Untamed: a review

One of the downsides of an advanced education in critical thinking is that it can be easy to emphasize the "critical" and overlook the "thinking." When I first became aware of Glennon Doyle, it was because she has left her husband for a woman, which was somehow newsworthy in the circle of writers I follow, and because the woman she now shares her life with is Abby Wambach, bad ass US soccer phenom.

My issue was not at all with Doyle's choice, but with the decade of history she had as a Christian mommy blogger, bragging about her amazing marriage and how she single-handedly saved it despite her husband's serial cheating. In fact, she was on a book tour cashing in on her magical role as a "Love Warrior" when she met Abby. Now she makes money off that marriage instead.

I never actually read her blog. I never learned anything about her beyond my assumptions. It was easy, since Christian mommy bloggers aren't really my thing I had no interest in reading her writing. I jumped to a whole lot of conclusions, assumptions and judgements based on maybe five Instagram posts and a gossip blog post or two. Mucho critical. Almost no thinking. 

And yet, despite my ignorance and bias, I bought Doyle's latest book, Untamed, on a whim recently. Liz Gilbert likes and loves her, it was well displayed, and I liked the cover. It doesn't take much to make me buy a book these days. Honestly, so much of my response to this book is not about the book nut about me that it should probably be two posts - a review, and a response. But ... here we are. 

This book is like a human: deeply flawed yet capable of brilliance that streaks through the sky. The problem with reading books by people who began their writing careers as bloggers is that their books read like blogs: consistent in voice, but a jumble of times, places, anecdotes and characters. Often the books are comprised of blog posts, with not quite enough editing to pull them together. This book is not a story - it is an uncoordinated collage laced with morals and aphorisms. It's a very choppy one at that: short sentences. Short paragraphs. Short chapters.

Reading this immediately after finishing Between the World and Me was like going from War and Peace to Dick and Jane. There's nothing wrong with Dick and Jane,  but ... we are all adults here. Thirty pages in I thought "I get it" - the bit on the flyleaf that caught my attention is really what there was for me to get. But I'm no quitter, and I was wrong.

As I read I was curious about my steady stream of judgement popping up in the middle of learning. Part of it is jealousy - I've never turned my writing into anything meaningful, while Doyle built an empire on (unconscious?) inauthenticity, and then pivoted to authenticity and expanded her empire.

Part of the judgement is also not understanding: I have definitely lived a lie, at times, but it was recently pointed out to me that I have always had a strong sense of "no, not this" and been willing to let go and move on. I felt like she was exaggerating. I can't reconcile being so utterly conditioned by cultural expectations that you turn to eating disorders, addiction, and a loveless, frigid marriage rather than be yourself. It just doesn't compute for me. I consider myself a relatively empathetic person, but I can't understand that. I can only chalk it up to

1. It's an American thing, and
2. I was never going to be petite enough or pretty enough or quiet enough or slow-witted enough to make people comfortable, so I gave up trying pretty early on. 

Also, I don't remember my parents ever telling me to be more ladylike or that Girls do/are X and Boys do/are Y. My sisters and I played sports, or we didn't. We created music and art and clothing, or we didn't. We read and wrote and gardened and performed, or we didn't. We rode horses and swam in lakes and rivers and played with our dog and hung out in treehouses. Or we didn't. We can all swing a hammer and drive a manual and gut a fish and dance in heels. I don't know this small, prescribed world Doyle blames for her struggles.

Yes, I felt and still feel the unyielding pressure of not being skinny/sexy/pretty enough. Yes, I feel sufficated by my need to be impressive but never EVER confident or proud. Yes, society constantly reminds me that I am both too much and not enough. But somehow, I missed the memo on being a little lady, on smiling - but not too big or too easily- and sitting on the sidelines while the boys have all the fun. 

The jealousy also comes from never experiencing the love Doyle describes between her and Abby. Or I thought I had, but now that it's long-gone I have to assume it wasn't that. When Glennon met Abby, she "became." I am 52, and I am still optimistic about becoming. It turns out that becoming is a perpetual project, that sometimes happens in bursts - going weak in the knees on a drizzly street corner, or breathing deeply the humid air outside Norman Manley International Airport. I'm still looking for the secret to keep becoming without needing the impetus a man or an adventure. 

I suppose my smaller dose of conformity is also why I don't identify much with Doyle's parenting chapters. I did my best; sometimes my best was awesome and sometimes it was truly shitty, but everyday it was that day's best. I gave up on perfect really early, I never did try to match the soccer moms. I couldn't stand the PTA. I just ... couldn't. 

I struggle with the whiteness and the richness and the multiple other privileges Doyle has but doesn't acknowledge, and at the same time I take a lot from her stories. The kind of fairy tale love Doyle describes is also a privilege, one that women who grow up being told we are too big (in all directions), or that "someday someone will see how beautiful you are on the inside" don't expect. We aren't conditioned to see it, so we miss it if it does happen. 

