I owe a thank you to the Tennessee school board that banned "Maus."

After the McMinn County School Board voted to remove the graphic novel, the first of its kind to win the Pulitzer Prize, from its eighth-grade curriculum, I finally got around to reading the book, which had been on my list for years.

I'd never before been in the mood for a Holocaust-themed comic book, but after it made national news, I figured I'd see what all the fuss was about.

And was "Maus" good? Oh, yes.

Once I started reading it, I couldn't stop. I found myself propping the book open while I cooked dinner, refusing to put it down at night when my eyes drooped, wanting to get in a few more pages.

The author, Art Spiegelman, found a way to impart both the scale and the immediacy of the Holocaust. Inside the book, I discovered meditations on art, trauma and life. I thought about what it means to be a writer, what it means to be a child and a parent, what it means to be a human.

I also found some strange parallels to my own story.

When I read about the death of Spiegelman's older brother, I thought of my own brother, who died shortly after birth, and the way a child's death reshapes a parent.

And Spiegelman's father, a survivor of Auschwitz, reminded me in small ways of my own dad, who escaped crushing poverty in Greece before immigrating to the United States.

I asked myself whether the traits both men seemed to share — a powerful value of blood ties and a thrift in all things, even emotion — were created by their circumstances or were inborn traits that helped them survive.

I asked myself whether the book's dehumanization of its characters — depicting Jewish people as mice, Germans as cats, Americans as dogs, Poles as pigs — made it easier or harder to understand how Nazis could perpetrate such horrors.

How can I persuade the uninitiated to read it other than to say, "Don't you want to know what all the fuss is about, too?"

Clearly, plenty do.

The book rocketed to the top of bestseller lists, and The New York Times reported on high schoolers passing copies of "Maus" to each other.

Turns out, dropping the book from the curriculum made "Maus" cooler than any forced reading ever could.

I do wonder, though, if "Maus" is wasted on the young.

I find myself remembering how my first reading of "A Tale of Two Cities" failed to impress. My only memory of it in ninth grade is getting a test question wrong on the significance of Madame Defarge's knitting.

Later, as an adult, I idly picked up a copy of "A Tale of Two Cities" and read the first few lines.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times ..."

All the most important stages in our lives are, I thought.

Then, I kept reading, barreling through the book in a few days. I couldn't stop.

It's since become one of my favorites, and I've reread it multiple times. The novel's plotting, characters and themes shock me anew each time.

Could I have understood that as a child? Could I have appreciated it? I don't think so.

Maybe it's the same with "Maus." Maybe, by making a stink over the book, the school board gave more people a reason to find it and to love it, as I did. Maybe kids won't read "Maus" when they're too young to fully appreciate it but will return, years later, to find the treasures within.

I hope so.

I do know, though, that's what happened to me, and for that, I owe that Tennessee school board a debt of gratitude.

Thank you for closing your minds, so that I might open mine.

The book wasn't written for you anyway.

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

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