In summing up this book, I’d first be inclined to define it by a lack of self-awareness. My initial suspicion, the first hint of Something Deeply Wrong, was the selfishness of the characters, how they’d talk at but not to one another. I’d hoped that would be resolved; and it was. Would that that had been my only issue, and would that I could still believe that some truly problematic elements were the fault of Ms. Goodman’s lack of self-awareness rather than something much worse.
The sirens grew louder. A first time that was more-or-less a date rape, coerced intoxication and painful sex, framed as “a perfect night.” I waited for the main character to come to her senses, for the man to be punished. Nothing. After that, womanhood defined and qualified by fertility, motherhood, and a particular sort of performative femininity; nonetheless, there was an undercurrent of dislike beneath all of Kersti’s friendships, a subscription to the truly BS notion that other women are competition before they are allies. The main character and her husband do nothing but argue, and the band-aid is a (creepy!) pregnancy which does little to remove the fundamental disrespect and disinterest from all of their dialogue. It was clear by the first fifty pages that Ms. Goodman and I were not of like minds, and that the world she knew operated under very prescriptive, patriarchal rules. Men and women were, at the heart of it, incompatible species, prizes before people, and all heterosexual interactions were characterized by vague resentment.
And then I knew I was going to hate it, as soon as she had the nerve to disparagingly say, “a homosexual.” If only it had stopped there. No; our villain is some outdated caricature of a lesbian, who is, of course, also a child-molester. Ms. Goodman did not forget to tell us that this character was “boyish” and thus (obviously) unattractive; her partner was likewise repellent and introduced with comments about her poor hygiene. It was the height of lazy writing, picking an “Other” and transubstantiating it into a bogeyman. But to call it lazy makes light of just how dangerous this schlock is.
It’s 2018, my friends. It’s naive to conceive of any sort of safety in sameness; that’s simply ignorance. Yet ignorance is comfortable, and in unquestioningly propagating both toxic heterosexual relationships and apocryphal villainous lesbians, the stuff of which is readily used by Well-Meaning White Ladies to justify their own and others’ oppression, the author lays bare her own ignorance. She could have made a compelling statement against abuse, but the abuse is just the shock factor, here. She points an accusatory finger at her little caricature while missing her date rapists, her fatphobia, her racism (she mentions Asian characters a handful of times and they are, predictably, Othered).
This sh*t is insidious. It isn’t always the pundit frothing on AM radio. Sometimes it’s a beach read that reminds you that we’ve still got a long way to go.