River Witch Book Review

One of the better books that I’ve read this summer is called River Witch. Don’t be alarmed or tricked as I was. This is not a book about an actual witch, but it is a book about an actual river. It is also about a woman who goes to a small southern island to hide out, but ends up she ends up discovering a lot about herself and makes a few friends in the process.

Many authors, when they write about the South, have a very one dimensional view of southern people and southern mentality. So many southern stories and cast in black and white, with race and class relations the center of the story.  Wealthy whites and middle class blacks against the poor poverty-stricken blacks with everything divided between the wrong side of the tracks and whites-only golf courses. While these things exist, there are lots of other ways to be southern that hardly ever get explored.

This book is different. This book is green with thick river grass and dark fertile earth. I could almost smell the sea as I turned the pages. Race exists in this story, but it is handled in a multifaceted way. Maybe the author knows that in some southern families, you can’t always tell who is black or white or native because of the history of inter-racial relationships. In this story, everyone is a little bit of something, a dark haired, dark skinned native-looking man can be the brother to the red haired, freckled, fair skinned woman. And the woman with the African American features is their cousin.

The author, a white woman, didn’t go too deeply into the racial mix of the people in the story. Those who are looking for racial stereotypes will find them. The brother from above has an almost obsessive attachment to the land and had the quick reflexes and panther-like gait attributed to indigenous Americans. The red haired sister is locked into her role of mother and wife, and is looking to be her own woman. Their brown cousin is a voodoo priestess.  Oh, I forgot, the brother was once married to a blond, blue eyed damsel in distress. I don’t put much stock into these stereotypes and I don’t think the author purposefully used them.  In fact, it was only in the writing of this review that I even considered them.

I think the author handled race and class well in this story. So much so that for a long time she had me fooled into thinking that she was a person of color. How else could she talk about race and class and Southern-ness so openly and intelligently without being offensive?  I wish she had explored race a bit more, I think she would had done a good job of showing commonalities between people of different races, especially as all the people in the story were deeply tied to the land.

The story centers on the families of the two protagonists, the family of the adult woman who hides out on the island for the summer, and the family of the young girl who she befriends while she is there. Like all families, these have their dysfunctions. Both families struggle with coming to terms with their generational histories and how to overcome past hurts so that the next generation doesn’t have to endure the same pain. At least, this story begins to release the past. The ending falls short of ending generational curses, but the author alludes that the characters will be better than they were at the beginning of the story.

There is no way to explain further without ruining the ending. Just know that if you like a story ending that feels like a conclusion (like me), you will be disappointed. And you likely won’t feel that the ending is a good one, but that should stop you from reading the story. It is compelling and entertaining. It includes pumpkins and alligators (and a voodoo priestess!!). What’s not to like?

The author also spends significant time talking about the healing power of a particular style of church music. Sometimes the music she is describing sounds like old Negro spirituals, like the kind of music that gives you goosebumps when sung in 5 part harmony. Other times, the music she is describing sounds like celtic chants. I loved her descriptions, and I loved how hearing this music was so important for the character in the story.

By far, my favorite thing about this story is the way that the author explores the relationships that young girls can have with their mothers and fathers, and how that mythology continues to play out in our adult life.  This story made me consider how my life would be different if I had different relationships with my parents, and how the relationships that I do have with them has everything to do with their behavior and treatment of me and my siblings when I was a child. Children don’t forget, and grow up to be adults with grudges and unresolved hurts (mainly because it is so hard to separate how we want to be treated by our parents, and realizing that they have their own stuff to deal with. We see this play out in the lives of both protagonists.

River Witch is the first novel of Kimberly Brock. Amazon just told me that she’s a southern (and it shows in her writing.) It is clear that she loves the south, and its people. She portrays us well, our beauty and our flaws.

The Politics of Hatred

 

When North Carolina had its prehistoric vote to ban gay marriage, not only did I not remind my mother to vote, we actually never talked about if or how she voted.

