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?”
The Weight of a Word
Brenda, ever the peacemaker, tried to steer the conversation back to safer waters. “I just thought the descriptions of the countryside were so lovely,” she offered, her eyes pleading with me to back her up.
“They were beautiful,” I agreed, relieved. “The author really captured that feeling of a crisp autumn morning.”
Willow sighed, a theatrical, put-upon sound. “But we have to ask ourselves whose countryside is being described. This pastoral idealism is a common literary device used to erase the violent history of land acquisition and the labor of the marginalized peoples who actually worked that land. It’s an aesthetic of erasure.”
Sarah, who had been silent since her first comment was shot down, sank a little deeper into the couch cushions. Brenda’s smile was stretched so thin it was transparent. The joy of the discussion, the simple act of sharing our love for a story, was being systematically dismantled. Every observation was filtered through Willow’s rigid, unforgiving lens until all that was left was a pile of problematic dust.
I tried to push back, gently. “Or, perhaps, the author was just writing about a farm she remembered from her childhood. Sometimes a tree is just a tree.”
Willow gave me a look that was somewhere between pity and disdain. “With all due respect, Diane, that’s a very pre-Foucauldian reading of the text. Power structures are embedded in all narratives, whether the author is conscious of them or not. To ignore them is, in itself, a political act of complicity.” I had a Master’s degree in English Literature. I’d read Foucault. But in that moment, she made me feel like I’d never read a book in my life.
Echoes in an Empty Room
An hour later, Willow was gone, leaving her “biodynamic pet-nat” untouched on the counter. The three of us sat in the ensuing silence, the half-eaten cheese board between us a monument to a failed evening.
“Well,” Brenda said, her voice brittle. “That was… educational.”
Sarah finally spoke, her voice small. “I feel stupid. Every time I say something, she makes me feel like I’m a bad person for liking a book.”
“You’re not stupid, Sarah,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “You’re a thoughtful reader. She’s a bully who uses academic language as a club.” The anger I’d been swallowing all night was starting to burn in my throat. This little club was my retirement gift to myself. It was supposed to be about connection, about the magic of getting lost in a story together.
Brenda wrung her hands. “I know. I’m so sorry, Diane. I just thought she’d bring a different energy.”
“Oh, she brought a different energy, all right,” I muttered, starting to gather the plates. We sat for a while longer, talking about everything except the book. We talked about our kids, about the weird weather, about a new bakery downtown. We were trying to glue the pieces of our sanctuary back together, but we could all feel the cracks. Willow wasn’t just a guest anymore; she was an occupying force. And I had a sinking feeling she was just getting started.
The Souring of a Classic: The Pre-Reading Mandate
The email arrived on a Thursday morning. The subject line simply read: “Next Meeting Prep.” It was from Willow. My stomach tightened before I even opened it. The next meeting was at her apartment, and we were reading The Great Gatsby, a choice I had championed. It was a novel I’d taught for decades, one I loved for its melancholy beauty and its sharp critique of the American Dream.
Hi everyone, the email began, deceptively breezy.
So excited to host you all on Tuesday! To facilitate a more rigorous and productive discussion of Fitzgerald’s work, I’ve attached a few supplemental texts. There’s a fantastic essay on the homoerotic subtext between Nick and Gatsby, a Marxist critique of the commodity fetishism in the novel, and a paper on Daisy Buchanan as a proto-feminist figure trapped by cisheteronormative patriarchal structures. It would be great if everyone could read them beforehand so we can start the conversation on the same page.
Best, Willow
I stared at the screen, a low-grade hum of fury starting in my chest. This wasn’t a book club. It was a graduate-level seminar I hadn’t signed up for, taught by a professor of nothing. I forwarded the email to Mark with the note, “See what I have to deal with?” His reply came two minutes later: “Just drink the wine and think of England.” Easy for him to say. He didn’t have to spend three hours in a sterile apartment being lectured about cisheteronormative patriarchal structures. I deleted the email and its attachments without a second thought. I was going to talk about the book I read, not Willow’s assigned homework.
About the Author
