Along with Tasha herself, we’re surprised at Gwen’s response: “She. Will do. WHATEVER. She wants.” Tasha watches her mom’s face at dinner that night time, imagining the inevitable bruises, “calculating the price she’ll keep paying” to save lots of her daughter.
The morning of the homicide, the police enter into proof a handwritten doc on a yellow authorized pad. Trethewey writes that it took 25 years earlier than she willed herself to learn her mom’s phrases. We learn these italicized pages nearly instantly after these describing her mom’s vows to guard Tasha from Joel. Gwen’s phrases are haunted and haunting: “He instructed me he could be good and let me select the best way I needed to die.”
What occurs in most riveting literature is seldom positioned solely in plot. I’ve not learn an American memoir the place extra occurs within the assemblage of language than “Memorial Drive.” Trethewey’s subtext has subtext, a lot of it gendered, raced, playful and sincerely positioned within the lush literary distance between Mississippi — the place she spent her early, comfortable childhood in her mom’s hometown, tenderly evoked right here — and Memorial Drive in Atlanta.
Trethewey’s memoir will not be the toughest e-book I’ve ever learn. The poetry holding the prose collectively, the innovativeness of the composition, make such a declare unimaginable. “Memorial Drive” is, nonetheless, the toughest e-book I might think about writing. “When I finally sit down to write the part of our story I’ve most needed to avoid,” Trethewey says towards the top, “when I force myself at last to read the evidence, all of it — the transcripts, witness accounts, the autopsy and official reports, the A.D.A.’s statement, indications of police indifference — I collapse on the floor, keening as though I had just learned of my mother’s death.”
We can’t merely watch what may very well be seen as traumatic spectacle — what Baldwin known as “anguish” — not if we wish, as Imani Perry says, “to get free.” We owe extra to ourselves, and extra to Trethewey’s masterpiece. There is a deeply Southern echo in these pages that provides us the chance to do greater than marvel, greater than pander to pathos, greater than pity Tasha, the kid, and admire Natasha Trethewey, the author.
“Memorial Drive” forces the reader to consider how the elegant Southern conjurers of phrases, areas, sounds and patterns shield themselves from trauma when trauma could also be, partially, what nudged them down the dusty highway to poetic mastery. I closed “Memorial Drive” asking myself how one psychologically survives the secrets and techniques we cover from ourselves when our freedom relies upon not merely on extraction, however on the obliteration of cliché — the lazy reader’s and lazy reminiscence’s reality.
The extra virtuosic our potential to make use of language to probe, the tougher it turns into to guard ourselves from the secrets and techniques buried in our — and our nation’s — marrow. This is the conundrum and the blessing of the poet. This is the conundrum and blessing of “Memorial Drive.” How do you not vomit up all of the anguish when artfully vomiting up all of the anguish is a technique of getting free?