By this time tomorrow, The secrets of my fickle heart Will be laid bare Before a room of strangers;
They will scrutinize and analyze Each and every outpouring From my most vulnerable core;
They’ll compare it to my compeers– As if I don’t overdo that already– Before they declare it:
Fit or failing
You would think that of all the tests– Countless labs, a spinal tap, biopsy, MRIs, autonomic test, 48-hr EEG–
That this: Two catheters inserted into me Via pulmonary and radial arteries, To ride an exercise bike, Muzzled by a mouthpiece, Into increasing resistance Until I hit that metaphorical wall Or the literal floor…
Would jangle these raw, damaged nerves And skyrocket that thumping, racing Beat-beat-beat-beat, Churning hypertonic muscles like a raging cyclone, And, with the reliability of a Casio G-Shock, Put a screeching halt to my zzz’s––
But instead, I am finding that Curiosity draws me forward More than fear and catastrophizing pulls me back;
The promise of long concealed mysteries Finally fully uncovered and revealed Leaves my veins thrumming with anticipation
How do I sit with this knowing of not-knowing, Or attempt to commune with the great-grandfather of my great, grandfather When I cannot speak the words of his mother tongue?
What can I hear in this restless silence, left Long after my grandma still had breath To fill in all those gaps in my memory?
Why did I not record more than the highlight reels of my ancestors, Nor seek out the hidden tracks of their unfulfilled desires, Nor ever get to feel those cracked sharecropper’s hands graze my cheeks?
Where shall I carry this ponderous and precious cargo Of inexpressible grief, regret and sorrow For all that has been lost and left behind?
The hidden splendor of coastal North Carolina is the true starring character of Delia Owen’s first novel, Where the Crawdads Sing. With a naturalist’s eye, Owens uses the poetry of fiction to capture the mysterious beauty of the marsh in exquisite detail. The freshwater wetland comes to life through the eyes of its main co-star Kya, who is forced to fend for herself in its vibrant wilderness as a child.
Wholly abandoned by her family, Kya learns to scrabble her way to surviving–and, ultimately, thriving–in the untamed environment. While her knowledge and love of the flora and fauna that surrounds her expands meteorically as she matures into young womanhood, the enigmatic beauty is a much slower study of human nature. When it comes to coexisting with other humans, Kya treads in unfamiliar waters. Generally, she is hesitant to grant others her trust, though, when it comes to romance, her pace proves uneven. When she is not actively front crawling away from human affection, she finds herself nearly drowning in heartbreak, aching solitude, and even physical danger.
The novel opens with riveting and infectious prose, but it eventually meanders and crawls to a sluggish and plodding pace. This is largely due to the fact that this novel suffers from an identity problem: It wants to simultaneously be a romance novel, murder mystery, family drama and definitive work of nature writing. To me, it only truly shines at the latter.
The physical danger Kya gets wrapped up in is what ultimately produced what I felt was the least intriguing aspect of the novel. The murder mystery plot is anemic at best, and all the secondary players read like worn clichés. At its worst, the nature-filled metaphors for entrapment feel far too heavy-handed. Stubbornness more than infectious curiosity that kept me from stopping the novel midway.
While Tate’s abiding love and devotion to Kya and her livelihood were endearing, I found myself not really caring if the two would survive beyond a childhood romance. Perhaps the ‘educated man-as-savior’ trope rubbed me the wrong way. Or it was the way he got a pass, of sorts, after so abruptly and completely disappearing from his love’s life in the first place. I felt that Tate didn’t give a thorough explanation to Kya, and thus, the author didn’t give a real one to the reader either.
Similarly, I felt Kya was almost too forgiving of the family that left her alone to deal with a drunk, abusive father. While I empathized with the internal struggles of certain members of her family, there is no real satisfying explanation as to why no one could bother to take Kya with them when they left. It is no wonder that she has such crippling trust issues or why her first instinct is to run.
