Growing up in Brooklyn during the Vietnam War, a young woman witnesses the tearing apart of her family by anger, finances, and the draft, and when her parents fail to offer support and guidance, she struggles with society's mixed messages. 15,000 first printing. Tour.
I used to say I’d be a teacher or a lawyer or a hairdresser when I grew up but even as I said these things, I knew what made me happiest was writing.
I wrote on everything and everywhere. I remember my uncle catching me writing my name in graffiti on the side of a building. (It was not pretty for me when my mother found out.) I wrote on paper bags and my shoes and denim binders. I chalked stories across sidewalks and penciled tiny tales in notebook margins. I loved and still love watching words flower into sentences and sentences blossom into stories.
I also told a lot of stories as a child. Not “Once upon a time” stories but basically, outright lies. I loved lying and getting away with it! There was something about telling the lie-story and seeing your friends’ eyes grow wide with wonder. Of course I got in trouble for lying but I didn’t stop until fifth grade.
That year, I wrote a story and my teacher said “This is really good.” Before that I had written a poem about Martin Luther King that was, I guess, so good no one believed I wrote it. After lots of brouhaha, it was believed finally that I had indeed penned the poem which went on to win me a Scrabble game and local acclaim. So by the time the story rolled around and the words “This is really good” came out of the otherwise down-turned lips of my fifth grade teacher, I was well on my way to understanding that a lie on the page was a whole different animal — one that won you prizes and got surly teachers to smile. A lie on the page meant lots of independent time to create your stories and the freedom to sit hunched over the pages of your notebook without people thinking you were strange.
Lots and lots of books later, I am still surprised when I walk into a bookstore and see my name on a book’s binder. Sometimes, when I’m sitting at my desk for long hours and nothing’s coming to me, I remember my fifth grade teacher, the way her eyes lit up when she said “This is really good.” The way, I — the skinny girl in the back of the classroom who was always getting into trouble for talking or missed homework assignments — sat up a little straighter, folded my hands on the desks, smiled and began to believe in me.
A story told in vignettes, Woodson's debut novel looks at coming-of-age through the eyes of a young Black girl in Brooklyn. The story is centered around themes of sexuality and womanhood.
In ways, this reminded me of Sandra Cisneros' The House on Mango Street in its structure and themes. This was much more blunt and brutal in its depiction of the harsh realities of life, particularly when it comes to abuse and sexual assault. (Major trigger warnings for that in this book.)
I did find the whole to be greater than the sum of its parts. It's a vibes book, where you are simply experiencing little moments of a girl's life, and that by the end I felt more attached to it than throughout the process. I think it's a solid debut novel that succeeds in its brevity and simplicity.
“... e io -a mani vuote. Non c’è niente che voglio portare, ma la mamma ha detto: Sì che c’è. Porta quegli occhi lì. Ha detto: Quegli occhi pieni di speranza e ha sorriso, dicendomi che i miei occhi arrivano all’anima della gente come se avessi già vissuto altre vite -guardo ovunque, guardo tutti, adesso incrocio i suoi occhi ogni volta che guarda nello specchietto.”
Una storia di violenze, di emarginazione e di emancipazione raccontate in un modo tale da restare scolpito dentro.
“Lentamente sento che comincia a prendere piede una solitudine, come qualcosa di denso e caldo che mi riempie, rimettendomi insieme. Mi dicono che sono troppo magra, troppo nera, troppo arrabbiata. Mia madre scuote la testa, dice che vuole trovare il principio della mia malvagità per sradicarla completamente. Ma le radici arrivano troppo in profondità, crescono da troppo tempo. E adesso, i loro rami massicci stanno circondando questa solitudine...”
“Quando ricomincio a camminare, è come se camminassi per salvarmi la vita, come se camminassi per andarmene da una brutta storia in cui io sono il personaggio patetico. Come se stessi uscendo dalla stupida pagina di qualcun altro, che senza di me sarebbe stata bianca.”
This is the second book I have read by this author and I am in love with her prose. Woodson has the uncanny ability to capture the narrators life like it was a memoir. Tales of a family that only a member of that family would know. Intimate knowledge that is doled out bit by bit. I just wish this was longer. This is a quick read because it's a short book but I wanted so much more. Can't wait to read more by Woodson and luckily she has many more.
Gah. Mostly, I found this novella really disturbing. It all feels very experimental, and while the language is often lyrical and beautiful (which is what I loved most about Woodson's If You Come Softly), the subject matter is just relentless.
Like a 3.5. Woodson is one of our greatest living writers of incredible sentences and reflections on girlhood, but I think this book is maybe a touch too miserable? She revisits many of these same themes in Another Brooklyn to much greater effect.
