Watch How We Walk is a book that conjured up old memories for me. When I was in high school, I had a friend – “Tanya” – who was a Jehovah’s Witness. I use the term “friend” loosely because I’m not sure that those of us outside the religion can ever actually penetrate their closed ranks. The one time I went to Tanya’s house after school, I got a fairly cool reception from her mother, and her brother avoided making eye contact with me. “Oh don’t worry. It’s nothing personal,” Tanya assured me. “It’s because you’re worldly.” Oh, okay. Thanks for clarifying. Jesus. But what bothered me most about the religion were the limited opportunities my bright, funny, curious, talented friend was going to have, or not have, ahead of her. Tanya was a passionate writer – she was always working on poems, stories, etc., but that core, innate talent that burned within wasn’t going to go far for a girl destined to be a full-time Pioneer (a person who devotes their time to spreading “the word” via door-knocking). I guess if she was happy following that path, I shouldn’t judge, but I think about her from time to time and wonder if she ever got a chance to really let that talent fly.
Watch How We Walk looks at this dilemma, of being free to choose one’s own path vs. living loyal to your family and faith, within the dynamics of the Morrow family, a devout Jehovah’s Witness family living in a small town where being different is always that much more pronounced. Dad Jim seems to be the most dedicated and earnest of the bunch, prone to saying things like “Easy, Vivian. Moderation,” to his wife during an argument. Meanwhile mom Vivian is quietly disobedient behind her husband’s back – sneaking off to watch movies instead of door-knocking, singing and dancing with her equally naughty brother. And then there’s the mysterious coffee mug always nearby, full of...? The fact that she keeps her old playbills from her acting days says she wasn’t always so devout, and just maybe she regrets her decision to join the fold.
But at the heart of the story is nine-year old Emily, who is only starting to see that these beliefs can be questioned. Her older sister, the teenage Lenora, is all rebelliousness and attitude, flaunting her newly bleached blond hair, hanging out with wordly kids, and talking back to her parents. Typical teenage stuff, but in the JW religion, this can lead to being disfellowshipped – essentially kicked out of the religion and your family, shunned as it were, (not to mention being humiliated publically in front of the congregation) until you make amends – if you can make amends. Lenora walks a fine line, until one day she makes a break for it, with tragic consequences. Young Emily witnesses all of this, and the story moves back and forth between the past, told in third person, and present-day Emily, now in her late teens/early 20s, told in first person. Present-day Emily is clearly troubled by her past, and as the story unfolds we begin to see just how unbalanced she has become by events. Although she has gained a measure of freedom from her restrictive upbringing, the cost of her losses weighs on her, leading her to some questionable (and at times, a bit far-fetched) actions.
Stylistically, although I found the switching between first and third person unnecessary and a bit jarring, the characters are real and three-dimensional, with personal issues and struggles that shape who they are, and in turn, their depth of faith. I found the resolution of Lenora’s tale a bit over the top; I don’t think it needed to go there to be an effective story, but Emily’s first steps toward a new life are hopeful which saved the book from being a somewhat depressing tale.
Watch How We Walk is ably, occasionally poetically, told. It is also a fascinating, detailed look through the Kingdom Hall window to a religion and lifestyle few of us know about. While I have respect for anyone who can live that staunchly, I feel for those who want something more but have to make a choice between personal freedom and faith/family. I hope wherever Tanya is today, she’s still writing.