Despite these issues, Owen’s mastery of descriptive narration earned by authentic respect and admiration, and I look forward to finally reading her nonfiction nature writing. I felt her novel truly shined in its expert exploration and tender tribute to the majesty of nature, evoking a renewed sense of awe and wonder in me for wildlife. Reading this lit a spark in me to learn more of the world that exists outside the dictated confines of these suburban walls. I am eager to stoke the fire from a casually interested passerby to a fully immersed and knowledgeable observer of nature’s treasured sights and sounds.
Ten years a slave– To tangled limbs And a torquing spine, To a broken medical system And neural network gone offline
Ten years an observer– Of the quirky, jerky movement of a marionette Compensatorily adopted two decades ago After a bike/car accident left my Body and brain bruised and bowed
Src: istockphoto.com/portfolio/fona2
Ten years a student– Of physiology and the human mind; Acquiring an armchair PhD In neuroscience, while redefining My own healing potentiality
Ten years a master– Of my own holistic healing, not settling for damning Medical ‘experts’, neurotoxins, or surgery of the noggin’, Striving instead for true reprieve with therapeutic nutrition, Restorative movement and mindful intention
Ten years a warrior– Gutting it out in the trenches, battling for control Over my splintered body, mind and soul Wrestling all threats against my spirit with Weapons of mass reconstruction and resilience
Ten years of struggle and triumph behind me A lifetime of hard work and hope ahead, Bitter conflict yields to the fickle dance of peace: Realizing dystonia isn’t really my biggest adversary, but rather My greatest teacher for embracing my body as ‘beloved friend’
The early history of people of color in the United Stated has focused almost exclusively on their enslavement, which has incompletely presented and positioned the identities of, ideologies about, and policies toward blacks in this country up through the modern age. In actuality, there were approximately a quarter of a million free African Americans living in the Antebellum South. In Slaves Without Masters: The Free Negro in the Antebellum South, author Ira Berlin extensively documents the oft-untold (and frequently concealed) experiences of free people of color between the Revolutionary and Civil wars.
After the U.S. War of Independence, there was an initial wave of slave emancipation that freed thousands of African Americans in the South. Slaves Without Masters casts its focus on this diverse population of free blacks during the antebellum era. Their lives varied drastically based on geography (border states vs. upper South vs lower South, rural vs. urban); the constantly changing laws and racial codes of the day; the perceived value of their occupational skill set and level of education; their alliances––or lack of positive relationships––with other FPOC and with other whites; and, markedly, the specific hue of their skin.
Despite the uncertainty and instability of life leading up to and through the Civil War, some emancipated people of color were able to acquire formal education, start their own businesses, buy homes, own landed properties and form influential community organizations. Others, however, lived in shanty dwellings or were forced to roam from town to town and state to state as white Southerners debated what should be done to control the expanding presence and power of free blacks in their communities. Many–if not most–free people of color were continually in fear of falling afoul of constantly changing ‘black codes’, and they were regularly threatened with unwarranted imprisonment, unexpected violence, and serious threats of expatriation or enslavement.
Berlin paints a vivid portrait of the historical events and socio-political influences that birthed and embedded racism so thoroughly into the American psyche and the country’s institutions. He levels a scathing indictment against the amoral use of the legal system for socio-economic gain to ensure the stability of power for the elite white slaveholders. Yet what is perhaps most illuminating and impactful about this historical narrative is that provides a nuanced analysis of the varied cultural perspectives, social ideologies and political and economic agendas that shaped and shifted the lives of free people of color during this vacillating and volatile period leading up to the Civil War.
Slaves Without Masters explores the devastating legacy of slavery and the bittersweet promise of freedom and opportunity in the face of a perilous future when one’s status was continually redefined and threatened. In doing so, one gains a deeper understanding of how the U.S. caste system developed and how it was reinforced over time to justify the continued existence of slavery while other African Americans lived in comparative freedom.