I generally love books narrated by young girls, because it's a voice we so rarely get to hear. Had this novel been longer and the characters were flushed out a little more, I would've rated it higher.
Of all the Woodson books I have read, this one I liked least. Though the narrator is a child for most of the book, this is definitely not a children's or young adult book. It is harsh and I don't feel the ray of hope in this book. I need a ray of hope.
This is an early novel for adults from the master of the YA and kids books. It's definitely dark and dreary, full of sexual abuse and poverty. It has much of Woodson's characteristic poetic writing (though it's straight prose), but it's still rather depressing. I can see why it was hard to find.
Powerful story, powerful prose which slithers softly taking you places you're not sure you want to go. The end is a bit weak, but all in all this is an electric read.
La New York tra la fine degli anni 60 e i primi anni 70 raccontata attraverso gli occhi di una ragazzina afroamericana. Il racconto narrato con poche pennellate, come tante piccole foto a comporre un album di ricordi. Ricordi lontani nel tempo, a volte divertenti ma più spessi dolorosi. Attraverso i suoi occhi viviamo la storia della sua famiglia: la separazione dei genitori dopo anni di violenze e litigi; con un padre che esce di casa e dalla vita dei figli. Con una madre che si accompagna a diversi uomini sempre alla disperata ricerca dell'amore e della libertà dalle incombenze familiari. Attraverso i suoi occhi conosciamo i suoi fratelli. Troy, giovane omosessuale costretto a nascondere la sua vera identità sessuale che partirà per la guerra del Vietnam quasi come a rivendicare la sua mascolinità e che là troverà , invece, solo la morte. Angel, la sorella maggiore, inquieta e ribelle; Carlos, il fratello che la guarda con occhi che di fraterno non hanno nulla e Corey, il più piccolo, un neonato così chiaro di pelle da non sembrare figlio degli stessi genitori. E pi lei, la voce narrante, figlia di una America in pieno fermento tra guerre combattute e contestate, rivendicazioni sociali, divisioni razziali. Con "Autobiografia di una foto di famiglia" , edito da Edizioni Clichy, Jacqueline Woodson racconta la difficoltà del diventare adulti in un mondo che cambia, tra adulti disattenti e rapaci, tra paure e solitudine.
I wanted to love this book because I love this author, but this book was very disturbing. I'd say there were themes of sexual assault in this story but themes imply that you have to gather those thoughts on your own, these scenes were spilled out several times throughout almost every single chapter and by the 6th time I had grown so uncomfortable I no longer knew what this story was trying to accomplish. I believe the story is looking on this moment of time growing hip in the 60-70s and how growing up in a single household and how common these occurrences were during this time, however, it was pushed on the reader too hard and this story is not for everyone.
This books mentions sex so much that it became disturbing because it's all coming from a minor and as an adult I felt uncomfortable reading it. And I know that that was the point to see the effects that sexual assault has on families but I feel the book could have had the same effect having being mentioned less and not so much into detail that we see this through the eyes of a minor. This book just made me very uncomfortable and I do not feel I can properly be critical of it because I just wanted to finish it to get it out of my mind.
This hard-to-find debut from Jacqueline Woodson (written for adults, much in the same vein as her much lauded release Another Brooklyn last year) proves that her talents were with her very early on. I still haven't found that 5 star Woodson book, but I'll keep looking because of my love for the lyricism of her writing.
Autobiography of a Family Photo is a much sadder book than Another Brooklyn, but I liked it much better. Although it is also a fragmentary look of a girl growing up in Brooklyn, the narrative felt more unified and the lyricism more fitting for the gritty content.
This is probably one of the most striking takes on the genre created (or at least popularized) by Sandra Cisneros in The House on Mango Street. It belongs on that very shelf, and it's kind of a shame this book mostly exists in obscurity. It is proof that all of our lives are a series of impressions strung together to create a photo album of existence and memory.
Warnings noted for future readers: this is a tougher, grittier read than Mango Street, even while its images are often just as powerful.
A wonderfully written coming of age story set in 1960-70s Brooklyn. It’s told in a series of vignettes as experienced through the eyes and heart of a young girl battling to find her place in a confusing world of societal turmoil, tinged in family drama and the inescapable power of racial & sexual messages. This is an enjoyable—though often sad, short read; easily readable in one or two sittings.
Difficile da leggere, pieno di povertà e sofferenza. Non che questo sia un problema e Jacqueline Woodson scrive molto bene. Ma più che un romanzo è un elenco di brevi tragedie e non c'è niente che le tenga insieme. Fosse stato più lungo e approfondito avrai dato un voto più alto.
This book was short and kind of hard to get through as there was a couple scenes in this book where the lady got molested. If you don't want to read those kind of depictions. I would possibly steer clear of this book.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.