Earlier this year, my closeknit, eager family started a WhatsApp group chat, then launched a book club. It’s been quite successful. We had a high uptake the first few times, but several months in, interest is waning, as it does.
At dinner, I complained to my son’s French wife, my belle-fille, about the latest pick, a collection of magical realism short stories.
The majority selected the title. A couple weeks before, my niece had set up a poll with four options and we voted. My brother and I researched the books, talked about them, then chose the one we thought would be best for the group. But our pick didn’t win.
“The book looks weird,” I told my brother.
“It’s a democracy,” he said. “We made our case.”
When American voters heard loud, angry chants of “mass deportations” at MAGA rallies, what did they expect if Trump were elected? Latinos, who went for Trump by double digits, must have considered what deporting 20 million “illegals” would look like. Did they assume that despite their brown skin and Latino surnames, their status as American citizens would protect them from suspicion, from prejudice, from being caught up in a raid?
As it happens, the family does not like the book club selection.
My mother read only three stories before returning it to the library, noting she was glad she hadn’t bought it. The magical realism was too much for her. I asked why she voted for it in the first place. She said, “I thought short stories would be a nice change.” My sister-in-law confused the author with someone else. And others who chose the book are not showing up for the meeting.
Complaining to belle-fille, I said, “they had no idea what it was about or who the author is. But they stuck my brother and I, the only ones attending, with a book we didn’t want to read.”
“That,” she said. “Is what democracy is.”