The chapter on unlearning racism and whiteness 100% correlates to the process I'm currently in, except, of course, that no one is inviting me to put on seminars for thousands of people. And frankly, I don't think white women should be making money teaching anti-racism when skilled, qualified, and knowledgeable Black women are available. But, I still appreciated knowing I'm not alone in my anti-racism learning.

Doyle's writing is light and easy. The sparks of learning are powerful - they drew tears and relief from me. On balance, I do recommend this book for women. The nuggets of truth in it are valuable enough to make excavating them worthwhile, and it's a quick, encouraging read. Just manage your expectations. Maybe I'll re-read it now that some of my harsher judgements have been silenced.

Damn this is one long rambly post. 

A Newfoundlander in Canada: a review

In 2007 I had the great good fortune to spend a week at Hollyhock Farm learning about creativity from an absolute master: Nick Bantock. A few days into the workshop Nick was looking over my creations - which, like his fantastic Griffin and Sabine trilogy combined multimedia collage and writing.  After a moment, Nick said something like, you make pretty pictures and you have a way with words, but if you really want to capture people's attention you'll need to find the darkness of life and let it out in your work.

There is a reason those wise words came back to me while reading Alan Doyle's second book, A Newfoundlander in Canada: Always Going Somewhere Always Coming Home. Alan is one of my favourite songwriters and musicians. I have followed him since the early days with Great Big Sea, having first heard of them at UNBC in Prince George in 1995 (Alan's version of that story made it into the BC chapter of this book, where he reveals that playing that show in front of a heavily alpha-male crowd waiting for a grunge band was the moment he knew they could play anywhere. Good old PG). I enjoy his solo music as much as I did the music he made with "the boys."

And, I enjoyed this book - overall. It's fun to read about the early days of GBS, how they grew as men and as a band, and Alan's impressions of Canada. Before heading to Halifax on their first maritime tour, Alan had never been off of Newfoundland. His reflections across the provinces - each one given its own chapter with other stories interspersed - are charming and full of innocence. And that, in a nutshell, is my complaint. The stories are too charming and too innocent. It's overloaded with sweetness, not unlike the irresistible case of Cadbury Easter Creme Eggs the band were given in Toronto. We know it wasn't all sweetness and light, yet this book never lets you see the struggle.

I have a second complaint, one that reveals the depth of my loyalty to BC. Doyle assigns each province a familial relationship to Newfoundland, and I have to say some of them are BS. In particular, that Ontario is the talented oldest sibling that we all rag on but secretly admire. BARF. Ontario is neither the oldest province nor secretly admired, at least not by Western Canadians. Sure, they have a big population, but being the centre of capitalism is not worthy of being admired, but I digress, and my pale pink socialism.is showing. And, Doyle calling BC the distant cousin you hardly know and find a little odd is hard to reconcile. As the only maritime province on the Pacific coast, I would have thought there's a lot we share with Newfoundland. Only, of course, I've never been to Newfoundland, so how would I know? 

Doyle does have a way with words. I don't know that I've ever read a more apt description of the Winnipeg cold, and I've only been there in October. (Sadly, I lent the book out without writing down the quote, so you'll just have to read the book). His story-telling, if a little simple, is entertaining. At the very least, he's inoffensive, and I suppose that's something. 

A Newfoundlander in Canada is Short. Fast. Fun. Canadian. If you're looking for a quick summer read that makes you feel good about this summer's lack of international travel, you'll probably like this book. If you're looking for deep insight and books that change how you see yourself in the world, maybe read  Between the World and Me instead. 

Between the World and Me: a review

I just finished reading Ta-Nehisi Coates' Between the World and Me. I think I will need to read it three more times through to understand all that is in it. The cruelty and love and history and hatred and injustice and victories - small, fragile, even temporary as they sometimes are - pile on top of each other in this small book with the might of 500 years.

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Between the World and Me is a history lesson. It is an autobiography. And it is a love letter between a father and his 15-year old son, one that acknowledges how much of their relationship has been determined by the fear with which a Black person in America lives every day, and the force of that fear in seeking to protect their children. Fear is the third party in this book - fear, and an impressive bravery to continue. Coates writes with power, intellect, and honesty that, as I said, requires re-reading. You must work your way up to absorbing these truths. They are not self-evident, and yet when you read them, they are as undeniable and obvious as the ground beneath your feet: 

• Race does not exist - it is not a scientific or biological reality. Again. 

RACE DOES NOT EXIST.

• That is not to say differences don't exist, or that cultures don't exist. It is to say that genetic difference does not make us separate races. 
• Race was invented to justify racism. 
• In order for one human to own another human, they must first create some inviolable difference that makes the owned human not human at all. That invention was race based on skin colour, it could just have easily been eye colour or height or arm span. Literal ownership has changed, but the results still echo.
• I am not white by biology but by training. My delicate sensibilities. My freedom to look away from what upsets me. My desire to be rescued. My opinions and outspoken-ness. These are markers of whiteness more than my lightly-melanated skin. 

Author and Son.