As a descendant of both enslaved African Americans and free people of color, reading this book has been monumentally revelatory in developing an understanding of the contrasting experiences and perspectives of my ancestors. American history and family history paralleled, intersected, intertwined and illuminated each other. Vital historical context, previously unrevealed, more fully brought to life my genealogical research and personal exploration of family history, giving me a deeper appreciation of who my ancestors were. I also have a greater and more complete perspective on their legacies that I carry in me today; a greater sense of the responsibility I have to share their previously untold stories.
When the school bell sounds its final ring, We pack up the Rabbit and head Down South, Where we will ride and walk, up and across, The flat, square city blocks of Charlotte.
When the restless claim on her home overwhelms, Grandma sends us outside to pluck from The bounty from her summer garden, The grass tickling my feet as I skip to its border.
Collard greens and snap peas, The prickly spines of okra Can’t conceal the slime inside– Inedible, except when fried.
My brother holds up a bruised tomato So that I can bite into it like an apple, Letting its pulpy juices spill Through my teeth and down my chin.
Later that night, he and I Spin In lazy circles ‘Round the steamy blacktop Of the church parking lot.
I pray for the stewing tension to break– A sticky breeze lifts the ruffles of my shorts, I mash them against my legs with shame, A swarm of fireflies winks at me while flitting by.
My beehive of hair sticking out in frizzy relief, A halo of exploding lights breaks the silence– In celebration of July’s freedom, We stand akimbo and salute the cityscape
The air rumbles as lighting flashes Across the black gauze of sky, Like God is flicking a switch On and off, off and on.
We kids of the mountains Watch the infinite horizon–amazed, As fat globs of summer rain Plop heavily on our bare skin.
I feel most alive amidst
The lilting arpeggio of birdsong– Shoes crunching through scattered leaves
And my eyes lifted to a sky shimmering
With a web of verdant limbs
I feel most alive when
My fingers pluck at nylon strings–
Eyes closed, head tossed back,
Mouth bursting at the seams with
Thought-felt phrases knitted from the soul.
I feel most alive when
The melody of pure laughter escapes
From the pillowy lips of beloved kiddos–
Their tiny, yet powerful bodies hurling
Through the air into my waiting arms.
I feel most alive when
Palms brush across bare skin,
Breaths catch in stuttering chests,
Our fingers, our hearts, our minds
Intertwining as You and I become We.
The latter third of this review of Small Great Things contains limited spoilers.
On Tuesday night, I finished reading the powerful and popular novel Small Great Things, which has been taking up a significant amount of my headspace since I first began it almost a week earlier. Thanks to how meticulously bestselling author Jodi Picoult got into the minds of three characters with markedly distinct perspectives on power, privilege and race, I found myself writing about their nuanced viewpoints in my private journal and repeatedly discussing those issues tackled by the novel in conversations with my husband. After reading the final pages, I admit being disappointed by what I felt was too tidy resolution–as I wrote about in my review of the book on Goodreads–but I couldn’t help wondering if I was being too critical of a novel that had nobly tackled such complex issues, while obviously striking such a deep chord in me.
Curious and willing to delve deeper into this dichotomy, I found a 2016 Q&A with The Oxford Union, in which Picoult spoke to the challenges of writing about racism in this country. Her first attempt to set this divisive issue at the heart of a novel was more than 20 years ago, when she sought to write about an African-American, undercover cop who had been shot several times in the back by white colleagues. She claims to have “failed miserably” in her initial effort at a novel, struggling to create voices, characters and situations that were authentic.
Picoult’s Personal POV on Prejudice, Privilege and Power
“And to be honest, I really questioned whether I even had the right to,” she recalled. “I am very clearly a white woman. I grew up in privilege. What was I going to contribute to a conversation about racism?”
Picoult has made a very successful career out of writing convincingly from an array of perspectives unique from her own. However, she felt that writing about race and racism was different. “It’s very hard for us to talk about without offending people, and so as a result, we often just don’t talk about it at all,” she explained. And yet her desire and willingness to write about it never really went away.
