A Meeting of the Presidio Library Womyn’s Book Club (J. Michael Norris - Baton Rouge, LA)

Charlotte Henry Webb

 

I wasn’t sure why I’d come to the Womyn’s Book Club at the Presidio Library; I’d just come. Maybe chalk it up to boredom—too much time spent at home alone watching T.V., not enough socializing or pursuing my dreams. My reclusion of late had grown into a real burden. That’s what the internet said, what my therapist said, what my mom said. Prozac didn’t have me feeling much better, and on top of it all it was making me fat. Or at least I felt fat. So, there I sat, feeling fat, at my first book club in a small conference room at the neighborhood library, eyes focused on the polished black and white checkerboard tiles. Something different, like the doctor ordered.

When I’d come into the cramped conference room I’d smiled appropriately (not too friendly, not too curt) to each of the women who sat chatting with one another, but I didn’t speak, picking a plastic chair in the circle with no one on either side. I didn’t want to just thrust myself in, you know. Looking around, the others seemed nice enough, nothing what I’d imagined—there were no possible shut-ins or those academic types who would make me feel bad for mispronouncing “assuage” or some other word I’d never really heard aloud. In fact, all the ladies came off as pretty hip. Me, I’d been an avid reader in my teens, but in the last decade all that had fallen away after deciding on a geology degree and trying to start a family.

“Trying” is the operative word here. My husband—sorry, soon-to-be-ex-husband—Frank hadn’t really liked to read—not fiction at least—and I usually did the things he liked. Biking in the mountains up the coast. Drinking craft beer in out-of-the-way bars that no one ever heard of. Wine tastings in Sonoma Valley. Becoming vegan. Anything he found cool or exciting. I even took his last name, making me sound like some bizarre reference to a children’s book. Believe me, the day we separated I went right out, bought a steak, and drank it down with a bottle of Bud. As soon the divorce was finalized, I would be Charlotte Henry again. No more Charlotte Webb.

Frank was a geologist himself, like me. We met on a summer course digging for sample cores over in Colorado. He was on an internship through Emory. Frank jumped at the chance to move to San Fran once we started dating—he even transferred to finish his degree. Sometimes I wondered if he was gay. He’d been so handsome and so smart back then. And fearless. Nothing like the immovable dolt he’d become.

When the talking in the room died down I got nervous for some reason, squirming in my chair, trying not to stare too much at the other women. I’d come seriously overdressed, the only one in pants instead of jeans or cargo shorts. And my make-up . . . well . . . it was on. Thank god I just put my hair back in a ponytail. When the group settled they turned their heads in unison towards an older woman in a fuzzy blue sweater who stood, clearing her throat. Later on, I’d know her as Ethel, a careful woman who smelled of flowery perfume and cigarette smoke. But now she was just the de facto group leader, an older woman with short grey hair who looked like she’d once been very pretty despite the deep lines creasing around her eyes, smiling a faintly yellow smile and nodding my way.

“I see we have a new member here tonight. Would you like to introduce yourself?” Ethel clasped her hands and nodded again.

“Oh, well, I didn’t really plan on this?” Blood rushed to my face and ears. “I mean, I’m Charlotte. I just wanted to check things out?”

“We have all been there before, Charlotte, I assure you.” Ethel’s mouth closed and her eyes crinkled so they sparkled brighter. Yes, she looked wise. “We have all been there before.” Ethel reached behind and picked up a book she’d left on her chair and handed it to me. “I don’t suppose you’ve read this?”

I instinctively took the book, reading the title upside down. “Well, actually, yes. I read The Voyage Out back in high school.” I looked around at the blank faces staring back, like they wanted more. “It was AP English. But it’s been years.” The warm flush on my face spread down my neck. I turned the book right side up, wondering if I’d sounded pretentious.

