black and (A)broad

Several months ago I read this review of Erika Kennedy’s second novel Feminista, by Rebecca Walker, an artist who’s work I respect. Finally, I thought, a black woman who’s created a powerful, black female main character who breaks the stereotypical mold from which most black female characters are cast. Ms. Walker, a self-proclaimed feminista who describes herself and other feministas she’s met as “smart as hell and not afraid to flex. We shop hard, love harder and care about the world even more…” was nothing about positive about this book. If it was good enough for Ms. Walker, surely it was worth the twenty bucks for me to buy. I was so excited about reading it, that I invited a fellow blogger, Saffia Farr at Motherhood and Anarchy to read it and join me on Skype to talk about it.

Saffia and I have a lot in common. We’re both freelance writers who blog about our experiences, we work from home while mothering small children and we both have an expat experience, which broadly informs the first two similarities. It took us a couple of weeks to even make a date for our first unofficial virtual book club because of our hectic schedules, but we managed to have a stimulating and thought-provoking discussion.

The book basically follows Sydney Zamora on her quest to find a husband in New York city. That’s it…basically. All right, all right. Sydney represents today’s American citizen: her father was an Afro-Cuban lawyer and her mother’s a socialite of Irish descent. She’s a celebrity writer for one of New York’s top women’s magazines and has the wardrobe to rival Carrie Bradshaw’s, although Sydney bought most of hers on sale.

She might very well represent today’s American woman: focused on her weight – she was fat until she met a nutritionist who coached her down to a size six – slightly neurotic yet loveable, opinionated to the point of judgmental and trapped in the same old clichéd dilemma of motherhood vs. career. Oh, and she loves her designer clothes.

Well, let me change that: she may very well represent Hollywood’s version of today’s American woman.

I wasn’t quite sure whether or not I liked Feminista, so I made a short “likes/dislikes” list to try to nudge my opinion one way or the other.

Liked

It held my interest to the very end despite it’s being a romance novel

I love how Kennedy deconstructs the old-fashioned Harlequin genre. Sydney is believable, especially in a 21st-century context where the world is much broader than intra-racial love, “pure” lineage, obsolete gender roles, unconditional acceptance of motherhood as a woman’s ultimate goal or using a hotshot career in exchange for it.

I also loved getting a peek (even a fictional one) inside the personalities, if not the lives, of New York’s elite social circles. The same goes for getting on the inside track of writing for a high-circulation magazine.

I love that Erica Kennedy is a black female author who has broken into a mainstream genre. I know she’ll inspire plenty of aspiring writers.

Didn’t like

Sydney.
She was too judgmental. I was deeply disappointed that judgment here is equated with feminism. Sydney’s attack on her psychiatrist or her deeply seeded hatred for another character’s high-society lifestyle, for example, have nothing to do with supporting the choices other women make.

There is no progression in the motherhood vs. career debate. Where’s the character that’s balancing both and all the while grumbling? Where’s the stay-at-home mom who has a fulfilling life defined outside of her children? What about a stay-at-home dad who’s still sexy?

Can chick lit really call itself feminist?

Saffia and I discuss where Feminista missed the mark

We both agreed that Kennedy’s brand of feminism was way off base.

Saffia: My definition of feminism involves choice. To me a modern feminist is someone who makes positive choices, a woman who chooses what role she wants. Due to the Feminist movement we now have a choice whether to work or stay at home, we do not have to “do as we are told” in the same way.

There’s this whole argument about stay at home mums being negative role models for their daughters because they are not working. I do not agree because for me it is all about choice. I worked hard to have a career but then CHOSE to give it up.

Sydney was not a strong character because she just seemed to be drifting into things and complaining all the time. And then she just decides she has to get married…She was an angry young woman, very anti-man and male establishment… Generally she just moaned and complained too much to be a positive female role model!

black and (A)broad: Anger. That’s what got the movements started so many decades ago. I’m not sure if anger is driving women today. Maybe it is. But my guess is that we’re looking for support. Anger is an outdated notion, in my opinion.

Whereas the traditional feminist movements were largely about getting our VOICEs heard, women today are moving towards making their own CHOICEs – like you said - and seeking SUPPORT for their choices.

Nor was Sydney the most credible role model for our two-woman, international book club.

