When Your Book is Accidentally Topical (Part #2)
A Literal Literary Loser Shows & Tells
Yesterday, I explained how a reader suggested I use the recent nomination of a Democratic Socialist to be New York City’s next mayor as a promotional news hook for my May 2025 historical fiction novel, “Go On Pretending,” and shared an excerpt based on my own life experiences.
In Part #1, Emma, the daughter of high-profile American defectors to the Soviet Union, and her husband, Dennis, a journalist hired to host a TV show explaining the USSR to US audiences, arrive at an NYC party of proud, self-described Socialists, and are intrigued to find the word has a very different definition in the US (or, maybe, it’s a very familiar one). Please enjoy Part #2, and stay tuned for more!
“Has it been immensely difficult?” As soon as one woman decided she’d monopolized Emma’s time enough – or maybe she grew tired of Emma failing to understand what she was saying; it must be a language barrier – another was happy to glob onto her in between the hour- de-vours trays. “Picking up and switching countries the way you did?”
“Oh. No. It’s been fine. Everyone has been very kind and welcoming. Americans are so friendly! They smile at you. Even strangers on the street.”
“I try to imagine the world through your eyes. It must be heartbreaking, coming from the USSR, seeing the homeless on our streets, the blatant racism. You want to assist, everyone in this room does. Though it’s such a tightrope to walk. My mother always had African-American household help. Colored, they called it in those days, can you imagine? But I refuse to go down that path, absolutely refuse. So condescending, don’t you agree? As if Blacks were put on earth to serve whites. What kind of message does it send to my children, seeing that day in and day out? The exploitation stops with me. I only hire white servans. To set an example. Sometimes from South America. As long as they can look white. You are so lucky, Emma, to never have to even think about such things where you’re from.”
“Do you prefer being called Black or African-American?” This time it was a man, dressed less formally than some of the others, who’d decided to chat Emma up. She wasn’t sure who he was, only that he wore several colorful buttons along his lapels featuring slogans like Labor is entitled to all it creates, Direct action gets the goods, and Kickin' ass for the working class!
“I don’t know,” she admitted, panicking, “I’ve never given it any thought.”
He nodded sympathetically. “Issue probably never comes up in the Soviet Union, racism being outlawed. Here, we wrestle with it every damn day. Don’t want to offend, say the wrong thing. That’s why I was excited to see you. I thought you might know.” He looked glumly about the room, “There’s nobody else to ask.”
Emma hadn’t noticed. She was so accustomed to being in the minority wherever she went that this gathering looked no different from any other.
“I am so in awe of your father,” the man went on. “Most astute of him to realize that the USSR was the only place for a man like him. He was highly educated, right?”
“He graduated from Columbia University.”
“Maybe that’s what made the difference. You would not believe what a difficult time we have here, convincing the lower classes that Socialism is their path out of persecution. They’re so brainwashed by capitalist rhetoric; television, movies, comic books. It’s like talking to a brick wall. Maybe if more of them were as highly educated as your father… It’s tragic how they can’t see what’s in their own best interests! That puts the onus on us. It’s a grueling responsibility. I’m exhausted.” He handed his tumbler to a passing servant.
“I am so in awe of your mother.” A woman who, weeks later, Emma would recognize as an actress playing the role of Mother on what Dennis explained was a very popular television situation comedy, confessed to Emma, “I wish my parents had been as smart. My grandparents came over in 1905. It made sense then. The pogroms, the Czars, that unpleasantness. They were devoted Socialists. My parents were the original Red Diaper Babies! I swear, there wasn’t a left-wing summer camp they didn’t attend. I understand why my grandparents left, but what I cannot fathom is why they didn’t turn right around and return to the Soviet Union the minute the revolution triumphed? It makes no sense, right? Everything they wanted had finally come true, and they were still planted in this backwards country?”
Emma had nothing to say to that. Not that her participation was necessary. This was clearly a monologue. She’d been raised by performers, she knew the drill.
“Maybe my grandparents were afraid. You know, after everything they’d lived through. They probably didn’t dare let themselves believe that the USSR was for real, or that it wouldn’t be undermined by Western forces. But what was my parents’ excuse? They could have gone at any time, just like your mother! They made noises about having careers, friends, a life here. But your mother didn’t let that stop her. She was so brave. If only my parents had been brave like yours, I could have avoided this American rat-race, this endless competition to earn the most money, the biggest home, the fanciest car, keeping up with the Joneses… I’m trapped, Emma. And I could have been free, like you.”