“We got us a genuine book worm, I tell ya.” A new woman’s voice rippled through the air, buoyed by a thick southern accent, something I hadn’t heard since my last visit to Frank’s family in Savannah. This husky voice made me nervous, so I studied the swooping text of Virginia Woolf’s name on the white cover. “Now don’t let me scare ya, hon, I’m Steph. Steph Matthews.” I looked up expecting to see—well, it’s hard to say really who I was expecting to see—but not the person who I saw talking with that deep voice and lilting Southern drawl. She was a younger Hispanic girl I’d noticed earlier, unusual looking, with a crew cut, sleeveless tee, and tattoos covering both her arms. Probably into punk music. Or emo. Definitely a lesbian. She wore a spiked leather choker and had a strong gaze, like she could see through me.

Like a fool, I said, “I’m Charlotte.”

The girl laughed a bit too loudly, the other women smiling. “Of course ya are, hon. We went over that before. I’m just glad ya joined our group.” Steph wagged her head back quick, the way guys do at the gym. “We can always use a pretty face to brighten things up.” I flushed again, but this time it was something different. A kind of embarrassment, sure, but not the same. She was flirting, straight-on flirting, and it turned me on. In fact, it reminded me of something I hadn’t felt for years, not since before Frank, back when I “experimented” with Amy Maddison freshman year.

It had been over a decade since I read The Voyage Out, and I felt completely unsure about the repetition of the circles, the way the boat served as a metaphor for growing into adulthood, or all the other intellectual takes the women had on it. I stayed mostly silent for the rest of the meeting, occasionally nodding at something one of them said, or giving a short answer to the questions Ethel cast my direction, trying to draw me in. That Ethel, the eternal hostess. For me, the book was mostly about a feeling I remembered, a feeling of exhilaration that came when I finished reading it. A strange feeling, really, this idea of freedom; it danced in the women’s words when they spoke about the book, even as it eluded being spoken aloud.

After the allotted fifty minutes passed, Ethel stood again and asked if anyone had anything else they wanted to say. A few moments went by while I fiddled with my gold bracelets, noticing a nail that needed touching up.

“Ya know, I do have one question.” It was that deep voice again, the one with the drawl.

“Sure Stephanie, what is it?” Apparently, Ethel liked using people’s full names.

“It’s about Charlotte here.” I looked up to Steph staring right at me. “Did ya enjoy yourself, sweetie?”

I looked down, carefully crossed my hands on my lap, then back at Steph. “Well, yes. I did.”

“Good, then I hope you’ll be back week after next.” Steph leaned forward a bit, smiling.

“I think I will.” I cleared my throat. Sweat dotted my forehead.

“Great.” Steph winked. “That’s what I wanna hear.”

I looked back at my hands and fidgeted again with my bracelets. I felt the women in the room shifting in their chairs, studying me. I certainly hadn’t planned on being the center of attention, that’s for sure. The industrial clock behind me ticked the seconds.

“Any other questions?” Ethel said, rescuing me then looking around to the women in the circle, lingering a moment on each. “Well, that is it then. Our next book is The Secret Lives of Bees. I do hope all of you enjoy it.”

The other women stood for a moment and began chatting, some floating from the room. Ethel swept over and handed me her business card. It was bright purple and had a fuzzy picture of her, something like a miniature Glamor Shot portrait, bordered by a rainbow. “My number and email are there. If you want to give a call or drop a line, I will be so happy to get you on our mailing list.”

“Thank you. I really did enjoy myself.” I slid the card inside my purse. “I’ll definitely be back.”

“I am so pleased.” And she was. I could see it in her eyes. I looked around the room, but Steph must’ve already taken off. Well, at least there’d be the next meeting.