Saffia: The whole fashion thing for Sydney didn’t sit well with me; the fact that
she’d been so fat and then suddenly was size tiny and obsessed with high fashion.
For me that belittled the intelligence she was supposed to have.

black and (A)broad: I didn’t even catch the size thing, but you’re so right. If Kennedy’s agenda is to deconstruct today’s (or yesterday’s) image of woman, she missed the target on this topic. On the other hand, I’m afraid American culture is still too limited to accept an overweight heroin.

And then there’s the working mom vs. stay-at-home mom debate

Saffia: I felt she was very dismissive of motherhood.

black and (A)broad: For me, I’m still waiting to read about a woman who has an experience similar to mine. Yes, I work, but from home. I’m probably closer to housewife than I am to career woman, but I’m not at all desperate or demented. In fact, I feel like I’m more in control of my days and my life in general than a lot of people out there doing the 9-5 corporate thing. Where are the strong female characters who take on motherhood AND work-hood in a realistic way? That’s what I want to read about.

I think Saffia and I were online for almost two hours. We had a stimulating conversation about writing and publishing, as she’s also busy with her next book. In the end, reading this book and then discussing it brought me to ask this question: isn’t it time to lose the word “feminism” and all its derivations? Aren’t we tired of being defined in such polarizing terms as mother or professional? We have so many more options, our lives have expanded way beyond the motherhood/career dichotomy that this novel ultimately re-presents.

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A few months ago I indulged in a rare treat: I got to watch a full episode of Oprah without my six-year-old’s constant “When can I watch Sponge Bob?” interruptions. And a treat it was because Steve Harvey, one of my favorite comedians, was promoting his then-new book Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man.

As usual he had me cracking up with his no-holds-barred responses to women’s questions like “What’s the definition of a lady?” “Why aren’t men attracted to professionally successful black women?” and “How long should I wait before I give my boyfriend the cookie?” In some cases his facial expressions said volumes more than any funny words he could come up with.

So, I went ahead and invested my little $15 and bought his best-selling book to see what this comedian could teach me about men. I was not disappointed, I must say. It was well written and his ideas well expressed. And why wouldn’t they be? He (and his ghost writer) proved to be well aware of the two cardinal rules of book writing: write what you know and show instead of tell.

Indeed, reading page after page of valuable insight into how (some) men think was like watching Mr. Harvey doing an excellent stand-up comedy routine. I laughed out loud while reading the chapter “We Need to Talk”, and Other Words That Make Men Run for Cover.” Not only was it funny, but truth came springing out at me like a jack-in-the-box – big smile and all.

How many times have I tried to engage my husband in the type of conversations I have with my girlfriends only to have him respond to me in monosyllables and then turn on the tv when he obviously thought the conversation had ended. The longest conversations we’ve had to date have been the ones in which I’m asking him for his opinion about launching my business as a freelance writer and editor and keeping it up and running. And, yes, a big part of those talks is about him creating solutions to my problems.

The book’s strength is that Harvey’s words of wisdom are not just his. Case in point: he opens the book with “There is no truer statement: men are simple.” I just threw up my hands and laughed at this. I mean my husband spent YEARS trying to get me to understand this simple truth. I got it. I know I got it because I find myself saying the same thing to my own girlfriends when they’re bitching about their husbands, after which we giggle and move on to another topic. He’s told me on umpteen occasions that I “look beautiful”. And do you know I’ve had the nerve to ask him “Well, what exactly do you mean ‘I look beautiful”? My hair? My clothes”? LOL

Then he advises women to tell men what they want, after all they’re not mind readers. I had to think back to the time when I had to call my father for advice on how to “make” hubby help around the house after my first child was born. “I feel like I’ve got two kids now, Dad.” To which he responded, “First of all, don’t refer to him as a child. He’s a grown man and a grown man needs to be trained.” My chin about hit the floor. I mean this coming from a man … from my father. “Make a list of what he does and what you do. Then sit down with him and ask him to pick the things off the list he wants to do. Once he knows what’s expected of him, he’ll do it.”

How many times has hubby asked me to make him a list of things I’d like him to do? And how many times had I resisted until I had that talk with my father? I trust and respect my husband and my father, so when I read the very same information in Harvey’s book, I could only nod my head and say “mmmmm hhmmm”.

Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man’s other strength is that it steers away from preaching an essentialist theory of how men think. According to Harvey, men are TAUGHT to want to provide for a woman. They’re TAUGHT to protect her. They’re TAUGHT to profess her as his woman, wife or significant other when he loves and respects her. Although Harvey does tend to generalize that all “good” men are taught this, which I’m not sure is true, I think we women would do well to understand that this is may be what’s going through a man’s mind when trying to decide whether you’re a throwback or a keeper.

