image courtesy newyorker.com
At the end of book club evenings when I have attended as a featured author, I am left with a strange, empty feeling. These are evenings when questions about my work are served with bites of dinner and glasses of wine. They are also evenings of friendship and literature. The club members have often known each other for many years. They are easy with each other and have much to discuss – children, grandchildren, jobs, trips, illnesses – all of which I have some curiosity but lack the thread of continuity.
The interest generated by Small Moments: A Child’s Memories of the Civil Rights Movement is, however, encouraging and when the conversation turns towards it, I do my best to answer questions honestly. It is not always easy as, despite the congeniality of the evening, I am a stranger in these groups. I discuss objectives and craft and gently introduce civil rights and history. This is when the real discussion begins and most of the women have their own stories to tell, offering opinions and debating realities. The discussions can be heated and often I must gently sidestep the more intrusive questions, nod knowingly towards those claiming familiarity with experiences I described in the book, ask questions of the timid while navigating the combative.
Then I help clear dishes and pass around the plates of dessert, hoping conversation will continue unencumbered. By the end of the evening I often feel that I have become one of them. I’ve shared my story, discussed my life, and listened to their stories. They know who I am. I know a little about them. Hugs are offered at the door. It has been a success.
My book will be passed on to their other friends and other book clubs will call. It is the way the title becomes known, the way my words finally reach the world. But the price is high. As I start my car to drive away, there is an empty feeling as I remind myself that these women are not my friends. They have a description of my childhood but they don’t know me as I am today. And I don’t know them. I don’t know from where they came or where they are going. I’ve simply had a brief evening on center stage as the one who gave them something different to think about, or maybe talk about once I left.
The women are warm and they are generous. Most are between ages thirty and eighty. Many have common experiences, joys and sorrows. With age, they have become forgiving of differences, recognizing that we all coming to terms with our final reality.
I enjoy my moments with all of the book clubs. I enjoy their interest and I enjoy hearing the tiny bits of their life stories.
As I drive home, I wish I could be with them again.