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Culture Shocker-
Twenty women of indeterminate middle age have gathered in my public library to discuss the work of a local writer who gives books away for free. I am there, too, since my writing class uses the same room, and the instructor's coterie hasn't finished trading contact information.
This gives me the opportunity to study the discussion group. I estimate the youngest to be in her late thirties, and the next youngest must be fifty. The average age is between fifty and sixty, and as I said before, all twenty are woman. One woman's husband is here, but he is sitting at a sidetable with his head between his hands. All are very Caucasian, which does not reflect the neighborhood. The author writes about the African experience in 60s Philadelphia.
This sounds like a slam; did I position those last two sentences to mock the grandmotherly assemblage, and draw attention to the futility of attempting to appreciate another culture's literature? To be honest, the thought did cross my mind, and how self-destructive would that be? My training included British, Classical, and Early American authors, but more than anyone else in that program, I favored Native American, Harlem-Renaissance and Jewish literature. So I've got no right to criticize these women for discussing a Black author's work without a single black person in the room, unless the University is willing to give all of that money back it accepted for allowing me to wrap my brain around the work of minority writers.
I've mocked Westerners who get too serious about "the Way," and would probably take camaraphillic celebrities to task for Kabballeh, if in fact, I cared a whit. But there is a wide chasm, not a fine line, between those who would make someone else's ideas into a fetish, and those who calmly lean back in discussion groups, as if to say:
"So.. Tell me about yourself."
Of course, it's very difficult to get started if all twenty participants lean back. Cue the librarian: She's the next-youngest person there, and she clearly did her homework. The first thirty minutes aren't really a discussion, it's her talking at us. She reads bios, reviews, and passes out fliers and information sheets about the next reading. The coming discussion clearly terrifies her the same way a high school student might dread their first frog dissection.
Don't pass out, don't look into the frog's freakishly shaped pupils.
Before long my body language, and that of everyone else in the room, had the same effect as opening the doomed amphibian's jar.
Pick up the ether, young lady, or get out of my classroom. She overcame her reluctance like the rest of us, and we clumsy readers made respectful fools of ourselves.
What surprised me most (I was, after all, an observer of retiree culture) was the admiration these women had for the male protagonist, an ex-jazz musician, loving father, but unfaithful husband. They did not approve of his infidelity, but accepted them as a minor flaw that makes his character more believable. This led to the only disagreement (lukewarm, at best) of the evening, when the youngest woman there commented that black culture was more accepting of infidelity.
It's a MALE thing, another woman countered. Men of all backgrounds do it. But if the women in the story sleep with anyone outside of their marriage - they are branded as whores forever.
Double standard, sniffed someone else.
Every head swiveled my way, and I reacted the same way Michael Moore did when they called him "a disingenuous filmmaker" at the RNC. Sorry, Benedict; the librarian laughs. I thought I detected a movement from the husband at the sidetable, but I'm not sure. Anyway, his support wasn't necessary, I knew what to do.
I stood up from the chair by the door, lifted my free copy of the novel, and gestured to it occasionally as I made my way to the dry erase board. Imagine the music swells as it did in 'Dead Poet's Society' or at least 'The Emperor's Club.'
And as I moved, I expounded.
"All of you have agreed that you identify strongly with Joe, more so than with Louise. This is not surprising; the author has given Joe a double-life, and both display more passion and interest than Louise can muster. Joe is a caring father, a responsible breadwinner, and a dynamic leader in his own community. Joe is also a jazz musician, and
what happens to a dream deferred? The author expects us to imagine him that way even though the story opens a decade after he has ceased to play in the clubs. Part and parcel of her concept of a jazz musician filters through his memories of the horn, the gin, the women of the evening. Just as he sneaks down to the cellar to handle his tenor saxophone and conceals his subsequent performances from his wife, so too can we expect him to recapture his youth, however imperfectly, through promiscuity."
I paused to take stock of my audience - I still had their attention, but I knew better than to push my luck. Painfully stretching my fingers to palm the book, I delivered the conclusion.
"Joe cheats on his wife. Fact.
But the author makes excuses for him before, after, and during each encounter. He is still a caring father, a responsible breadwinner, and a dynamic leader in his own community. That he is also a promiscuous jazz musician only adds to his appeal - the author considers his adultery to be the character flaw that makes him believable, but it is merely the imprimatur of humanity on a female fantasy. Joe seduced
her in the creative process, and bland, weaker, but infinitely more human female characters are the result of their affair.
Thank you."
That's the point where I walked out. Somehow, the applause I'd expected never came. Perhaps they needed time for it to sink in - but I won't know until the same time next week.