 

 

Steph Matthews

 

I got to the Lisptick Lez Literary Hour early. Always wanna have a good seat, ya know? When I first came it was for my bitch ex-girlfriend, but now I come for me. Well, and for her, too. To piss that bitch off. Her and all her uppity friends think it’s some kinda fun to sit around chawing about books nobody really wants to read, just written by some old dykes we’re supposed to think are the shit and all that. And they all thought I’d be stupid, too. Fucking ignoranti. I spent two years at Tulane majoring in English and minoring in Gender Studies; I know my shit. Hell, I can dissect a book good as any of ‘em, blow some bullcrap out about how the themes touched me or the recurring whatnots meant such-and-such. Pretty much any fool can. But they make such a big deal about it.

            When I got there the usual conference room was full up by some queens planning the next Folsom’s Mister Leather. Seriously, those dudes are like grown-up girl scouts with all their outfits and sashes and pins and secret handshakes and whatnot. Try being a half-Filipina dyke raised by a white Christian couple in rural Georgia, you entitled fucks. They don’t even know their privilege.

            The room they shoved us in for the week was small—meant I’d be all up on one of Miss Perfect’s “sisters.” But whatever. Probably piss her off more. I can’t tell you how glad I am this little meeting is open to the public. She never shows it, but I know I’m wrecking her world every time I come to one of these shindigs. I’ve noticed she gets here later and later every time we meet now, trying to get the least of me she can.

            I sat next to Cynthia, the skinny bitch who always smells like patchouli. I know my tats make her uncomfortable, but she’s so damned polite, wouldn’t say shit. You’d think she’s the Southern one.

            Miss Perfect breezed in just a couple of minutes before we were supposed to start talking about Voyage Out. Her silver hair sat slicked back and tucked behind her ears. Who was she trying to be? Jamie Lee Curtis? She wore that stupid blue sweater she got thrifting with me down in Chinatown. How obvious did she want to be? I mean, have some class. She sat down and was getting ready to start us up when some trustifarian hipster chick with too much make-up and an Ariana Grande ponytail strolled in like she owned the place, doling out Queen Elizabeth smiles and sitting away from everybody. Typical uptown bitch. She had a cute ass and all, but damn, who wears fucking fitted pants to a book club?

            The hungry lezzies couldn’t keep their eyes off her while she tried her best to not look interested. What a stuck-up cunt. Just like all the other white bitches there. The ladies finally decided to cut their chatter, and Miss Perfect rose to start the meeting.

            “I see we have a new person with us tonight. Would you like to introduce yourself?” Fucking Ethel, always putting on such an act.

            “Oh, I didn’t really plan on this.” The new girl’s face and ears went bright red. Who da thunk she couldn’t handle a little attention? “Well, I’m Charlotte. I just wanted to check things out.” Check things out, huh? Probably one of those married bitches looking to score some puss on the side.

            “We have all been there before, Charlotte.” Ethel pursed her lips and did that stupid fake smiling-with-your-eyes nonsense, trying not to look her age. “I can assure you, we have all been there before.” We have all been there before. What a tool. Anywho, Ethel grabbed her copy of Voyage Out and handed it to poor Miss Charlotte. “I don’t suppose you’ve read this?” Watching Ethel try to flirt was downright disturbing, like some grandma thinking she still had it. Why I ever dated that bitch is beyond me.

“Well, actually, yes. I read The Voyage Out back in high school.” This Charlotte girl looked around at us like we were idiots. “It was AP English. But it’s been years.”” Oh, well of course it was advanced placement Miss Know-it-All.

“We got us a genuine book worm, I tell ya.” I could tell she heard the scorn in my voice, the way she fumbled with the book in her hands. “Now don’t let me scare you, hon, I’m Steph. Steph Matthews.” And you’d better remember that name, Little Miss Charlotte.

And what does she say to this?

“Hi, I’m Charlotte.”

What a dipshit. I couldn’t help but laugh at how clueless she was. “Of course ya are, hon. We went over that. So glad ya joined our group.” I jerked my neck back to emphasize my sarcasm. “A pretty face is just what we need in here.” Her whole face and neck went red with embarrassment.