Then, in 2012, the novelist heard the news of an African American woman, a labor and delivery nurse of 20 years, who had delivered a baby in Flint, Mich. The baby’s father, sporting a swastika tattoo, demanded that the nurse supervisor ensure no African-American personnel touch his child. This became the seed for the story of protagonist Ruth Jefferson in Small Great Things.
In real life, the nurse sued the hospital and received an out-of-court settlement. But in Picoult’s novel, the nurse faces a different scenario: left alone with the baby when something goes wrong, she is forced to decide whether to follow her supervisor’s orders or to save the baby’s life. Because of her decision, she winds up on trial with “a white public defender who, like me, like a lot of my friends, would never consider herself to be racist,” said Picoult.
As a novelist, she then considered telling the story from three different points of view–the African-American nurse, the white public defender and the white supremacist father. The story would follow each of them as they unraveled their beliefs about power, privilege and race. Having changed her focus and her audience, she knew she would now be able to finish the book.
“I wasn’t writing a book to tell people of color what their lives were like. That’s never going to be my story to tell,” she explained. “I was writing to tell people who look like me–people with light skin–that, although it’s easy for us to point to a white supremacist and say, ‘oh that’s a racist,’ it’s very hard to point to ourselves and say the same thing.”
The author admits that it would have been unfair to ask readers to unpack their biases without first doing it herself. Born into a generation that was never formally educated in social justice, Picoult perceived herself–as does Kennedy, the book’s white public defender–as “a very liberal, open-minded person, with friends from all walks of life. I did not think of myself as a racist.” However, after gaining more education in racial justice, she realized that racism is not just about prejudice; it’s also about power. And in the United States, as the author said, “if you look like me, you have all the power.”
Boy, is that a powerful observation! I have even more respect for Picoult’s willingness to take on this huge conversation in a novel after hearing her talk about this revelation. She was not just able and willing to do the messy work of reflecting on her own perceptions; she was actually curious and eager to dig in deeper.
She spent more than 100 hours interviewing 10 women of color to gain insight into their varied experiences in an effort to write from a black woman’s perspective with empathy and sensitivity. To write from the white supremacist Turk’s perspective, a man who led a life grounded in hate, she also spent time with two former white supremacists who had formally left the Movement.
Nuanced Perspectives on Race and Racism is No Small Thing
Her research proved quite fruitful because Picoult was able to deftly delve into the complex backgrounds of Ruth, Kennedy and Turk in her novel. Her compassionate explorations of the experiences and motivations driving all the main characters in her novel worked to build a bridge of understanding–even engendering empathy–of people we readers might not necessarily like or agree with at all. While the ugliness of Turk’s beliefs and violent actions were off-putting, to say the very least, the genuine grief he expresses for having lost a son evoked real emotion from this reader.
Yes, the story was uncomfortable for me to read, at times–it had to be, especially when presenting the perspective of the white supremacist Turk. Picoult admitted that writing his voice and exploring his “disgusting” beliefs about non-white people made her feel “dirty”. Yet I too was curious to explore a viewpoint I’ve rejected with every fiber of my being, as it challenged my own perceptions.
As I wrote about in my journal, I absolutely related to the description of Ruth’s childhood experience of growing up as an ‘other’ in an overwhelmingly white community. As much as I felt a sense of belonging among my friends, there was an increasing sense of alienation and differentness in my community as I grew older. I did not really fit into stereotypical African American culture that I was occasionally exposed to either. Ruth had greater exposure, living in a black community in which her sister was thoroughly immersed, but she too mostly felt like an outsider there.
Like Ruth, I did my best to fit in with my white classmates as much as I was able, but there was no escaping the reality that I was, in fact, a little different. Some of my classmates were more than happy to point out it out often enough, especially in high school; their eagerness to bring up stereotypes about athletic and academic achievement stung more than I ever let on. So, gaining admission to one of the most competitive universities in the nation made me feel as if I’d won some type of challenge…it took several more years to realize that my most dangerous competitor was myself. As a young adult I spent a lot of time exploring, experimenting with and reflecting on my identity before coming to place of acceptance and love for my self. Yet I am still being forced to confront my own biases and misperceptions.
