Not Oprah’s Book Club: American Wife

Over a few long airline flights this week I finally had a chance to read the latest from Curtis Sittenfeld (of Prep fame): American Wife. It’s a fictionalized account of Laura Bush’s life based on many of the real biographical details. As it weaves its way from her young discovery of an abiding love for books, a car accident in her adolescence that would influence the trajectory of the rest of her life, and her inevitable connection to rich kid politico “Charlie Blackwell,” the reader develops a deep empathy for the woman that would be first lady.
The power of the narrative had me constantly looking at Laura Bush’ wikipedia page to get a sense of which pieces came from Sittenfeld’s imagination and which were drawn from real life events. It turns out that many of the most interesting parts were straight from real life. As usual, the truth is much stranger than fiction.
The book is long, and I felt it dragged a bit about a third of the way through, but I was otherwise riveted. It turned out to be a perfect time to read it. As the Bush era begins to dim, there is much talk about what his legacy and hers will really be. Having this novelistic insight into their emotional lives, her motives and passions, the complexity of fame and marriage and, well, just trying to live a life right give me a totally different read on the public conversation about the Bush family.
The added bonus? Sittenfeld is a feminist, so there are a lot of fascinating feminist twists. I won’t go into them because it will spoil some surprises, but here are some of my fave excerpts:

I would not marry a man unless I could show myself to him truly–I had no interest in tricking anyone–but I couldn’t imagine showing myself to most men, revealing myself as someone more complicated than I seemed. If thinking of the exertion and explanations that would require discouraged me, it almost made me calm. I didn’t work myself up, as other women I knew did, panicking over finding Mr. Right. I accepted that the years to come would unfold in their way, that I could control only a few aspects of them. To remain alone did not seem to me a terrible fate, no worse than being falsely joined to another person.

If I were to tell the story of my life…and if I were being honest…I would probably feel tempted to say that standing that night just inside my apartment, me in my nightgown and Charlie in jeans and a red shirt, I made a choice: I chose our relationship over my political convictions, love over ideology.

His fixation with his legacy (I even grew to hate the word) I found intolerable. It seemed so indulgent, so silly, so male; I had never heard a woman panic about it. I once, in the most delicate manner possible, expressed this observation about gender to Charlie and he said, ‘It’s because you’re the ones who give birth.’ I did not find this answer satisfying.