Realizing that a comedian shares the same wisdom as the two most important men in my life, that he doesn’t profess an essentialist explanation for men’s behavior and that he’s a middle-aged man with track record of a good relationship behind him make him a credible author. He never claims to be an expert on relationships; on the contrary, he states that he’s a man and that he knows how men think. That’s enough for me to recommend this book to anyone!

I wish I could say the same for Karrine Steffans The Vixen Manual in which she claims to teach us how to “find, seduce and keep the man you want”. I had no idea who this beautiful woman was until I read a review of the book on The Root. I immediately ordered it through amazon.com to read alongside Harvey’s.  

Despite her previous best-selling success stories, which I have not read (nor do I intend to read), The Vixen Manual is not terribly well written. It’s vague and long-winded and not at all edgy, which I had expected given the book’s title. I wasn’t really impressed with the graphic pictures accompanying the “vixen tips” on how to sex your man up. Sure, we could all learn a thing or two from her sex tips, but I’ve learned in my marriage that regular sex, although crucial, is a small part of keeping my man interested in staying with me vice versa. Not only did I not learn anything from reading this book, I actually took issue with some of the advice.

My blood boiled upon reading this advice: “Please your man. Give him what he wants” and suggesting that we “give a man what he asks for and do so without questioning it”. I guess she actually believes that “Submission is not a sign of weakness but of respect for the one you love and, mostly, for yourself.” I tried in vain to extract some inkling of truth from these words and just couldn’t.

I asked my husband once what it was about me that attracted him. Without hesitation he said, “I liked the way you looked, the fact that you’re brilliant and that you treat other people well. Most of all I liked that you never backed down; you didn’t always go along with what I wanted. That’s what I found the most attractive.” Is my husband is the exception?

I’ve come to realize that what keeps hubby interested in me is actually my interest in myself. I’ve come to accept and embrace the person I am – the good parts and the not-so-good parts – which has boosted my confidence like nothing else. Now that I no longer make my decisions based on pleasing others (hubby included), I actually have the energy needed to explore my potential as a whole person. I reserve the right to tell hubby “no” sometimes, and I do so with grace.

In another part of the book she highlights this tip: “Part of a woman’s power exists in knowing … that it’s okay to relinquish power to her male counterpart.” How is she defining “power”? I’ve learned that true power is internal and the base of it is, again, accepting and embracing the person I am. Forgiveness is empowering; trusting my instinct is empowering; learning that I am in charge of my own life and that I’m where I am because of the decisions I’ve made and continue to make is empowering. What man who truly loves and respects you would want you to relinquish that gift to yourself? What woman who truly loves herself would do so?

I could go on and on with these sorts of examples, but I refuse to belabor the point, so I’ll stop. Instead I’ll go on to another topic that arises from celebrities such as Harvey and Steffans, which is why they get to publish books and other “serious” writers get rejection letters. I’ll admit that another article from The Root got me to thinking about this very question, especially being the aspiring published author that I am!

I wrote in the post about Eat, Pray and Love that I believe no writer has an original to topic, rather originality stems from the author’s ability to tell old stories with a new, refreshing voice. I believe Steve Harvey has done that, which is why I recommend reading it. I would not recommend reading Steffan’s. But, if curiosity is compelling you to do so, I would suggest reserving an hour or so at Border’s and reading it there. Steffans sums up her own long-windedness in handy side boxes, and if you read those, you’ll have read all you need to. The only reason I would recommend buying The Vixen Manual is that our purchase supports a black female writer (at least that’s the only way I could justify buying a copy!)

That said, I also believe that Steffans will definitely appeal to a market that would never be reached by, say, a report from the Kinsey Institute or an academic-style essay. She’s not off base with a lot of the advice that she gives, so her book will help a lot of young girls and women who respond to the (sometimes graphic) language she speaks, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

I’ll end this review with a question of my own: is there a piece of relationship advice that you’ve heard and incorporated and think is sound?

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“The Saddlebag” by Bahiyyih Nakhjavani has to be one of, if not the most, beautifully written books I’ve ever had the pleasure of reading. Sound like an exaggeration? Then order your own copy from amazon.com and find out for yourself.

The book’s premise is fairly simple and obvious: a day in the life of nine characters, from whose individual perspectives the story is told, is forever entwined in the mysterious contents of a saddlebag. Stolen by a Bedouin thief from a seemingly wealthy merchant while performing his ablutions before kneeling in prayer, the saddlebag passes through the hands and lives of the chieftan, bride, moneychanger, slave, pilgrim, priest, dervish, and the corpse, bestowing upon each some miracle of eternal wisdom and/or salvation.