I’m sure Ethel had enough of me, because she jumped us right into talking about the different themes we found in the book. Cynthia piped up first, talking about Rachel’s journey paralleling her growing womanhood and all that deep bullshit these ladies love going over. Then Karen Shibley, that former school teacher who always wore tie-die and cut-off jean shorts, came in with some nonsense about repetition of circles and how they ebbed and flowed with Rachel’s “deeply conflicted” sense of identity. I mean, c’mon, it was girl on a boat. Clearly there’d be waves. I decided to put in my two cents.

“It’s a road trip book, but in a boat. Cool premise, ya know, but not anything all that original. Chaucer wrote one hundreds of years before.” I sat back in my chair, satisfied. That should’ve made those biddies stop and really think, you know? But of course Ethel had to have her say.

“I can definitely see where you are coming from, Steph, but Woolf’s take on the development of the self was unique and influential.” What a windbag. I’m telling you I must have been high the entire time we were together. The room quieted down, and Ethel decided she’d try to pull in Charlotte with a question about her take on the book.

“Charlotte, what do you think concerning the deep repetition of imagery one finds in Woolf’s text?” Ethel Grimes, the eternal flirt.

“Well, it’s been so long since I read it. I guess it makes sense that it might give the book a type of thematic cohesion, repeating the same ideas in different ways.” Great, not only was Charlotte a know-it-all, but a suck-up, too.

Luckily the rest of the meeting went by pretty quick, ‘cause I’d grown tired of listening to the biddies and all their nonsense. It was all good. I’d done my job, gotten Ethel upset. I could see it in the way her eyes kept watering. She finally decided the time had come and rose again to signal us the meeting was over.

“Does anyone have anything they would like to add to our discussion? Or any additional questions.” Ethel focused on Charlotte as she said this. Everyone in the room could see Ethel’s desperation. Pathetic. It was time for me to let Miss Charlotte have it.

“Ya know, I have one question.” I smirked, staring at Charlotte who kept fidgeting with her bracelets.

“Sure Stephanie, what is it?” Ethel loved using my whole name, just like my mother. That bitch knew how to piss me off.

“It’s about Charlotte here.” Charlotte looked up at me, clearly intimidated. “Did ya enjoy yourself, sweetie?” I made sure to emphasize the “sweetie,” so she couldn’t miss the irony.

She fumbled nervously with her bracelets, probably trying to decide if she had a good comeback in her. “Well, yes. I did.” Nope. No comeback in this one.

“Oh good, then I so hope you’ll be back in two weeks.” I leaned towards her, smirking hard.

“I think I will.” She choked up a little, her forehead getting sweaty with fear.

“Oh, great.” I sent her an acerbic wink. “That’s what I wanna hear.”

She went back to fooling with her bracelets, shut down for good. The other women in the room shot me ugly looks, but I didn’t care. If this bitch wanted to come in here acting all uppity, somebody needed to let her have it. Ethel took in a couple of deep breaths, trying to collect herself. Finally, she arranged her face and spoke.

“Any other questions?” Ethel looked around the circle, making sure to avoid eye contact with me. “Well, if that is it, then our next book will be Secret Lives of Bees. I certainly hope you all enjoy it.” As everyone stood, Ethel shot straight across the room to Miss Charlotte, probably to hit her up for drinks or something after.

I wasn’t in the mood to watch, so I took out of there as soon as they started talking. You’d think Ethel would try at least a little not to throw that shit in my face, right? A breakup three months old is not that long ago. I got out of there before anyone could say anything to me, knowing that would be my last appearance at that godforsaken book club.

 

 

Ethel Grimes

 

As co-founder and designated moderator, I just hated the fact that I was running so late for the book club, but it had been a hard day. The vet had put my cat, Moonbeam, to sleep after a six-month struggle with pancreatic cancer that morning, and I had not even bothered to go into work at the LBGTQ Community Center (I had, at that point, been the “interim” director for over two years). Not to sound flippant, but someone else would have to make sure the homeless kids were getting their food that day. I needed to breathe. And on top of it all, I had decided the time had come to end the book club.  

