I read this book because of a column the author wrote in the Washington Post about the recent police shootings in the news. She’d lost her brother to a police shooting just before (literally days before) I was born and for some reason, the fact of this timing intrigued me to want to learn more about it. Something poetic or whatever about being born just as someone else died ... I think that was a Live song in the 90s.
Anywho, there are parts of this memoir that speak loudly to my inner word nerd. This is obviously someone who knows how to wield words to her advantage. I love how language can recall the visceral—something you’d never imagine needing the words to evoke. There’s a line towards the end of the book about blood that pauses briefly through the heart that I would have paid my left boob to have written.
The reckoning of her brother’s death is intertwined with her own exploration of “giving,” which I think is really probably more “caregiving” than anything else. The author makes the assumption that this is a woman thing—that no woman’s life is her own because she is always someone’s wife, mom, etc.—so her giving is hard-wired and essential for survival.
And this is where I have to start lobbing off stars from my review. This part of me has been out of order since at least 1995, if not sooner. I just do not feel this pull that the author describes as supposedly ingrained in my uterus. This instinct doesn’t live in me, and I’m not sure whether it ever did live there, and it just died when I “got sad” or whether it has never been there to begin with.
I don’t feel incomplete as a person if my husband doesn’t have clean underpants. I don’t stress over whether my yard is weeded or if the throw pillows on my love seat match. As a kid I didn’t play mommy—I played teacher, doctor, store. My dolls were clients and patients, not beings that needed my care to survive. So to pile onto the rhetorical garbage heap that says I have to take care of others and be a mommy to matter as a woman just makes me feel more and more like a junkyard dog. And not a nice dog, an ornery, one-eyed filth-caked mange with a bum leg and a slobbery sneer. One you see with equal parts pity and disgust and wonder, “Whatever happened to that one?”