Each chapter, which I think could stand alone and still contain a strong message and storyline, narrates the haunting background of one of the characters while explaining how each interprets the meaning of the event that moves the plot along. Not one of the characters is without the proverbial sin; each is flawed either physically or morally or both, which Nakhjavani balances, however, with a character’s redeeming act, virtuous past or divine consciousness that blows in with the sandstorm – a life (or death)-defining moment for all of them.

Nakhjavani’s imagery is really the main character in “The Saddlebag”. I could see myself standing in the middle of the desert that she invokes in her description of the Thief:

“And though he had been orphaned young he had never felt forlorn in the desert…it had been a mother and a father to him, a teacher, a lover and a guide. Despite his illiteracy, the desert made a scholar of him too. He discovered whole treatises hidden in sandstorms; he read a thousand poems inscribed across the wide horizon…he knew the secret paths along the creviced cliffs and could read the riddles in the moving dunes…the wind was his religion and the planet Venus was his love and he had found the traces of their will in rocks and desert valleys…”

My breath caught a few pages later as I “overheard” the conversation between the moon “his advocate” and the breeze “his accuser” about his dilemma, which was to hang with a group of bandits, helping them to steal the mysterious saddlebag and share in booty, thereby giving up his beloved freedom, or to ditch them, risking their wrath (along with his life) at his betrayal, and live freely.

“A fine coward,” whistled the breeze harshly. “A better hypocrite than any pilgrim, a worse liar than any mirage!” The bandits were drinking with wild abandon and were becoming rowdy around the fire which the fierce wind whipped into their faces.”

“His original bargain had been to exchange his freedom for protection,” replied the moon quietly, “but now he prefers liberty at any price.” And she pulled herself loose from a last tag of cloud to prove it, and sailed eloquently into the dark dunes of the uncharted universe. The Thief heard the breeze betray him, but it seemed the bandits did not.” 

She describes the Falasha slave as being “trapped within antitheses of her own construction, superstitious contradictions that cancelled each other out, like fever accompanied by chills.” And every move she makes and every word she utters are done so in terms of contradiction, like in this scene when she was pouring life-saving water into the parched throat of the Priest, who had antagonized her (and every other woman’s) presence throughout the fateful trek through the desert:

“It must have been the fatal devil of the damned who loosed the gates of Sheol and summoned the spirits of despair and laughter to inhabit the earth and who kept her alive just long enough to save the life of a man who hated her, although she had been unable to save the girl she loved.

The novel is full of such breathtaking descriptions and cliche-less imagery, and even has an unexpected twist in one of her characters.

It’s been a long time since I’ve read a piece of literature whose beauty literally made me want to cry – no joke. I thank my good friend Kurt, an American neighbor from California with whom I’ve formed my own little, informal book club, for lending me this treasure, and I would recommend that you read it, too.

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Before I began writing my own memoir, I spent many hours scouring the internet for titles of other memoirists from whom I could learn more about the craft. Through one of my favorite sites, I stumbled upon Chester Himes, who I had never heard of…that is, until I found out who he was: the so-called father of the black detective novel. Indeed, he wrote “Cotton Comes to Harlem”, which was adapted to film back in the early seventies.

Just reading those four words instantly transported me back to my little girl life in Indiana, starving, like many blacks in those days, for validation in a country that told us we had little value. Along with other movies – “Shaft”, “Three The Hard Way”, “Sheba Baby”, “Uptown Saturday Night – “Cotton Comes to Harlem” comprised the much criticized blaxploitation. Back then I, along with the dozens of black people watching the movie, weren’t too concerned with the political shortcomings of a film genre that admittedly (albeit arguably) exploited one aspect of the black American experience. In this case we were thrilled to see a black man who made it to the end of the movie!

I couldn’t wait to get my hands on a copy of Himes’s autobiography “My Life of Absurdity: The Later Years” and learn more about – and from – a man who, once upon a time, showed me that blacks were worth something. I ended up getting a lot more than I bargained for because this follow up to an earlier autobiography, “The Quality of Hurt: The Early Years”, focuses on his life in Paris, scraping by as an expatriate black writer. Kind of like me.

