Family. | Women—Idaho—Biography. | Survivalism—Idaho—Biography. | Home schooling—Idaho—Anecdotes. | Women college students—United States—Biography. | Victims of family violence—Idaho—Biography. | Subculture—Idaho. | Christian biography. | Idaho—Rural conditions—Anecdotes. | Idaho—Biography.

CLASSIFICATION: LCC CT3262.I2 W47 2018 | DDC 270.092 [B]—dc23

LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/2017037645

International ISBN 9780525510673

Ebook ISBN 9780399590511

randomhousebooks.com

Book design by Barbara M. Bachman, adapted for ebook

Cover illustration: Patrik Svensson

v5.2

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Author’s Note

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1: Choose the Good

Chapter 2: The Midwife

Chapter 3: Cream Shoes

Chapter 4: Apache Women

Chapter 5: Honest Dirt

Chapter 6: Shield and Buckler

Chapter 7: The Lord Will Provide

Chapter 8: Tiny Harlots

Chapter 9: Perfect in His Generations

Chapter 10: Shield of Feathers

Chapter 11: Instinct

Chapter 12: Fish Eyes

Chapter 13: Silence in the Churches

Chapter 14: My Feet No Longer Touch Earth

Chapter 15: No More a Child

Chapter 16: Disloyal Man, Disobedient Heaven

Part Two

Chapter 17: To Keep It Holy

Chapter 18: Blood and Feathers

Chapter 19: In the Beginning

Chapter 20: Recitals of the Fathers

Chapter 21: Skullcap

Chapter 22: What We Whispered and What We Screamed

Chapter 23: I’m from Idaho

Chapter 24: A Knight, Errant

Chapter 25: The Work of Sulphur

Chapter 26: Waiting for Moving Water

Chapter 27: If I Were a Woman

Chapter 28: Pygmalion

Chapter 29: Graduation

Part Three

Chapter 30: Hand of the Almighty

Chapter 31: Tragedy Then Farce

Chapter 32: A Brawling Woman in a Wide House

Chapter 33: Sorcery of Physics

Chapter 34: The Substance of Things

Chapter 35: West of the Sun

Chapter 36: Four Long Arms, Whirling

Chapter 37: Gambling for Redemption

Chapter 38: Family

Chapter 39: Watching the Buffalo

Chapter 40: Educated

Dedication

Acknowledgments

A Note on the Text

About the Author

The past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, & thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.

—VIRGINIA WOOLF

I believe finally, that education must be conceived as a continuing reconstruction of experience; that the process and the goal of education are one and the same thing.

—JOHN DEWEY

This story is not about Mormonism. Neither is it about any other form of religious belief. In it there are many types of people, some believers, some not; some kind, some not. The author disputes any correlation, positive or negative, between the two.

The following names, listed in alphabetical order, are pseudonyms: Aaron, Audrey, Benjamin, Emily, Erin, Faye, Gene, Judy, Peter, Robert, Robin, Sadie, Shannon, Shawn, Susan, Vanessa.

I’m standing on the red railway car that sits abandoned next to the barn. The wind soars, whipping my hair across my face and pushing a chill down the open neck of my shirt. The gales are strong this close to the mountain, as if the peak itself is exhaling. Down below, the valley is peaceful, undisturbed. Meanwhile our farm dances: the heavy conifer trees sway slowly, while the sagebrush and thistles quiver, bowing before every puff and pocket of air. Behind me a gentle hill slopes upward and stitches itself to the mountain base. If I look up, I can see the dark form of the Indian Princess.

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.

Turning toward our house on the hillside, I see movements of a different kind, tall shadows stiffly pushing through the currents. My brothers are awake, testing the weather. I imagine my mother at the stove, hovering over bran pancakes. I picture my father hunched by the back door, lacing his steel-toed boots and threading his callused hands into welding gloves. On the highway below, the school bus rolls past without stopping.

I am only seven, but I understand that it is this fact, more than any other, that makes my family different: we don’t go to school.

Dad worries that the Government will force us to go but it can’t, because it doesn’t know about us. Four of my parents’ seven children don’t have birth certificates. We have no medical records because we were born at home and have never seen a doctor or nurse.
*
We have no school records because we’ve never set foot in a classroom. When I am nine, I will be issued a Delayed Certificate of Birth, but at this moment, according to the state of Idaho and the federal government, I do not exist.

Of course I
did
exist. I had grown up preparing for the Days of Abomination, watching for the sun to darken, for the moon to drip as if with blood. I spent my summers bottling peaches and my winters rotating supplies. When the World of Men failed, my family would continue on, unaffected.

I had been educated in the rhythms of the mountain, rhythms in which change was never fundamental, only cyclical. The same sun appeared each morning, swept over the valley and dropped behind the peak. The snows that fell in winter always melted in the spring. Our lives were a cycle—the cycle of the day, the cycle of the seasons—circles of perpetual change that, when complete, meant nothing had changed at all. I believed my family was a part of this immortal pattern, that we were, in some sense, eternal. But eternity belonged only to the mountain.

There’s a story my father used to tell about the peak. She was a grand old thing, a cathedral of a mountain. The range had other mountains, taller, more imposing, but Buck’s Peak was the most finely crafted. Its base spanned a mile, its dark form swelling out of the earth and rising into a flawless spire. From a distance, you could see the impression of a woman’s body on the mountain face: her legs formed of huge ravines, her hair a spray of pines fanning over the northern ridge. Her stance was commanding, one leg thrust forward in a powerful movement, more stride than step.

My father called her the Indian Princess. She emerged each year when the snows began to melt, facing south, watching the buffalo return to the valley. Dad said the nomadic Indians had watched for her appearance as a sign of spring, a signal the mountain was thawing, winter was over, and it was time to come home.

All my father’s stories were about our mountain, our valley, our jagged little patch of Idaho. He never told me what to do if I left the mountain, if I crossed oceans and continents and found myself in strange terrain, where I could no longer search the horizon for the Princess. He never told me how I’d know when it was time to come home.

* Except for my sister Audrey, who broke both an arm and a leg when she was young. She was taken to get a cast.

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