A Closer Look at Small Great Things
As she endures the trial for a crime she did not commit, Ruth comes to the painful realization that keeping a low profile–behaving as if her skin color is invisible to others–would not save her (or her son) from racial injustice. Picoult shared in the Q&A how a woman explained to her racial justice workshop how she went in the world “with a metaphorical mask so that she can be the kind of black woman other people can handle.” Ruth does this too for most of her life, but that changes when she challenges public defender Kennedy’s insistence that “a criminal lawsuit is no place to bring up race,” and that if you do, “you can’t win”. When Ruth is finally given the opportunity to speak in court, she understandably cannot keep her indignation from her testimony.
Brava to her. It is unfortunate, though, that she is portrayed as an “angry black woman” shooting herself in the foot. It is not surprising, however, that her own lawyer perceives it as such.
I did empathize with Kennedy’s struggle to understand how she still clung to her privilege, despite her good works and good intentions serving the underprivileged. I think her sole night spending time in an environment where she was a minority opened her eyes a little bit, but I found it difficult to swallow that such a brief and limited exposure would be enough to give her true clarity about being on the receiving end of racism.
As part of her experiment, she enters a drugstore to look at hair products “foreign” to her. She thinks: I have no idea what they do, why they’re necessary for black people, or how to use them. Instead of settling into her ignorance, I couldn’t help wondering why she does not attempt to find out from some women who do use them–you know, women like her client Ruth.
It also rubbed me the wrong way how she is the one relentlessly tearing into Ruth’s son Edison when he misguidedly spray paints racial slurs on a wall (I get that he’s a kid who is terrified of his mom getting convicted of murder, but why on earth does he do this?) And it also got under my skin that white lawyer Kennedy was the one correcting black defendant Ruth that what she really needs is not equality, but equity. I appreciated the intent behind explaining the differences between equity and equality, but her speech comes across like she is reading from a textbook:
“Equality is treating everyone the same. But equity is taking differences into account, so everyone has a chance to succeed.” I look at her. “The first one sounds fair. The second one is fair. It’s equal to give a printed test to two kids. But if one’s blind and one’s sighted, that’s not true. You ought to give one a Braille test and one a printed test, which both cover the same material. All this time, I’ve been giving the jury a print test, because I didn’t realize that they’re blind. That I was blind. Please, Ruth. I think you’ll like hearing what I have to say.”
Kennedy does ultimately rise to the occasion by talking about active and passive racism, bias, privilege and power in her closing statement in court. Ruth expresses gratitude that her lawyer finally took “the elephant in the room and paraded it in front of the judge.” I couldn’t help feeling uneasy that this speech alone had the ultimate power that it did, but giving it was the right thing for Kennedy to do. She uses her power and privilege to amplify Ruth’s own voice.
I was also rather amazed (not in a good way) by the plot twist that wraps up Turk’s story. It felt far too tidy and trite. I won’t get into it in detail here–it was that disappointing, to me. What I will do is give Picoult great praise for her overall effort to bring these voices and perspectives to life.
Novels as Catalysts For Critical Social Dialogue
It is no small thing to tackle such thorny issues as race, privilege and power. For a significant part of this novel, I think Picoult writes about it surprisingly well and with incredible insight. By packaging complex issues in a palatable and relatable enough manner, she presents an invitation for many folks who couldn’t or wouldn’t otherwise participate in a conversation about race with true transparency and authenticity to enter in honest dialogue about the perspectives raised in this fictionalized tale.
In this way, the novel serves as a catalyst for the crucial dialogue that our mucked-up society needs to have to survive. Rather than silencing the perspectives that we don’t like or disagree with or that simply make us uncomfortable, we need to get real and honest, truly listening to each other. By writing from these three disparate viewpoints, Picoult’s writing encourages to do just that. And, as she alludes to in Kennedy and Ruth’s discussion about equity, we as a society need to do everything we can to ensure that each of us gets a place at the table, that every voice gets the opportunity be heard and the support to speak up when it wants and needs to. It’s the only way we’ll ever be able to truly move forward and evolve together.