In fact, for my 40th birthday, a couple of fellow writers and I took to the streets of Paris in an attempt to absorb inspiration from a city that just decades ago called to other literary greats, visual artists, and entertainers. In the case of Himes, inspiration gave way to bitterness and resentment in the face of a city and profession that refused to recognize his worth. Hell, the man had to beg agents and publishers alike for advance money just so he could eke out a not-so-glamorous living in cheap hotels and grubby hostels. Not much has changed, I see!

Although not much happens in this literary version of Himes’s life, the book is sustained by his raw anger and bitter disillusionment toward the racism that he felt on two continents. Delivering a power-packed punch in the opening lines, he sets the in-your-face tone that took me several chapters to adjust to. Bear with me as I quote these lines extensively:

“Albert Camus once said that racism is absurd. Racism introduces absurdity
into the human condition. Not only does racism express the absurdity of the
racists, but it generates absurdity in the victims. And the absurdity of the
victims intensifies the absurdity of the racists, ad infinitum. If one lives in a
country where racism is held valid and practiced in all ways of life, eventually,
no matter whether one is a racist or a victim, one comes to feel the absurdity
of life…So it was with me.”

After reading this, I immediately recalled my graduate school days struggling to make sense of “lo absurdo” in late 19th and early 20th century Latin American literature. How I wish I’d read Himes because every episode in his 398-page autobiography exists for one reason only: to graphically illustrate his life of absurdity. From his quest to get paid for “If He Hollers Let Him Go” to his love affairs with white women to his trans-Atlantic correspondence with Carl Van Vechten (patron of Harlem Renaissance) to his relationships with fellow “soul brothers” in Paris (Richard Wright, Ollie Harrington, Bertel, Melvin van Peebles, Carlos Moore – whose work on the second-class citizenship of blacks in Castro’s Cuba would have figured prominently in my dissertation) he details an irrational world, at the center of which is Himes and his writing.

An example of his tremendous skill in depicting absurdity is captured in an instant as he enters the luxurious home of Marcel Duhamel, founder of La Serie Noire, the imprint that published Himes’s detective series, and one person he repeatedly appealed to for advance monies. Again, I quote at length:

“The door from the entrance hall at the back of the house was coated with
heavy lead, upon which were inscribed the titles of all famous Serie Noire
books ever published. Running through all these titles from one corner of the
door at the top to the opposite corner at the bottom, like a mighty river taking
all its tributaries to the sea, heavily engraved in the thick lead, was the title
“La Reine des Pommes” (The Five-Cornered Square). I felt my heart stand
utterly still. Then I thought of the house that “La Reine des Pommes” built.
After that I didn’t think any more.”

The quintessence of absurdity must be the whole of chapter ten where Himes recounts buying a used car. Anyone who’s had the misfortune of getting stuck with a lemon would sympathize with his trials and tribulations trying to keep it running. He bought it off an American heiress who was “idiotic enough to order a Volkswagen from New York while residing in France, less than 300 miles from Wolfsburg, Germany, where they were made…That, alone, should have put me off.”

Between the bureaucracy of registering it in France, not an easy task for a black American expat writer, and the chore of scraping together enough money to pay for the sundry repairs, he had me questioning why he didn’t cut his losses short and just get rid of the damn thing. But then again, showing the absurdities in his life is the whole point of the book. Himes said it himself, knowing her character, the car’s owner “should not have been permitted to influence [his] life even in an infinitesimal way”, but she did.

His autobiography is a detailed testimony to the substantial mishaps and injustices surrounding his writing, his lobbies to get it published, and, most importantly, his attempts to get paid for it. If I have one criticism it would be about this point. After reading over 200 pages of insignificant details, it became monotonous. I’d already gotten the point – several times over – and so struggled to finish it.

So who should read this book? Any beginning memoirist. How he masters the technique of showing instead of telling is unparalleled, and the way he maintained his focus on his theme can only be admired. Anyone intrigued by the cafe culture of post-war Paris would only benefit from reading about this gloomier side of the “city of light”. Finally, for someone who’s curious about the foundation of blaxploitation films – including “Cotton Comes to Harlem” – this is an important source.

**I found this intelligent and informative documentary on blaxploitation. It’s long, but commentaries from the likes of Sam Jackson, Pam Grier, various scholars, and Tupac Shakur’s mother!, will hold your attention.

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Call Me Okaasan: Adventures in Multicultural Mothering. Suzanne Kamata. Deadwood, OR: Wyatt-MacKenzie Publishing, Inc., May 2009. 204 pages.

What crosses national borders and transcends cultural differences? What offers daily challenges, adventure, and unlimited growth potential? What requires advanced problem-solving skills, multitasking abilities, and proven experience as a mediator?

