MADreads

Sister, I couldn’t finish

December 22nd, 2008 Lisa - Central

It’s not often that I don’t finish a book. But I put this one down one day and never got back to it. I wanted to like it. I’ve read some of Edwidge Danticat’s fiction and loved her lyrical language and her sense of place. But her family history, Brother, I’m Dying, just didn’t keep my interest, and certainly did not show the same beautiful language of her other books. But maybe you should decide for yourself. It was the winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award for Autobiography.

Danticat was born in Haiti, right around Duvalier’s time. The country is a mess politically, with people disappearing and being murdered, rank with poverty. Danticat’s dad emigrates to New York when she is 2, followed by her mother, when she is 4. She and her younger brother are left in the care of her Uncle Joseph, a pastor. It ends up being 8 years before she joins her parents. In the meantime, Joseph, a sweet and caring man, loses his voice to throat cancer, and cannot preach to his flock, something he lived for. Danticat becomes his interpreter, helping him on his trips to shops and doctors. But it also makes the separation from her parents much more difficult, since her father would call Joseph and would share much more information with him than with his very young daughter.

Eventually her parents bring her to New York, where she does not feel part of the family she belongs to. She has 2 more brothers, who immediately take to their older siblings. But the long separation has taken an emotional toll.

The story is told in 2 time periods, the past and the near present, when Danticat finds out she is pregnant at about the same time that she finds out her dad is dying from a lung ailment. Her dad is very accepting of his situation and works at preparing his family for the inevitability of his death.

And this is where I stopped. Maybe my expectations were too high for this book. But the emotional distance she felt throughout her life, seemed very apparent in her writing. It seemed as if she was writing a news story in very simple language with very little subjectivity or emotional connection involved. I don’t get it, either, because all the reviews I read rave about it. Maybe if I had hung on, through the total implosion of Haiti and Joseph’s doomed final trip to the United States, it would have resonated more for me. But maybe I also stopped just in time. Reading once again about a country who treats people like chattel (and I’m not mentioning which country here) is just too painful.

Entry Filed under: Memoir & Biography, Nonfiction