It is hard to believe that we haven’t talked about it, since she and I have discussed all her voting patterns since Bill Clinton beat Bush Senior.  Interestingly, I wanted her and my dad to vote FOR Bush. (I and my politics have come a long way, baby).  In the very small town where I grew up, the polling place was a very short distance from our house, and each election season was exciting to me because I got to see up close how everything worked. I couldn’t wait to start voting on my own and be part of the political process.

When I hit 18, a rebellious streak caused me to register as an Independent. I didn’t want to claim either party, I wanted to be free and loose.  Buy fast forward a few years, you would have seen me working behind the scenes for the County Democratic Party working on new strategies for recruiting new members, communicating with existing members, messaging, etc. I was starting to get some attention. People wanted me to consider running for office instead of working for other candidates and causes. At that time I was nervous. I was just out of college and unsure of myself.

Eventually, I even changed my registration. The Party wanted me elect me to office, but they couldn’t because I was still technically an Independent. It was a hard decision, but I conceded because I was fully committed to the Democratic cause, and I had found new ways to be rebellious.

Back then I loved working the polls at Primary and General Elections, and during early voting seasons. I stumped for judges, and commissioners, state and national legislators. Every year I was amazed at all the people I was able to meet and touch, and hopefully convince to vote my way.  I fully believed that change begins at home, so I would nag my mother about voting. I would send my brother absentee ballots while he was overseas. I would talk to anyone about candidates and would ride them to vote. It became a running thing with my mom.  Every year, I would send her into the voting booth with a cheat sheet. All she had to do was make sure her bubbles were that same as the fake ballot I gave her.

Even though I now live in Georgia, I haven’t yet found my political place.  I still keep up with North Carolina candidates and causes. I still remind my mother to vote, and direct her voting decisions. That is, until this year. This primary season, the North Carolina ballot included a ban on gay marriage. The ban conclusively injures anyone else who wants to live in a committed relationship in a non-traditional way. I was, of course dead set against it. It is no good for anyone. I took to Twitter and Facebook, begging my friends and family in North Carolina to vote against it.

But I never mentioned it to my mom.

I was scared that she wouldn’t vote my way. And I was scared that she would tell me so.

For the first time in over 10 years, I was worried that my mother wouldn’t take my voting advice. I was not convinced that she would vote against the gay marriage ban. And so I conveniently forgot to remind her to vote.

I was scared to know how she would vote, because if she voted for the ban, she was essentially voting against me, my life, my love and relationship. How could I continue to love and be a part of her life if she could be so much against me? How could my fiancé and I show up at holidays knowing that mom had voted not to allow us to marry in my home state?  How could continue to feel mothered by her if she voted against me? I couldn’t take the chance. And so I remained quiet.

The day that the voting results came in that the ban had passed, I cried. I cried because I love North Carolina, and had also hoped to return after all my life’s travels and adventures. I cried because I can’t go back. I cried because I poured so much of my life into the democratic process in that state and I could not believe that the same state that turned Blue for Obama could also be so cold for people like me. I cried because in that moment, and in all the moments when people act, in public, with such malice and hatred (like coming out in droves to support chik-fil-a) against gay people I feel it very personally in my heart. It makes me immeasurably sad.

I feel hated. I feel it in the false cries of free speech.  I feel it in each car that turns into chik-fil-a’s drive thru and orders one of those expensive sandwiches. I feel it in the churches that believe that God only loves straight people and turn out in record numbers to “hate the sin”. I feel it in each breath that someone argues that God hates the gays. I feel it when people want to know about my engagement and love, then their eyes go blank when I tell how SHE proposed. Or when we hold hands in public. Or are just seen out together.

I feel that at any moment I could walk out into the world and come in contact with people who would otherwise show love and respect towards me, but because I love, love, love women, can’t bring themselves to smile and embrace me.

The hate is real. It is felt. The hatred is palpable and ugly. It is cold. And, lest you didn’t know Hate is not Godly or Christ-like.

I for one am sick to death of allowing homophobic religious beliefs to be the status quo. You’ve been warned.