As Canadians we so often want to distance ourselves from the reality of America - of it being built and sustained on the blood and bodies of stolen people. But we are, at the very least, complicit in the continuation of that domination. We trumpet the Underground Railroad as proof of our goodness, ignoring that many of those who found their way to Canada returned to the US seeing no more opportunity here than there. We feign colour-blindness, further denying a reality we don't want to acknowledge and erasing others for their difference. We pretend that Black Canadians aren't policed as heavily as Black Americans. We pretend that race is real and justice is abstract. 

Toni Morrison said this book should be required reading. It should, for most of us, also be required re-reading. Few people who call themselves white will really be able to take in what Coates says on first read. 

oh dear: about the nice white lady's book reviews

Well. That's uncomfortable. I was going to publish a list of my reviews of books by Black authors in time for Juneteenth, and I'm kind of horrified to realise that of the 161 book reviews I've published here, only 8 are by Black authors. Since people of African descent comprise only 3.5% of the Canadian population, I suppose that's actually representative, but it sure doesn't feel right.

Statistics Canada 2016 data

I don't actually review every book I read, but even so, I can and will do a lot better in reading mixed voices. Apparently, only 5% of Canada's population is Indigenous, but I've done an even worse job reading books by Indigenous authors, so ... ya. I've read relatively more books by authors of South Asian ancestry, but I think maybe that reading everything by Michael Ondaatje and Yann Martel, and the majority of Salman Rushdie's books, should really only count for one each - it's diversity of voices I'm interested in hearing. It's the people, not the books.

Anyway, this is the mini-list of now belated Juneteenth reviews/suggestions:

• Washington Black - Esi Edugyan
• Becoming - Michelle Obama 
• A Brief History of Seven Killings - Marlon James 
• Half-Blood Blues - Esi Edugyan 
• The Book of Negroes - Lawrence Hill 
• Say You're One of Them - Uwem Akepi
• Breath, Eyes, Memory - Edwidge Danticat
• Beloved - Toni Morrison

And my take-away - Canada is a lot less ethnically diverse than I thought and I need to do better choosing a wide-range of voices and artists to read.

Washington Black: a review

I hate when I read a book and forget to review it right away - I am simply not reliable to remember the details of the reading experience once I've moved on to another book. Which is all to say, this is what I think I thought about Washington Black, Esi Edugyan's third novel and second Giller Prize winner.

Esi Edugyan is the kind of writer who makes me ashamed to think that I could ever aspire to be a published author. Her skill with character, plot, language, culture, history, atmosphere, and so much more is stunning. Washington Black begins in Barbados (💗!), and travels to Virginia, Nova Scotia, Inu lands, England, Amsterdam and Morocco, all following the growth of our titular hero, Washington Black (aka Wash).

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One of the most striking elements of slavery revealed in Wash's story is how subject to the vagaries of fate and whiteness slaves were/are. The death of a relatively "kind" (one cannot own another human and be kind, but bear with me) master leaves Wash subject to a cruel and mercurial master. Rescued from that fate by the new master's "kinder" scientist brother, Wash has the protection of an "exceptional" mind, setting him apart from the other slaves and from many of the white people - and the free people of colour - he encounters on the plantation and once he and the master's brother flee Barbados.

If I had written this review last year when I read the book, this exceptionalism may have gone unnoticed and uncommented on. As I've recently been doing a lot of reading, listening and learning in response to the Black Lives Matter movement, however, the trope of exceptionalism feels somewhat problematic to me. His intelligence and artistry endear Wash, but I feel uneasy knowing that he has an easier life because of it. Why is the sweet, young, talented boy worth saving but his older, coarse, uncompliant mother figure isn't? Of course he never escapes racism or cruelty in all its iterations and measures no matter where he roams, and I appreciate that truth. Exceptionalism in relation to white supremacy allows for a black president of the United States to be considered "not that black." It allows for highly successful black Americans (Oprah, Tyler Perry, LeBron James) to be considered not representative of the communities they come from. Exceptionalism erases colour by raising the individual "above" others and above the systems in place to keep them "in their place." As a white reader of a book by an Afro-Canadian author, I am aware of this exceptionalism and I assume that Edugyan is using it in some other way - a way I am undoubtedly blind to.

Regarding the scientist brother "saviour," it's possible also to argue that he was not so much kinder as less honest about his assessment that Wash is disposable, useable, and less than fully human. He is painfully exploitive of the problem of the notion of the white saviour. It is a strength of Edugyan's characters that no one is wholly good, no one is predictable, and the "good" are only ever really "less bad" - and that in bits and pieces. Titch's complicity in the slave trade feels much too much like my own complicity in white supremacy for me to be at ease with his role. I am more at ease with the parts of the story that don't include him.

Quick-witted, intellectually stimulating, richly peopled and atmosphere, and moving at a compelling pace, Washington Black is a hugely readable and deeply enjoyable book. When Albert Camus said "fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth," Edugyan was exactly the kind of truth teller he was speaking of, and how fortunate we are to have truth-tellers like her.

Oh, and keep an eye out for the octopus. What an octopus!