After I spoke about what The Great Gatsby meant to me, the newest member of our book club announced that my entire career as an English teacher was not just wrong, but “harmful.”
She was a walking glossary of academic jargon in expensive shoes, a self-appointed cultural critic who saw our simple love of stories as a problem to be solved.
For six months, she had systematically dismantled our comfortable little group, turning every discussion into a trial where we were always found guilty of some thought crime. This attack was different; it wasn’t just condescending, it was a character assassination.
She made a critical error, however, assuming a retired teacher had forgotten how to do her homework.
What she didn’t know was that I’d already found her secret online crusade against ‘problematic’ literature, and my next book club selection would feature a banned novel, a special guest from the school board, and the public immolation of her two-faced ideology.
The First Cracks in the Bindings: A Comfort of Worn Spines
There’s a specific kind of peace that settles in a room full of books and old friends. It smells like paper, dust, and Brenda’s too-buttery scones. For five years, the first Tuesday of the month had been my sanctuary. My living room, with its sagging armchairs and rings on the coffee table from forgotten glasses of wine, was the designated temple. We were the Literary Ladies of Northwood—a name my husband, Mark, had coined with a loving eye-roll. It was just me, Brenda, and Sarah. Simple. Easy.
Then came Willow.
Brenda had met her at a yoga retreat and invited her in, all breathless praise about her “sharp, modern perspective.” Willow arrived six months ago like a weather front, all cool air and the promise of a storm. She was at least twenty years younger than the rest of us, with the kind of severe, asymmetrical haircut that suggested she had very strong opinions about architecture.
Tonight, we were discussing a gentle, character-driven novel. I’d just poured the last of a decent Malbec when Sarah, a timid librarian who usually needed coaxing, offered a thought. “I just found the mother’s quiet resilience so moving,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “It reminded me of my own grandmother.”
Willow, who had been scrolling through her phone, looked up. Her expression was one of pained tolerance. “I think what you’re responding to, Sarah, is the author’s reliance on the archetype of the long-suffering matriarch, which is a problematic trope rooted in patriarchal expectations of unpaid emotional labor.”
Sarah’s face fell. The air in the room changed, the comfortable warmth leaching away. Brenda shifted, forcing a bright smile. “Well, that’s one way to look at it! Who wants another scone?” The looming issue wasn’t the books anymore. It was the C-4 Willow strapped to every discussion, threatening to blow our peaceful sanctuary to bits.
The Deliberate Misunderstanding
Willow arrived late, as she often did, blaming a “decolonization workshop that ran over.” She swept into the room, bringing a gust of cold October air and the scent of expensive, organic perfume. She placed a bottle of cloudy, pale orange wine on the counter. “It’s a biodynamic pet-nat,” she announced to no one in particular. “I just can’t with all the sulfites in commercial wines.”
I smiled tightly, gesturing to the spread I’d laid out. “Help yourself to some cheese, Willow.”
She eyed the brie, the cheddar, the grapes. “It’s a bit of a dairy-forward selection, isn’t it? Have you ever explored a plant-based charcuterie? The cashew cheeses are texturally fascinating.”
It wasn’t a question; it was a judgment. I spent thirty years teaching high school English, navigating the fragile egos of teenagers and the bureaucratic nonsense of the administration. I thought I was immune to this kind of subtle condescension, but from Willow, it felt like a thousand tiny needles. She wasn’t just critiquing the cheese; she was critiquing my entire way of being.
She settled into my favorite armchair without asking, tucking her legs beneath her. She hadn’t touched the book until five minutes before the meeting, I’d bet my pension on it. She’d just skimmed a few academic think-pieces and was ready to deploy them like weapons. “So,” she began, her voice dripping with the authority of a PhD she didn’t have, “shall we deconstruct the inherent classism in the protagonist’s narrative arc?”
About the Author