Calling My Name by Liara Tamani is a lyrical and sensuous story–at times, reading more like poetry than prose. A richly detailed narrative immerses you immediately in the life experiences of Taja Brown: from neighborhood kickball games and sibling rivalry to tumultuous first love and the promise of life to come after high school. While honoring the specific experiences of her Southern black girl upbringing, Taja’s deeply personal, coming-of-age tale eclipses ethnicity and geography to be incredibly relatable to girls of a certain age and women who remember being girls of a certain age.
Childhood memories can stretch out with the endless summers of neighborhood play and family adventures. Some experiences we can remember with excruciating detail, while other moments are forever lost. There are popular songs from our childhood we will forever remember the lyrics to, playground chants we could accurately recite 30 years after the fact. Family trips that come back to us in vivid detail. The shakily scary sensation of getting temporarily separated from our parents forever imprinted in somewhere in our hearts. The annoying burden of having to wake up early and go to church every Sunday. The sneaky pleasure of playing sick to have the house to yourself for a time to do whatever you desire. The unfairness of being treated differently from another sibling by your parents due to your differing age or gender. Harshly bickering with your family one moment, yet finding yourself protecting and defending them the next time some outsider dares to threaten and insult them.
Remarkably familiar and true-to-life scenes like these are peppered throughout this novel. Sometimes, they are presented in the disjointed and seemingly random fashion that we remember moments from our own childhood. Other times, Tamani expertly and eloquently weaves in common threads that knit together the whole narrative of Taja’s youth.
Remembering the Milestone of Childhood
The milestones, of course, can be unforgettable. Similar to what I wrote about in my review of Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret, reading Taja’s critical self-assessment of her changing body was palpably and painfully familiar. I also could relate to the embarrassment of Taja’s early experiences of menstruation. While I had heard and read enough to be sort of prepared for the impending ‘first blood,’ my mother was like Taja’s mother in never having talked about it with me beforehand. Reading the scenes where she’s humiliated for staining her pants immediately took me back to having to wrap a jacket around my waist in class when I’d unexpectedly got my period at school.
Yet, as much as my body could sometimes be a source of embarrassment, like Taja, there were times when I was surprised and pleased by its strength, by its speed, and by its being-ness. Oh, the delicious wonder of the discovery of self! I have never, ever read anything like the sensuously spiritual experiences I had as a child until reading this book’s beautiful passages of Taja sensing and feeling the wonder of her soul, of her connection to the greater Universe. To say this took me back is an understatement; by reading passages like the above, I felt like I was reliving my own awe and amazement over life as if for the first time.
I flood my lungs, watch my chest swell, and hold the air in, feeling my insides stir. like glitter in a globe. I exhale and the tiny dots settle. I take another long breath, and the sparkles swirl and swirl deep beneath my skin in a place I don’t know how to name, from where the songs in my head speak, from where tears race and eyes roll, from where gap-revealing smiles escape, laughter skips, cravings call…where words of love and fear whisper and scream, even if they never come out…the room inside the room inside the room.
Fumbling Toward First Love
The journey toward self-love loops and bends through delicious wonder, then mind-blowing confusion; through self-assurance, then doubtful despair. The path toward romantic life can be similarly tumultuous and heartbreaking, while also joyful and sublime. Taja’s first love in many ways reminded me of my own, with the surprising delight of learning about another’s mind, soul and body so intimately, for the first time.
Teenaged Taja and Andre plotting out their relationship timeline toward marriage and kids seems almost laughably naive now, but I did the same with my first love. And while my parents never forced me to sign a Vow of Purity, years of religious indoctrination left me similarly yearning to be virtuous, yet caught up by the unexpected passion of desire. While I felt some guilt for essentially ‘breaking a commandment’ by making love before marriage, both my boyfriend and I sincerely thought we had found “the One,” and he had given me a promise ring.