If you guessed an executive of an international conglomerate, you’d be wrong. If you guessed a navy admiral, you’d be way off base. If you thought of a mother, you’d be close, and if you said a multicultural mother, you’d win the grand prize.

More than a job, function, or role multicultural mothering is a consciousness born of adopting a child whose ethnic or racial background is different from one’s own. It’s a sensibility that comes from raising a family in a foreign country. Indeed, it’s one more piece of the mothering puzzle, one that fits Call Me Okaasan snugly into the existing literature on motherhood and global mobility.

Compiled by author, editor, and global mother Suzanne Kamata, this collection is the progeny of twenty women writers from around the world who have come together to record their individual, international experiences. They tackle the challenges that are sometimes unique to mothering in a culturally diverse family, usually thousands of miles from their support systems and family networks. From haunting to humorous, informative to nostalgic, confrontative to conceptual, each story takes on an aspect of this phenomenon: language, ethnic and racial identity, national alliances within the family unit, negotiating multiple cultures, traveling with young children, etc.

The clash of cultures, for example, is the protagonist in “A Santa Snafu”. An American mother wanting to share Christmas in Turkey with her bicultural son doesn’t understand at first why she’s being snubbed by the mothers at her son’s school. She has no other alternative than to try to smooth their ruffled feathers first in her broken Turkish, then with the help of a last-minute interpreter, a mother whose empathy saves the (holi)day.

“Like the Lotus” is Leza Lowitz’s gripping story of a forty-something, Jewish American woman’s battle to adopt a child in Japan with her Japanese husband. The backbone of the story is two cultures steeped in tradition that eventually will merge in the upbringing of a special little boy whose resilience has the power to teach his parents a thing or two about life.

“A Hundred Years at Fifteen” poignantly depicts three generations of strong Chinese women whose narratives interlace as each is on the verge of womanhood. The culmination of spousal abuse, arranged marriage, and sexual perversion is played out in modern-day America where the fourth generation’s identity is being shaped by Star Trek, homosexuality, and open conversations about sex.

There is no doubt that this book needed to be written now. With the surge in internet availability and usage, increased mobility, and the advances in technology that keep global people connected, it’s no secret that the world has gotten smaller. Not just individuals but entire families are traveling and living all over the world. The stories compiled in Call Me Okaasan don’t claim to have all the solutions, but they do challenge the traditional silence that accompanies a multicultural lifestyle. Oftentimes mothers fall prey to self-sabotaging thoughts that promote isolation. They may be saying to themselves that “it was my choice to move here; I have no right to complain”. They may think that “the other mothers around me aren’t struggling; I must work harder”. Or they chastise themselves that “oh, I’m just being silly. Of course little Billy will speak English someday”. Just knowing “I’m not the only one” will empower women to talk about their particular challenges. Therein lies this book’s strength.

Not everyone in a global mother’s immediate surroundings will understand what she’s going through. Not even the family and close friends she’s left behind will be able to advise her on these complex issues. Luckily, multicultural moms have this resource, which is open, honest, and accessible to readers of all levels. It can be read in one sitting or one story at a time over a period of days, weeks, or months.

**This book is the winner of the Parenting/Family and Anthology categories in the 2009 Next Generation Indie Book Awards and was declared third place Grand Prize winner in nonfiction overall.

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James McBride, author of best-selling memoir The Color of Water, has followed up his second book Miracle at St. Anna with something closer to home. Song Yet Sung
opens onto slave Liz Spocott escaping from her owner in rural Maryland. She is shot down. She wakes up days later in the attic of Patty Cannon, ruthless lady slave thief, chained to thirteen other slaves, recovering from the gunshot wound to her head, and having visions of a bleak future for “free” blacks. Once again she manages to escape captivity, accidentally freeing the other slaves and setting the novel’s plot. She brings the reader along with her through Maryland swampland with the ruthless Cannon hot on her trail. Liz’s safety is crucial for the future of the free black race and for Amber, who falls in love with her against his better judgment and ultimately puts her future into the hands of the Underground Railroad. Meanwhile, her erstwhile master makes contact the Gimp, the meanest, baddest slave catcher those parts had ever seen, and coaxes him out of retirement. Although the Gimp’s down on his luck and doesn’t care whether he lives or dies, he’s the only one who can break “the Code”. Can Liz make it North before her enemies or her visions kill her?