I started it several years ago with my friend Jarmine (she was a transgender woman who moved to the city after graduating from UC Berkeley). Jarmine had been killed in a queer bashing at Oakland Pride back in June (it was all over the national news), and I simply could not go on with the way the conversations had gotten so flat and dull, concerning themselves with surface things like romances or interpersonal relationships in the books, rather than the deeper and more meaningful ideas Jarmine and I always tried to bring out. The club had just lost its life, and I knew I was going to have to euthanize my second baby that day.

As I passed our usual room I wanted to stop in and talk to Fred Hullet about how the Folsom Street Fair Planning Commission was developing, but my lateness contradicted doing so. I had let them the room so they could have the space they needed. Besides, I figured it made more sense to end our club in a more intimate space. Jarmine would have appreciated this, I’m sure.

When I entered, I noticed all the womyn who usually came, including our newest member, Steph. Oh, she was a character. When she first came to the community center looking for a place to stay, I was simply taken by her raw honesty and, I hate to admit it, became caught up a bit too much in her adjustment to life here in San Francisco. To be completely open, I went out with her for about three weeks, mainly going to bars she wanted to visit, bars I had not been to in years; I felt somehow reinvigorated by her energy and passion. It had taken my mind off of losing Jarmine for a bit.

Steph and I never really dated; my friends all said I should not entangle my mid-life crisis with her quarter-life crisis, and I knew they were right. Not about my mid-life crisis—I am quite past that stage—but about getting too entwined with her. But she just had a certain fierceness about her, reminding me of myself when I was young. Knowing how rough she had had it, growing up being constantly abused by her adoptive father—well, it just made my heart jump. Despite the obvious chip on her shoulder, I did my best to understand. Steph had lived a very difficult life.

I sat misty-eyed watching the womyn talking about their lives before the meeting started, knowing this would be the last time we would be getting together like this. Twelve years was a long time for any club, and I felt overall it had been a success. Just as I was about to start the meeting, a young womon stepped daringly into the room, dressed to the nines with her hair slicked back in an elegant ponytail. The way she was dressed reminded me of Jarmine, how she had always gotten herself so well put together for our club. Obviously nervous, this young womon sat alone across the circle of chairs from me, constantly adjusting in her chair and staring mostly at the floor. I knew it was up to me to make her feel welcome, so I stood to start the meeting, addressing her with as much warmth as I could muster.

“I see we have a new member here tonight. Would you like to introduce yourself?” I folded my hands in front of me and nodded encouragement towards her. The poor dear seemed so scared, her face and neck flushing bright as a tomato.

“Oh, well, I’m sorry, but I didn’t really plan on this?” She seemed to struggle to get the words out. “I mean, I’m Charlotte. I just wanted to come check things out?”

“We have all been there before, Charlotte, I assure you.” She reminded me so much of Jarmine when we had first met. An ache came in my throat, so I closed my mouth tight, swallowed, and tried to smile as best I could. “We have all been there before.” I did not know what to say next, feeling suddenly lost in emotion, so I instinctively reached behind and grabbed my copy of Virginia Woolf’s The Voyage Out and handed it to her, asking if she had read it before.

Her eyes lit up with recognition as she took it, excited. “Well, yes. I read The Voyage Out in high school.” She looked around the room expectantly. “It was in senior AP English. But that was years ago.” When she finished talking, Charlotte looked down at the book, a slight smile turning up the edges of her mouth.

“We got us a genuine book worm, I tell ya.” Steph’s brash voice cut through the stillness of the room, her stare tunneling into the top of Charlotte’s bent head. “Now don’t let me scare you, hon, I’m Steph. Steph Matthews.”

Charlotte glanced up, surprised. A look of curiosity came over her. Clearly confused by Steph’s brusque manner, she repeated her name. “I’m Charlotte.”