While I craved my boyfriend’s attention and adoration, sometimes it could be stifling, as Andre’s was to Taja. I wanted to feel free to see the world, to travel to Europe with my family and go to college across country. Though my first love wasn’t anywhere near as cruel and spiteful as Andre, he too felt threatened by my ambition and desire to spread my wings to fly. Both Taja and I were made to feel guilty for wanting to go far from home–and our first loves–to college, coincidentally both at Stanford. While Andre’s immature insecurity led to their breakup as soon as Taja was accepted to the California university, my own relationship limped on for another year and half, through long-distance and then my temporary return home. But, like Taja, I realized my freedom to fully pursue my passion was a delicious gift to protect and embrace.
Hallelujah! Love is God’s One-Note Song
Calling My Name also deftly interweaves the journey toward acceptance, love and the full expression of one’s self with the journey past communal religious obligations through to the empowerment that comes with a personal connection to Spirit. As someone whose upbringing was also influenced by Southern black culture steeped in strict religious tradition and mindset, I really related to Taja’s spiritual coming-of-age, as well. Early on, Taja senses that coming into connection with God is a highly personal experience that transcends confining church walls and preachers’ predictably castigating, yet hypocritical, sermons.
Unfortunately, familial pressure and social conformity allow fear of damnation and the stranglehold of a Vow of Purity to seep into her heart, casting a dark shadow over her blooming adolescence. Aspiring to be a ‘good girl,’ yet wanting to explore her kaleidoscope of desires, Taja struggles with the crippling guilt and hot shame over her ‘sins’ of wanting to express her first love in all ways. She also wants to be friends with non-Christians without trying to convert them and to be a contributing member of her community without getting weighed down by arbitrary obligations and harsh judgement.
If I had to give God’s one-note song a word, then I would pick hallelujah or love. Yes, Jesus would love love! But love wasn’t spoken today…[Pastor Hayes] repeats, “Do you want Jesus to forgive you for your sins?” No, forget that. Hallelujah already won. I’m done.
Claiming Ownership of the Freed Self
Can Taja come to trust that pure voice within that wholly embraces her true self and engenders hope for an inclusive humanity? The one that encourages her illustrious ambitions, encompasses her deepest desires and allows for real freedom of personal expression? That whispers to her that she too is a “gospel song” in her “highest, purest note, in perfect harmony with what calls to me”? Might the Divine indeed be found in the artful dance of nature, in the interpersonal expressions of love and acceptance, and in the deeply, soulful experiences of burgeoning self-love? You’ll have to read it to find out.
It also rubbed me the wrong way how she is the one relentlessly tearing into Ruth’s son Edison when he misguidedly spray paints racial slurs on a wall (I get that he’s a kid who is terrified of his mom getting convicted of murder, but why on earth does he do this?) And it also got under my skin that white lawyer Kennedy was the one correcting black defendant Ruth that what she really needs is not equality, but equity. I appreciated the intent behind explaining the differences between 
is a lyrical and sensuous story–at times, reading more like poetry than prose. A richly detailed narrative immerses you immediately in the life experiences of Taja Brown: from neighborhood kickball games and sibling rivalry to tumultuous first love and the promise of life to come after high school. While honoring the specific experiences of her Southern black girl upbringing, Taja’s deeply personal, coming-of-age tale eclipses ethnicity and geography to be incredibly relatable to girls of a certain age and women who remember being girls of a certain age.
Can Taja come to trust that pure voice within that wholly embraces her true self and engenders hope for an inclusive humanity? The one that encourages her illustrious ambitions, encompasses her deepest desires and allows for real freedom of personal expression? That whispers to her that she too is a “gospel song” in her “highest, purest note, in perfect harmony with what calls to me”? Might the Divine indeed be found in the artful dance of nature, in the interpersonal expressions of love and acceptance, and in the deeply, soulful experiences of burgeoning self-love? You’ll have to read it to find out.
Renée Can(ada) Writes 