People Do Read Books

I was traveling this week. I went to Columbus, Ohio. I saw some friends, but the main purpose of my visit was to talk with author and Congressional candidate Beth Macy. She's running in Virginia. I hope she wins.

The Columbus Metropolitan Library invited me to do a "conversation with." Writers do these things, sometimes. The sponsoring organization puts you up on a stage (or, in some cases, a Zoom screen), and you chat with a writer who's had a new book published. I've been on the receiving end of a few of these; Beth did one with me for the Boston Public Library. I enjoy them, though I once had to choke back tears in front of an audience when I was asked a question that took me by emotional surprise. That was embarrassing. I try to be hard boiled, but I flubbed in that instance.

Now it was my turn to ask a writer some questions about a new book, Beth's Paper Girl. My job was to elicit smart and entertaining comments from Beth about writing, books, and, specifically, this book.

This was one of the easier jobs I've ever had. Beth is smart, knows what she wants to say, and has a great ability to say it in an entertaining way. All I had to do was ask a few questions and sit back.

Paper Girl is part memoir – Beth was a paper girl in her hometown of Urbana, Ohio – and part examination of how we wound up in the perilous state we are in now. There are some pretty bleak parts, but also some wonderful moments of grace and humor and hope. And that's what I want to write about here.

When Beth and I walked out into the big room where the library had set up the stage, I could not believe my eyes. There were about 450 people in that room. On a Sunday. At 2PM. On a nice Sunday at 2PM, mind you, when the sun was out and the temperatures were reaching civilized. Some people had to stand or find peripheral places to sit.

They were not only there, they were engaged. Many had already read Beth's book. A few had even read my books. When it came time for questions, they asked smart ones. And when our conversation was over, and Beth and I sat down at a table to sign books people had purchased previously, or bought at the event, the line went on so long it had to fold onto itself.

And here's the best part: A young man named Silas is a central character in Paper Girl. Silas grew up in poverty of the type many Buckeyes, like many all over the country, would prefer to believe does not exist in their communities. Silas is also trans, married to a male partner. He has adopted his own siblings. Life's a struggle.

Beth brought Silas up onto the stage, and we chatted a while. Beth talked about his partner, and his partner's parents, who sat in the front row. They were the picture of Ohio working class people, and they were beaming, and then, when Beth asked them to stand, and praised their support of their child and his partner, and the great efforts the entire family were making to create a life for Silas' siblings – in a state where beating up on trans people is a sport for the legislature – the mother had to wipe away tears of happiness, pride, and a little shyness. She is not used to the spotlight. I wanted to jump off the stage and hug them.

The whole experience filled me with optimism. People are reading books. People you might not expect to be supportive of difference are supportive of difference. Ohio, like many other so-called "red" states, is far more complicated and nuanced than many who don't live there want to think.

Do not write off anybody. Do not write off any place.