Scene: Me, sitting on a sofa in the Local Book section at Lemuria, surrounded by stacks of old and new books about the South. A lady and her Southern-Belle-dolled-up-80ish-year-old Mother enter.
The Mother picks up "The Help" from a tall stack.
Daughter: Just put it down, Mother, you won't like it. It dares to imply that there were racial issues in Jackson in the 60s...
The Mother purses her lips, glares at the daughter over her bi-focals, pretends to finish reading the blurb on the back of the book, replaces it on top of the stack, and moves on to something that allows her view of life in the South to remain intact.
I'm not saying it's right. I'm just saying I get it. There are a lot of things in I life I prefer to pretend I don't know about. Like chicken farms.