Of course, I won’t answer that question, but I will say that this is one of the most refreshing books I’ve read in a long time. McBride’s well-researched story grabbed and held my attention from cover to cover. It’s fast paced, easy to follow, and accessible to a general audience. Although I tend to stay away from books focusing on slavery (mainly because I’ve found very few that have actually taught me anything new), I latched onto this one because my aunt Alice was so enthusiastic about it. She also gave it to me this past summer when we were visiting my family in Toledo. I could have sworn she said it featured a black female slave catcher, but I must have misunderstood her because Patty Cannon is not black. When I realized that, well into the second half, my own enthusiasm began to wane. Once I learned that Liz and her visions weren’t actually the center around which future black lives would revolve, it continued to dwindle. In fact, she was just a link in the chain of events that, at the end of the book, didn’t seem to connect logically.

I loved McBride’s detailing of how the Underground Railroad actually worked. He beautifully and skillfully illustrated its players (slaves and free blacks) and the secret language they used (a blacksmith’s hammering, a quilt, a mailman’s arrangement of parcels) thereby highlighting the agency of black people during a time when arbitrary cruelty defined their very existence. Other than this, I learned very little, and by the end of the novel, I was left wanting. Female slave thieves/catchers of any color were a rarity in this quintessential man’s world. What circumstances created Patty Cannon? One of the 19th-century Cuban novels I was analyzing for my doctoral dissertation weaved a historical black slave catcher into the plot. A counterpart must have existed in US slave history; why not feature him and show yet another facet of black slave identity? And the Woolman, the most redeeming character in the novel, immediately reminded me the maroon colonies I’d read about in Caribbean literature. These communities of fugitives offered (armed) resistance to that monolithic system of slavery. I believe that one of the most exciting aspects of being an author is questioning, embellishing, or even changing history, so why kill him off?

The only round character is the Gimp, who is sent to destroy the little bit of black agency McBride depicts. What’s up with that?

Ok. I’ll get off my high horse now and give McBride credit for taking on a topic that seems to have become saturated. I’m intrigued that his musical background shows up subtly in the rhythmic construction of his sentences and look forward to checking out his other works. I’ll also look forward to Song Yet Sung opening up in a theater near me!

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Diahann Carroll was a lady of firsts: the first black woman to win a Tony Award; the first black woman to star in her own sitcom; the first black woman to play Norma in Sunset Boulevard; the first black bitch on “Dynasty”. She’s been equally tireless in her personal life with a string of failed marriages, broken engagements, and a tumultuous affair with none other than Sidney Poitier on her list of credits. When such a juicy morsel of a life gets written down in a memoir entitled The Legs Are the Last to Go, you just can’t wait to sink your teeth into it. I waited for weeks for Amazon to deliver me my personal copy and was upset when I was forced to go to Austria without it. After seeing her on Tavis Smiley radiating such poise and maturity as she fielded his sometimes aggressive questions about the contents of her book, I just knew her memoir would occupy a place on my “for keeps” shelf.

I opened the book to an exquisite black and white photo of her in a low cut gown peeking out from under a politically incorrect full-length fur coat. I began reading her description of the luxuries surrounding her elegant New-York-City lifestyle, and even laughed out loud at her reaction to tripping over her stylish wide-leg pants while walking in trendy pointy-toe shoes: “Did I now have to give up high heels or risk more serious falls in years to come?” It’s the sort of dry humor that makes retrospective soul searching do-able. But as I got further into her memoir, I realized that comment had no more layers of meaning than a young child’s brutally honest comment about one’s choice of outfits.

In her fifty plus years in show business, Diahann Carroll, now seventy-four, desegregated a nation’s perception of who could be glamorous in an industry not known for its abundance of welcome wagons. She challenged a nation’s perception of black womanhood. She bore the brunt of egregious racist acts with grace, refusing to use them as an excuse to behave badly in return. I just knew the discerning woman she was would show up on page after page of a book full of insights. I just knew I’d be wowed by her wisdom. Boy, was I disappointed.

Statements like the one above should have been like a good accessory and made her story dazzle. Unfortunately, statements like that were a shining example of accessories gone bad; they were the story. Not even a woman who’s made the International Best Dressed list, as Diahann Carroll can’t stop mentioning, could do so simply by piecing together accessories. Her story is riddled with comments about how well she dressed; every anecdote included a detailed description of how fabulous she looked. By the time I got to the halfway point I was annoyed by the book’s lack of depth.

