or her parents, and on the weekends they headed into the city to the bars and clubs. Whenever Iâd run into Nina and her gang on the street, weâd only exchange a quick hello; sheâd never stop and introduce me to her friends. I knew it was because I wasnât part of the in group.
One night at Ginoâs, Nina looked across at my book. âWhat you got over there this time?â she asked. That weekâs reading was written by a scholar named Sam Surati, Bethâs adviser at Columbia, whoâd since been wooed away by Stanford. Its title was
Could You Please Pass the Smelling Salts?: An Examination of the Victorian Faint.
âYou know,â I said, âsame old.â
Nina snorted. âI donât know whatâs more unbelievableâthat your boss gives you homework or that you actually do it.â
I shrugged my shoulders like,
Whattayagonnado.
âWant to trade?â I said. Nina was reading yet another book on real estate. âSure, why not.â She took the book from me and began to read aloud.
ââWe cannot discourse on the faint without first beginning our discussion with constructions of the feminine. What is âthe feminineââ? To liken it to, if you will, the lapping tides of the Long Island Sound on a breezy afternoon in the heart of the North Fork wine country would merely perpetuate stereotypes of female subjectivity (mercurial, as moody as those shifty waves, as intoxicating as a cabernet franc), as well as to objectify the female form entirely. Nor can we discourse on the feminist movementâin all its wrought historyâwithout first discoursing on the problematic tradition of desire and the male gaze (cf.
Surati,
A Thousand Times âI Do!â: Commodification of Female Chastity in Nineteenth-Century Puritanical England,
p. 147).ââ
âThe hell is that shit?â Nina said, putting down Sam Suratiâs book.
âMy uncleâs English is better than that,â I said.
âSoâs my
nonna
âs! Whyâs a dude writing about feminism?â She looked at the bookâs cover. It was pink, featuring a picture of a tulip with quivering petals. A knowing smile spread across her face. âOh, I know why.
Bom-chikka-bow-wow!
â
I let out a hearty laugh. âEd says Sam Surati likes to think heâs quite the authority on
every
subject.â
Actually, Ed Farley thought Sam Surati was âa self-quoting, womanizing, pompous ass.â That I learned over tuna, red-pepper flakes, and shredded jicama.
âYouâve been quoting a lot of Ed Farley lately,â Nina mused.
I stopped laughing and quickly added, âAnd
Beth
says Sam was her greatest mentor.â
Nina tapped the cover, her finger aimed at Sam Suratiâs name
.
âJust watch. Youâre totally gonna have a pop quiz waiting for you tonight.â
* * *
Nina wasnât all that far off. It would be more like an oral examination, with the author himselfâSam Surati was coming to New York. âHeâs here on his lecture circuit, and Iâve invited him over for dinner a week from next Thursday,â Beth said at the dinner table that night, clapping her hands together. âIsnât that wonderful?â
âBut, Ma,â Devon said, âthatâs Thanksgiving.â
According to the primer,
the Mazer-Farleys spent their Thanksgivings getting vegetarian dim sum in Chinatown, because the family didnât want to impose a Western reading on an already exploitative Western holiday.
âIt was the only day he was free, sweetie,â Beth said. âPlus, I know heâs dying to meet you.â
Ed pushed his plate away. It was Bitter Greens Casserole Night. (On BGCNs, Ed was always doubly hungry at our sandwich sessions.) âDoesnât the man have his own family to spend the holidays with?â
Beth bit her lip, as if she were about to hold back on making a retort. Then her voice
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