Deeply moving memoir of a multi-faceted, multi-cultural, multi-lingual, richly experienced life.
The author did an amazing job of telling her story chronologically, giving the reader the opportunity to "grow up" with her. Mrs. Tully built the characters, places and stories in such a way as to make me, the reader, feel like I was sitting in the parlor hearing her life story and getting to know her in a very intimate, personal way.
As she draws the character of herself, I can feel her calm review of life events, but also the more subtle feelings of her passion for her husband, son, bio family, as well as her child-time love of Mutti and Ruth. It is clear, though, that her feelings about Ruth are a bit more complex and nuanced event by event.
I very much appreciated the way she draws out the racial and class challenges. She tells it in a first person way, a way that allows us to be a fly on the wall watching and understanding the experience, rather than just telling us about it. The use of colloquial language is powerful in the situations she describes, showing the sharp contrast between the African-American of the time and her own experience as a black person.
I love how she shows that black skin does not define a person. It only hints at the challenged experience the person has lived. It is good for all to see that racial assumptions are not always accurate and we cannot define a population based on the color of their eyes, their skin and their hair. The same is true with the classism she describes.
It is brilliant to bring classism into the conversation, as for far too long the powers that be have confused race with class and the time has come for society to understand these are two different identifiers and not all of one race belong to one class. With any given race or ethnicity, there exists a heirarchy of class, which is most easily seen in India, but also exists in virtually every population.
Personally, I was deeply moved by the authors descriptions of and experience of racial struggle and self identity. I'm an in-betweener, too, in a very complicated way. One half of my family came to the New World from England in 1666. In their more recent history, my paternal grandparents were migrant workers, escaping to a permanent homestead just ahead of the dust bowl era. They were every bit the hick, and passed on that class to 3 of their 4 children.
My father was the eldest, the one who stayed close to his parents, but he rose above their class and became and well-respected member of society. I, his only child, felt the outcast at family gatherings, because I was the only dark haired child and my olive skin set me apart, along with my class code of living.
My maternal grandfather, on the other hand, was an immigrant from the Azores Islands. He spoke only Portuguese and my aunt, the eldest of 4, learned the language while sitting at his feet as he passed the time in conversation with friends. My aunt eventually married an immigrant from the Azores and they visited the islands when they could.
My mom was the youngest of the 4 and she did not learn any of the Portuguese her father spoke, nor any of the Spanish her mother spoke. My grandmother was a native of the area, whose roots trace back to a famous Portuguese whaling captain and a converted Native American woman.
When I was old enough, I begged to be taught the language and go on a trip to the Azores, but was repeatedly told that I was an American and didn't need another language nor a visit to the Old Country. I did not get to participate in the rich cultural events of the Portuguese. Many of the Portuguese in my community recognized me as Portuguese, but of a new generation of American children, not children of the Old Country. I could see in their eyes the pride of their heritage and the sadness that this generation will know nothing of the Old Country and the struggle of those who came before and made it possible for this soil under my feet to be my country.
I am, like the author, a child between cultures. An oddity in my father's family and the fulfillment of my maternal grandfather's dream to have an American family. I carry the name of his race, but I am not part of that community.
To bring one more aspect to my complicated existence is the knowledge that I am a product of the Spanish colonization and conversion of the Native Americans. The conquered and the conquerors. Which am I? I am both and none. I have, however, had some deeply spiritual experiences at historical sites where the Spanish and Native peoples were known to work and live. During those times, I felt a connection to the earth and it was almost like I could reach out and touch my acestors.
As an adoptive mom of children from Guatemala, I and my friends will have discussions about which boxes to mark on ethnicity forms, and the dilemma extends to me, as well. Am I White Hispanic? Do I mark the Native American box? For my darkest son it feels wrong to mark "white," and what about my medium brown child? The lightest I guess I could mark as white hispanic, but just because he was born in a Latin American country, does that make him Latino? After all, he is being raised as an American and not as a Latino.
Lastly, Split at the Root became very profound when I learned about the Garifuna. Another adoptive mom had mentioned that my son was of African descent and she mentioned a place in Guatemala where they live, but I never followed through. Now, as my son is working out his identity, this book fills in the blank and validates my son who has been calling himself black for a few years now.
Many, many thank yous to the author for her candid and gifted storytelling. Not only is the book wonderfully written, it has touched me in many, deep and personal ways. It came along at just the right time in my life and in my son's life. A serendipity that is not all that frequent.
Even if none of the above matters to you or touches you, I still encourage you to read the book and get to know the world of the author as she takes you through many marvelous cultures and experiences.
Happy reading!