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Summary
Summary
"In these kaleidoscopic stories of Jamaica and its diaspora we hear many voices at once. All of them convince and sing. All of them shine."--Zadie Smith
An O: The Oprah Magazine "Top 15 Best of the Year" * A Well-Read Black Girl Pick
Tenderness and cruelty, loyalty and betrayal, ambition and regret--Alexia Arthurs navigates these tensions to extraordinary effect in her debut collection about Jamaican immigrants and their families back home. Sweeping from close-knit island communities to the streets of New York City and midwestern university towns, these eleven stories form a portrait of a nation, a people, and a way of life.
In "Light-Skinned Girls and Kelly Rowlands," an NYU student befriends a fellow Jamaican whose privileged West Coast upbringing has blinded her to the hard realities of race. In "Mash Up Love," a twin's chance sighting of his estranged brother--the prodigal son of the family--stirs up unresolved feelings of resentment. In "Bad Behavior," a couple leave their wild teenage daughter with her grandmother in Jamaica, hoping the old ways will straighten her out. In "Mermaid River," a Jamaican teenage boy is reunited with his mother in New York after eight years apart. In "The Ghost of Jia Yi," a recently murdered student haunts a despairing Jamaican athlete recruited to an Iowa college. And in "Shirley from a Small Place," a world-famous pop star retreats to her mother's big new house in Jamaica, which still holds the power to restore something vital.
Alexia Arthurs emerges in this vibrant, lyrical, intimate collection as one of fiction's most dynamic and essential authors.
Praise for How to Love a Jamaican
"A sublime short-story collection from newcomer Alexia Arthurs that explores, through various characters, a specific strand of the immigrant experience." -- Entertainment Weekly
"With its singular mix of psychological precision and sun-kissed lyricism, this dazzling debut marks the emergence of a knockout new voice." --O: The Oprah Magazine
"Gorgeous, tender, heartbreaking stories . . . Arthurs is a witty, perceptive, and generous writer, and this is a book that will last." --Carmen Maria Machado, author of Her Body and Other Parties
"Vivid and exciting . . . every story rings beautifully true." -- Marie Claire
Author Notes
Alexia Arthurs was born and raised in Jamaica and moved with her family to Brooklyn when she was twelve. A graduate of Hunter College and the Iowa Writers' Workshop, she has been published in Granta, The Sewanee Review, Small Axe, Virginia Quarterly Review, Vice, and The Paris Review, which awarded her the Plimpton Prize in 2017.
Reviews (5)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Arthurs's enticing debut collection examines the lives of Jamaicans both in their homeland and abroad in America. "Light-Skinned Girls and Kelly Rowlands" is a sharp study of two college friends in New York. Both are Jamaican, yet one's Northern California upbringing causes the other to question her racial identity. The devastating "Slack" begins with two young girls drowning in a water tank, and then rewinds the narrative to fill in the events that led to the tragedy. Other standouts include "We Eat Our Daughters," comprised of short vignettes of Jamaican women discussing their relationships with their mothers; "Island," concerning a recently uncloseted woman returning to Jamaica to attend a friend's wedding; and "The Ghost of Jia Yi," in which a Jamaican woman studying in Iowa struggles with the murder of a fellow international student. Between these successes, however, are narratives employing similar, yet drab, scenarios. "Mash Up Love," about a man who spends his day reminiscing about his twin brother, rambles, while "Mermaid River" employs a predictable frame to recall one character's upbringing on the island. Arthurs shoehorns in reoccurring faces sporadically to create a shared universe, yet only some of it sparks with life. Nonetheless, there are enough hits to make up for the misses. (July) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
In this debut story collection from Arthurs, winner of the 2017 Plimpton Award, readers meet Jamaicans in a wide spectrum of life moments. These Jamaicans have never left the island, or they've expatriated to the U.S., or they've repatriated back to Jamaica. Taken together, these individual lives give a sense of Jamaican community, a wide variety of people from a small island. One common theme, assumption versus reality, is flipped inside out when a Jamaican woman living in New York visits the island as a tourist for a destination wedding. That she's queer among straight people doubles down on her outside-looking-in observations. In other stories, readers learn: don't be slack, cornmeal porridge makes a proper breakfast, and running fast can get you to college in Iowa but it is cold and dark there. The title story tries to make peace with a man in his late sixties who loves his wife and two daughters as well as the son none of them know about. Jamaican realities contemplated through many engaged and interesting eyes.--Dziuban, Emily Copyright 2010 Booklist
Guardian Review
Pride and racial prejudice in a visceral portrait of the Jamaican experience at home and in the US This debut story collection might sound like a slightly salacious instruction manual, but thoughtful readers will find a book that defies every dreadlock-lovin, Usain-Bolt-cheerin, ganja-smokin stereotype. Alexia Arthurs takes two subset communities Jamaicans who live at home (or return there) and Jamaicans who live in foreign, in the US and presents their stories with compassion, tenderness and an unassuming complexity. For a start, she compromises nothing, including the perennial way that race informs everyday life. The collection is a visceral portrait of the subtler costs of social inequality how, as minorities, we are watchers of ourselves and others, code-switching or swapping language depending on who were talking to, with a self-consciousness that becomes habitual. Many readers in the UK will relate to it. Arthurs' masterful handling of womens sexual selves is reason enough to read this sensual, funny, sad book In Light-Skinned Girls and Kelly Rowlands, two NYU students with Jamaican parents test the fragile limits of friendship, class and skin-shade privilege. Arthurs characters regard the lives, morals and experiences of white and black people as different (It wasnt that Jamaican children were perfect it was that when they made mistakes, they knew how to be ashamed). Frequently, they do not expect to be fully understood unless they are home. In Bad Behavior, winner of the Paris Reviews Plimpton prize, parents take their force-ripe teenager back to Jamaica, hoping the pit toilet and her grandmother will fix her, and of course they do. Arthurs explores an ambivalence, too: however nostalgic we are, the island is a source of redemption and worry. It breeds both guilt and pride. Her masterful handling of womens sexual selves those secret spaces where the urgency to feel loved is everything is reason enough to read this sensual, funny, sad book. In The Ghost of Jia Yi, a depressed Jamaican athlete sleeping with her roommates boyfriend is haunted by the ghost of a murdered international student. Whether you relate more to teenage Pepper, ashamed of her older lover with three teeth hanging outside her school gate in the heartbreaking Slack, or to the protagonist in Island, contemplating the easy rightness of her first lesbian kiss, this is a hymn to women: stoic and pained and lyrical. My surprise favourite might be Shirley from a Small Place: in a story obviously inspired by singer Rihanna, we see a pop star who is deeply human - contemplating her period or her hair weave, purple as star-fruit; running home to cry into her mothers chicken-foot soup. Arthurs gives men a tender complexity, too: the quiet twin forever condemned to live in his gregarious brothers shadow in Mash Up Love and the tender ruminations of an older man in the titular story, sitting on a rotten tree stump, both sorry and glad for the son only possible through his infidelity. If youre not Jamaican, what you have here is a special opportunity to see who we actually are: were not at all like you, but absolutely the same. Mostly, Arthurs has written a love letter to Jamaicans, and it feels so good. Yes, iyah. Bless up. - Leone Ross.