A case in point is her recounting a disagreement she had with the producer of the film version of Porgy & Bess over a headscarf: “It was as hideous a look as I ever had to endure, and all the more annoying after my recent glamorous appearances in nightclubs and on television.” And at her mother’s funeral: “She wasn’t the only one who was well turned out for the funeral. I wore a stylish Carolina Herrera suit for the occasion…” The fatuous remark she made later on in the book as she discussed her cancer diagnosis and treatment forced me to accept that this memoir of a show biz icon was incapable of depth or circumspection. “I was lying there under the radiation machine…the thought inexplicably came to me that if a cure for cancer were found, then this young man would be out of work. Each year 140,000 women are diagnosed with breast cancer alone. My treatment took a half hour.” With such a staggering statistic, I would have appreciated a remark showing her awareness of the politics of cancer research and treatment. At the very least I would have liked to read empathy in her “insights”.

Contributing to the book’s shallowness were the questions left unanswered like why she and her first husband divorced. We know very little about her younger sister Lydia and even less about Lydia’s problems. Carroll tells us of her decision to keep her distance until Lydia sought treatment, but for what? Was she mentally ill? Was she addicted to something? I was also salivating for the details of her plastic surgery, which she was candid about having. However, I’d have like to know what, exactly she’s had done.

I cheered Carroll when she showed up on Dynasty and just knew her character, Dominique Devereux, was bitch enough to take on a powerhouse like Joan Collins’s character Alexis Carrington. That notwithstanding, I’ve never been a fan of hers, and this memoir has not turned me into one. Still, thanks to YouTube, I’ve watched various clips of her performing and must admit she’s quite good at what she does. Too bad that talent didn’t spill over into her memoir.

For me this book provided me my first glimpse of the politics of old Hollywood and Broadway. It took me behind the scenes of an industry I respect as much as I sometimes despise. For the first time I had a front row seat to a one-woman fashion show could rival the best of New York’s fashion week. Alas, when I pick up a memoir, I’d rather read about a person’s life and not about the life of her wardrobe.

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Orange Mint and Honey is a gripping story of a young woman who finds herself in the midst of an identity crisis that has her literally pulling out her hair and seeing Nina Simone “standing in front of her bedroom window.” At the urging of the High Priestess of Soul, LaShay takes a leave of absence from her graduate studies at the University of Iowa and goes home to her recovering alcoholic mother in Denver. From that point on, Brice entangles her readers in a universal tale of a daughter coming to terms with the flaws of her mother. In order to find out who she is, LaShay must first reconcile her anger and bitterness; she must confront her mother, who in the meantime has had another child.

Carlene Brice grapples with universal themes such as a tumultuous mother-daughter relationship, recovery from addiction, first love, and survival. But she puts these themes in a refreshingly urban setting. Brice writes in a clear and accessible style that keeps the story moving around utterly believable and human characters. Unfortunately, Nina Simone doesn’t significantly figure into the story. I was expecting a more profound inclusion of her music or her life. I thought Brice would draw parallels between this brilliant artist and the young life developing in her main character. It’s definitely worth reading!

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The Witch of Portobello by Paulo Coelho

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars
When I bought this book a couple of months ago, it had been the first book (for leisurely reading) I’d bought in at least a year, if not more. I was attracted to the title as it promised something deliciously pagan. That it was written by Paulo Coelho was the icing on the cake. I took a peek at the first page while waiting in the bookstore for information about an online dictionary suitable for my Mac and got so excited about reading it. So as to avoid spur-of-the-moment spending, I left it there. For the next few days I couldn’t get this little treasure of a book out of my head, so I went and bought it. I’m not disappointed with my purchase. Coelho’s topic, the search for divinity outside the holy walls of a church, isn’t really new or original. His storytelling is what gives this subject its impact. Athena’s, the witch of Portobello, story is told, appropriately enough, through the perceptions of the people who surrounded her. And since perceptions moved the action along, I could never be sure of who to believe. Isn’t that usually the case when we’re up against something that threatens to deconstruct our safe traditions and secure beliefs? Each character had his or her own stake to claim from his/her relationship with Athena; there were no good guys or bad guys. Just as in life, the disseminator of negative energy, the worthy Reverend Buck, plays a crucial role in our quest to liberate our own inner divinity. I was visiting my favorite uncle who was lying unconscious in the ICU a few weeks ago. Instead of talking to him, I read to him. As I started reading p. 248, I hesitated. Surely this wasn’t the best reading material for a man who may well be in his deathbed. I continued, though. I finished that chapter and believed for the first time that maybe books are magical.


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