Dance Lest We All Fall Down - Margaret Willson [112]
Oxford scared me. I had only been there a few times in all the years I had lived in London. I wasn’t sure what to expect, as I had been invited to speak by someone I didn’t even know. This meant I had no friends to pepper the audience, upon whom I could rely to feed me provocative sounding questions on subjects about which I knew a great deal.
When I arrived, I met the director of the Women’s Studies Department, a very pleasant woman who took me to lunch at one of their formal dining areas reserved for faculty. Several people lunched in their black, long academic robes. I was sure I was going to spill food on the table, knock over my wine, or commit some equally embarrassing gaffe. Across the table from me sat an older man who said he was Professor of Spanish.
“What’s it like in the States right now?” he asked.
“Strange. Everyone’s scared. Most people have no idea where Afghanistan is, and now we’re attacking it.”
“And how are people reacting to all the civilian casualties we keep reading about?”
“Well, actually they aren’t reading about them. I haven’t seen anything in the U.S. press about these casualties, at least not in the big newspapers or our Seattle papers. We only hear about the Americans killed—and not much on that.”
“Hmmm…” The professor chewed on his chicken and seemed to be reflecting upon profound thoughts, or perhaps his own memories.
“Most of us who have been overseas are reading the Internet, getting news from the press outside the States.” He nodded. “People are scared,” I continued. “I think they just want to feel safe again. Or, at least safe from outsiders, strangers from places they never knew existed before.”
“I see.” The professor ate the rest of his meal in silence. I tried to chat with others over the uncomfortably wide table. Finally, the professor stood and offered his hand for me to shake. “I enjoyed meeting you,” he said. “It is always interesting to meet a member of an oppressed people.”
I held his hand, somewhat confused, and then watched him walk from the room.
As a part of my role with the Bahia Street Trust, I spent much of my time in London having morning coffees, lunches, and afternoon teas. It was all very genteel. One evening, I attended a “charity do” with Alex and Susie. Alex explained that if we wanted others to give money to Bahia Street, then we had to attend their functions. “It’s reciprocity,” he said.
The party was at the house of the editor of one of London’s major newspapers. She was the first woman editor of a major daily, and she had recently raised a large amount of money for children in Sudan through a single appeal in her newspaper. Susie advised me on what to wear.
We arrived and everyone seemed to know everyone. I knew only Susie and Alex who, upon arrival, immediately became involved in several simultaneous conversations with other people. I wandered away, looking for someone who appeared lonely and in need of companionship. But everyone seemed busy chatting; all the conversation clumps seemed locked, iron clad. Finally, I broke into a circle of three women chatting about fundraising for the charity in which they were apparently involved. All three looked like fashion models, polished and trim.
“Well,” one said, “we’re going to do another edited volume. The first one was such a success.”
“Yes,” the blonde woman standing beside her said. “Everyone wrote for the first book: three Booker Prize finalists, a best-selling novelist. It’s sold two hundred thousand copies so far.”
“What was the book about?” I asked.
All three women looked at me. “Why, it was a collection of short stories. We just let the writers do what they wished. And what a fantastic result! You are with that group Alex and Susie are supporting, aren’t you?