I have had a head cold for the past several days. And now that I’m finally coming out of it, I looked at the review that I had written for this book, and I was appalled. I haven’t gotten any comments, but I could see in my mind’s eye people reading it and shaking their heads and thinking, “I didn’t peg her for a racist.”
I didn’t mean to come off that way. Blame the cold.
I liked this book. Really. It’s the story of James McBride’s growing up, interspersed with his mother’s life history. His family is an amazing one. His mother, Ruth, is an amazing woman. I admire her because she was able to get past her horrific past, most especially her abusive father. I admire her because race meant nothing to her. When asked, by her son, what color she was, she retorted (not an exact quote): “What color does God think I am? What color is water?” I admire someone who can so easily look past color and race and background and be friends with others. Not that it was easy for her, mostly because others aren’t as accepting as she was. I admire her for raising 12 children, mostly in poverty, and giving them the tools to succeed — at least materially — in life. Every single one of her children went to college, many got advanced degrees. All are professionals. Amazing.
I do have to confess that my feelings of being an interloper, though, were real. I felt like I was prying into someone else’s personal business, a place where I had no right to go. I still can’t place why I felt that way. I felt like it was too personal, too emotional, too close for me to truly enjoy. These people were real people. These things really happened. I feel this way often when reading books on the Holocaust, too. I can’t believe these conditions, these atrocities are really out there. It pushes me out of my bubble, and I react by feeling like an interloper. Like I’m not supposed to be there.
Perhaps that’s because I really do need to be pushed a little. It’s enlightening to see other people’s lives, walk a couple miles (or hundred pages) in their shoes just to see. And I appreciated the chance to see James McBride’s and his mother’s lives. It was worth it, even if I felt a little out of place.
The Book Nut 
Sounds interesting. (I didn’t think your previous review sounded racist)Sometimes books, especially personal stories, can make you feel uncomfortable. I don’t particularly like it either, but sometimes it’s a important thing to go through. I think if you had read such a personal, emotional account and NOT felt uncomfortable, then there might be something “wrong.” But because you are a compassionate person, you feel uneasy. Having our limits, the boundaries of our experience pushed a bit out is, ultimately, a good thing. Not easy, but good.
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Thank you, turtlebella. I read it as racisit, and was embarrassed. But I’m glad others (well, at least you) didn’t. And you’re right. And you’re right: feeling uneasy is probably more of a “good” sign than not. 🙂
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I agree. Reading books with atrocities–the ugly side of life–does make a reader feel uncomfortable, uneasy. I think we would all like to stay in our comfort zone, our bubble, and not confront the harshness and unfairness of reality at times. A good book now and then can wake us up a bit. It is sometimes hard to review books like that though. Books that you recognize as good, or powerful, or strong, or compelling or whatnot. But these are books that more often than not you don’t particularly enjoy. I’ve read quite a few lately that took me to places I didn’t want to go, made me witness to things I didn’t want to see.
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