Several years ago, a neighbor and friend
told me that there was an opening in her book club, and she was pleased to be
able to ask me if I would like to join. They
carefully monitor the number of members, not wanting the group to get too
large. She had previously told me about
this exclusive club, which was founded and organized by a high-profile intellectual/personality in the elite college town that we live in. What
makes this club special is that the author of the book to be discussed always
attends the meeting. One time, the
assigned book was by Steve Martin, and yes, Steve Martin himself was at that
meeting.
My friend told me that she thought I would
enjoy participating in the club, but she warned me that it was a fairly serious
commitment. The founder gets angry if
you miss a meeting. Members are expected
to complete the books on time and be at all the meetings. After all, a great deal of effort is put into
getting the authors there.
I didn’t have to think about it long. I responded that, as much as I appreciated
the invitation, I would have to pass.
Between work and childcare, I didn’t have a lot of time left to
read. And when I did read, I’d rather be
able to choose my own books and read them at my leisure, without a
deadline. Sure, it’s sexy to meet some
really great authors, but a group where the founder routinely gets angry at
members is not where I’d like to spend my time.
I have enough challenges.
I really enjoy reading, or listening to
audio books, as I’ve been doing more and more lately. Non-fiction is my
favorite, although the occasional novel slips in. I also enjoy talking with friends about books
I’ve read. At a party about a year ago,
I was chatting up some books with an acquaintance, and a few weeks later, she
emailed me to invite me to join her book club.
She said that it was a really laid-back group that meets only every six
weeks, and that they read only fiction, to keep the atmosphere light.
You don’t have to attend every meeting, and you don’t even have to have
finished the book to come to the gatherings, which members take turns hosting
at 9pm, after the kids are asleep. “Ok,”
I thought, “I could swing that, as long as most of the books are available on
audio,” which turned out not to be a problem.
At the first meeting, I admit to feeling a
little intimidated, as several of the members taught at our prestigious local university. Luckily, the others didn’t, so I was comforted by the fact that I wasn’t alone. I enjoyed
the conversation and the society, so it seemed like a good match.
Further down the road, we read and
discussed, upon my recommendation, “Loving Frank,” by Nancy Horan, a based-on-truth
novel about Frank Lloyd Wright and Mamah Borthwick Cheney, the woman for whom
the famed architect scandalously left his wife and six children. I like historical fiction as a second choice to non-fiction, and have long admired the work of Frank Lloyd Wright. Spoiler alert: The end of the book describes
how, in 1914, Mamah and her two children were murdered by a disturbed black man
from Barbados, Julian Carlton, who was in the service of the unmarried couple
in their home in rural Wisconsin. Most
of the people in the book club weren’t crazy about the book, but it did spark
some lively conversation. One woman, a
teacher at an area public university, expressed her shock and scorn for the author,
who ignored how Carlton must have felt as a black man living in isolation and
service. I was surprised by this
reaction, because the book wasn’t about Carlton, it was about the relationship
between Wright and Chaney. Carlton’s emotional
backstory never even entered my mind.
This should have been a hint to me about
this particular club member’s feelings about race relations, but I missed
it. A few meetings later, we discussed “Americanah,”
a really great book by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, about a young woman from
Nigeria who leaves her home and boyfriend to come to the US and attend
the private university in our town. (I highly
recommend it!)
Now, after the fact, a friend of mine told
me, “Don’t you know to avoid talking about race, politics and religion at all
cost?” But anyone who knows me knows
that I believe in open dialogue about all subjects. Sometimes, the more sensitive, the better.
The public university teacher told the group about the
struggle some of her students have in writing in what is generally accepted as “proper”
English. She explained that she is
careful not to discourage her students from writing by being too critical,
although often some students write like they speak, in broken English, in
street vernacular, or in “Ebonics.” She
tries not to “over-correct” their papers for fear of discouraging them.
As a perpetual student of French, I
appreciate it when someone corrects a grammatical or pronunciation mistake I
make. People more often than not don’t,
for fear of offending me, but I wish more people would. But not everyone is me. Still, I told the story of how, at a street
fair a couple of weeks prior to the meeting, I was talking with two young teens
from the black Baptist church I attend.
I was scheduled to perform with the church choir that afternoon. One of the girls asked, “Where you singin’
at?” I looked at her and said, “Excuse
me?” in a playful way. The other girl
nudged her and said, “Where are you singing?”
The first girl got the message, so she repeated, “Where are you singing?”
I answered her question, but I could
tell she was annoyed by my prompting her to use proper English. Well, the public university teacher was appalled. She berated me, saying, “You mean to tell us
that this young person let you into her world and spoke to you like a peer, and
you corrected her, right there in the middle of the street fair?” I said, “Yes, I corrected her as I would have
corrected one of my own children. We are
members of the same church family, but I am not her peer. I am her elder.” She said, “I don’t think you would have
corrected your own child like that.” I
said, “I most certainly would have. You
don’t even know me!” Anyway, it wasn't pleasant, but somehow we
got past the scrape, and at the end of the meeting, we agreed on the next book.
Five weeks passed, I finished the book, but
I hadn’t heard where the next meeting would be.
I offered to host it, since I had yet to host a meeting. I had no response. Finally, the morning of the meeting, I got a
call from my friend who had invited me to be in the group. She said, “Some of the members are super
uncomfortable with the disagreement you both had at the last meeting, and they
asked me to tell you that they would rather you not continue participating in
the group.”
Here I was, worried that I wouldn’t be up
to snuff with some of the intellectuals in the group, and now I was being told
that if there is a difference of opinion, better keep it to yourself. My friend said, “We should just chalk it up
to a bad match. You know I respect you
very much, which is why I invited you to participate in the first place, and I’m
really sorry about this.” I was stunned,
hurt, and disappointed. I had made
friends with some of the people in the group.
To this day, no one has been in touch with me. I even Facebook messaged a couple of members
from time to time to say, “Hi,” but no one wrote back. The level of immaturity and cowardice is
stunning from a group of highly-educated and presumably civic-minded individuals.
I was ashamed of having been kicked out of
an elite college town book club for many months.
Then, as time distanced me from the bitter experience, I was finally
able to talk about it, albeit cautiously.
I told the story to one close friend, who howled with laughter. “I always thought you were a cool person, but
this seals the deal! You were kicked out
of a snooty book club!
Awesome! You should be proud of
yourself for standing up for what you believe in!” she said. I feel a lot better now.
