Breath, Eyes, Memory
Much like Toni Morrison's Beloved, Edwidge Danticat's Breath, Eyes, Memory depicts the aftermath of abuse and trauma, the risk of perpetuating such violence, and the possibility for healing.
Danticat, a Haitian American writer, sets her story in Haiti and in New York in the late 20th century, but across this cultural divide Danticat still makes an explicit connection to African American life and literature. The protagonist's mother says at one point, "I feel like I could have been Southern African American. When I just came to this country, I got it into my head that I needed some religion. I used to go to this old Southern church in Harlem where all they sang was Negro spirituals" (214). And these Negro spirituals, "like prayers" (215), are equivalent to vaudou songs. The Virgin Mary and Erzulie, a Haitian folkloric figure, are connected and combined in Sophie and her family's experiences. And rape by white men (slaveowners or colonists, it matters little) figures prominently and tragically in both African American and Haitian history and literature.
Danticat writes about sexual abuse, family ties, body image, gender roles, immigration, and death. This short novel takes on huge issues and does so masterfully. The book is beautifully written and hard to put down. This would be a fascinating book to teach for its approach to such issues and for its fascinating introduction to elements of Haitian culture. It raises big questions: What counts as abuse? How do intentions figure into determining whether behavior is abusive? How does one deal with abuse? It asks the reader to consider his/her approach to family relationships, death, and sex. And, perhaps best of all, it does these things without being preachy, condescending, or difficult.
And even though it is an Oprah Book Club Selection and, as such, includes the requisite hopefulness and move toward freedom in its conclusion, that freedom is not absolute, nor is it uncomplicated. Sophie finds a sort of freedom in the final pages, as does her mother, but that freedom is accompanied by pain and an ongoing struggle and will never exist outside of the grasp of the past and outside the women (like her mother and grandmother) who "recreate the same unspeakable acts that they themselves lived thorugh" (234). Sophie knows that "there is always a place where nightmares are passed on through generations like heirlooms" (234). She says, "I come from a place where breath, eyes, and memory are one, a place from which you carry your past like the hair on your head" (234). She may no longer feel anger or hatred about her abusive past, but she cannot escape it. She can never be completely free of it. However, she can be transformed by it, like "that woman who could never bleed and then could never stop bleeding, the one who gave into her pain, to live as a butterfly" (234), and, when asked, "Are you free, my daughter?", she will be able to answer.
Danticat gestures toward both past and future in her conclusion, and, in doing so, illustrates the complexity of the present, which is always to varying degrees informed by the past and its trauma and moving toward the future and the recovery that it represents. As in the conclusion of Beloved, the past cannot be clung to ("This is not a story to pass on."), but neither can it be forgotten ("Beloved.").
Danticat, a Haitian American writer, sets her story in Haiti and in New York in the late 20th century, but across this cultural divide Danticat still makes an explicit connection to African American life and literature. The protagonist's mother says at one point, "I feel like I could have been Southern African American. When I just came to this country, I got it into my head that I needed some religion. I used to go to this old Southern church in Harlem where all they sang was Negro spirituals" (214). And these Negro spirituals, "like prayers" (215), are equivalent to vaudou songs. The Virgin Mary and Erzulie, a Haitian folkloric figure, are connected and combined in Sophie and her family's experiences. And rape by white men (slaveowners or colonists, it matters little) figures prominently and tragically in both African American and Haitian history and literature.
Danticat writes about sexual abuse, family ties, body image, gender roles, immigration, and death. This short novel takes on huge issues and does so masterfully. The book is beautifully written and hard to put down. This would be a fascinating book to teach for its approach to such issues and for its fascinating introduction to elements of Haitian culture. It raises big questions: What counts as abuse? How do intentions figure into determining whether behavior is abusive? How does one deal with abuse? It asks the reader to consider his/her approach to family relationships, death, and sex. And, perhaps best of all, it does these things without being preachy, condescending, or difficult.
And even though it is an Oprah Book Club Selection and, as such, includes the requisite hopefulness and move toward freedom in its conclusion, that freedom is not absolute, nor is it uncomplicated. Sophie finds a sort of freedom in the final pages, as does her mother, but that freedom is accompanied by pain and an ongoing struggle and will never exist outside of the grasp of the past and outside the women (like her mother and grandmother) who "recreate the same unspeakable acts that they themselves lived thorugh" (234). Sophie knows that "there is always a place where nightmares are passed on through generations like heirlooms" (234). She says, "I come from a place where breath, eyes, and memory are one, a place from which you carry your past like the hair on your head" (234). She may no longer feel anger or hatred about her abusive past, but she cannot escape it. She can never be completely free of it. However, she can be transformed by it, like "that woman who could never bleed and then could never stop bleeding, the one who gave into her pain, to live as a butterfly" (234), and, when asked, "Are you free, my daughter?", she will be able to answer.
Danticat gestures toward both past and future in her conclusion, and, in doing so, illustrates the complexity of the present, which is always to varying degrees informed by the past and its trauma and moving toward the future and the recovery that it represents. As in the conclusion of Beloved, the past cannot be clung to ("This is not a story to pass on."), but neither can it be forgotten ("Beloved.").