Steph took this opportunity to laugh loudly at Charlotte’s gaffe. I knew Steph well enough to know she did not mean any real harm, she simply came across that way because of her self-esteem issues. That, and she craved attention.

“Of course ya are, hon.” Steph’s gravelly voice echoed in the small space. “We went over that before. I’m just glad ya joined our group. We can always use a pretty face to brighten things up.” I could not decide if Steph was serious or not. It was not like her to flirt, but the way she had zeroed in on Charlotte made me wonder.

The other womyn turned to me for guidance, so I decided the time had come to start our discussion of the book. In the past few months I had been pretty open about where our discussions went, but in honor of Jarmine, I decided I would start our last book club meeting with the exact question she’d always liked to open with. “Would anyone like to start us off by discussing some of the themes she found important?”

Cynthia Stevens’ eyes went misty when I said this, as I am sure she recognized the question as Jarmine’s. They had become very close over the years, after a brief philosophical disagreement about whether or not Jarmine could really be considered a womon, born with a penis as she was. Empathetically, my eyes filled to match. Cynthia cleared her throat, straightened up in her chair, and began a lovely discussion about how the wave imagery in the text echoed for her the ebb and flow of Rachel Vinrace’s move away from dependence on others toward her identity based on a solid sense of Self as the book progressed. She even went into an examination of how the journey itself served as a metaphor for Rachel’s journey into womonhood, citing some of the same passages I had underlined myself.

When she finished, my favorite retired school teacher, Karen Shibley (THE original hippy from San Francisco) chimed in with an in-depth analysis of how the repetition and interrelationship between circles and circular imagery in the text helped buoy not only the idea of ebb and flow, but also the idea of Rachel moving towards a complete womonhood, with the circles becoming more concrete and full towards the end of the text. Personally, I had not examined this myself, but decided to take Karen at her word. I kept tabs on Charlotte throughout, impressed at how engaged she was, hanging on every word the other womyn spoke.

And then to my surprise, Steph jumped in with a clearly salient comment of her own, deftly summarizing the story as prototype for the road trip story, something she said Chaucer had attempted years before with The Canterbury Tales. This impressed me, as Steph’s comments generally bordered on the banal. I decided to insert some encouragement for her.

“I can definitely see where you are coming from, Steph, but Woolf’s take on the development of the self was unique and influential.” I suppose many of the other womyn were as shocked as I at Steph’s concise analysis, as they all seemed to quiet down. Since this was the most insightful meeting of the club we had had since Jarmine passed, I could not let it stop. I turned to Charlotte, asking her what she thought of these ideas we were going over. When she spoke, the sureness, clarity and content of her answer reminded me so much of Jarmine, I almost cried.

“While it’s been so long since I read it, I would suggest it makes sense that repetitions like these certainly give the book a type of thematic cohesion, repeating the same ideas in different ways.” She smiled when she was done, firmly locking eyes with mine. I felt a new life breathing into the room.

The rest of the discussion went equally well, with all of the womyn coming up with interesting, insightful nuggets of truth mined from the text. I was simply enthralled, struggling to keep my emotions contained. While I am not a particularly spiritual person, and definitely not religious, it felt like Charlotte’s presence was somehow a gift from Jarmine, a messenger sent to make sure I did not give up on our shared dream, that I not end our book club. It was the closest I have come to feeling mystical in a long, long while.

When the discussion ended, I asked if anyone had any other questions. Steph, in her usual harsh but harmless style, surprised me by asking Charlotte if she would be back for the next meeting, which Charlotte thankfully agreed to. As the other womyn stood, I rushed over to Charlotte to make sure she could contact me. I felt a bit silly giving her my card from the community center, since I am not one of those rainbow pride lesbians, as my card might suggest. But she seemed delighted to have it, carefully tucking it in her purse and telling me she was excited to come to the next meeting. I held in my joy, simply saying “I am so pleased.” I knew our club would go on; Jarmine would be happy indeed.