Kirkus Review
Jamaican immigrant and return-migration stories told with unsentimental honesty.Eleven short stories examine the immigrant experience through the prism of place, food, gender, and generations; in this collection, the home lands are Jamaicawhere the author spent her childhoodand the United States. Far from pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstrap mythology, and thankfully devoid of violin-swelling nostalgia, these stories unravel the knot of being in a place but not quite belonging and the sense of missing but not quite understanding what was lost. In "Bad Behavior" (winner of the Paris Review's Plimpton Prize for Fiction), what could have been written as a contest of wills turns out instead to be an examination of three generations of women in a Jamaican family. The "bad behavior" belongs to the youngest, 14-year-old Stacy, who was caught giving a boy a blow job in school. Delivering Stacy to her granny Trudy in Jamaica, Pam, the girl's frantic mother, hopes Trudy will love her granddaughter "enough to show her some of the harshness that the world was ready and able to give her." In reality, Stacy, like her mother and grandmother before her, has already experienced several harsh realities. In "Mermaid River," a mother leaves her son with his grandmother while she settles in the U.S. This story artfully swings back and forth between the boy's childhood in Jamaica to the time when he finally rejoins his mother and her husband as a young teen in Brooklyn. Other stories feature young adults, long detached from but not quite severed from their Jamaican roots, with various levels of self-awareness. "Only now does the history of that river sit on me," says the narrator of "Mermaid River." The same can be said of this strong debut collection, which beckons the reader back, again and again.A lovely collection of stories that rewards subsequent readings. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
DEBUT Some of the stories in this first collection from Iowa Writers' Workshop graduate Arthurs have been published in literary magazines, including "Bad Behavior," which won the Paris Review's Plimpton Award. But the majority are freshly minted, and they are all perpetually engaging. The protagonists are mainly Jamaican, of Jamaican descent, or African American, but the inclusion of white American, African, and Asian characters adds richness to stories as a conversation about race and gender. "Light-Skinned Girls and Kelly Rowlands," for example, shows the complicated friendship between two Jamaican students, one from the island and the other from California, who knows little about the home of her parents. While the stories have a rawness to them, exploring topics such as sexual orientation, parental relationships, self-discovery, and drug use, Arthurs also offers a sure feel of the mysticism of the Caribbean. Mermaids and water, particularly Mermaid River, are central to many of the pieces, as is the theme of death; "The Ghost of Jia Yi" shows how truly connected we are no matter where we are born. VERDICT Stylistically reminiscent of Toni Morrison's Paradise, this successful debut will appeal to readers of literary and Caribbean fiction. [See Prepub Alert, 1/8/18.]-Ashanti White, Fayetteville, NC © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Light-Skinned Girls and Kelly Rowlands The first time I saw Cecilia, she was the only other black girl in our small group during freshman orientation. We were sitting in a circle while the junior leading our group was answering questions anyone had, and then we each had to say our name and where we were from. When it came to Cecilia's turn, I had already memorized her name from the nametag, and carefully, without bringing attention to myself, took her in: flawless dark skin, silky relaxed hair that reached her breasts, tall, thin, beautiful. In that song "Power," when Kanye West raps, "Ma'fucka', we rollin' with some light-skinned girls and some Kelly Rowlands," he is talking about dark-skinned girls who look like Cecilia. But Cecilia isn't the kind of name that brings to mind a black girl, and that day when she spoke, telling us that she was from California, her voice reminded me of all those blonde white girls on reality television, confirming that, as I suspected, she was a white girl trapped in a black girl's body--an Oreo. I could forgive her for this, as I was crowned an Oreo in high school because I liked spending my free period with my hands in clay in the ceramics classroom and I liked listening to the kind of music played in coffee shops in the city. But then I could tell that Cecilia was an Oreo who really might have forgotten the color of her skin, because when the group was dismissed, I walked up to her to ask which part of California she was from. This was the only question I could think to ask her. "The Bay Area," she told me, and it was clear that she wasn't particularly interested in me, that although we were black women, that was neither here nor there. I might as well have been talking to a white boy. Up until that moment, all of my experiences with black people in a sea of white faces was that we acknowledged each other, whether it was by eye contact or a smile, and that we would eventually make it across the room to each other. We might have been invisible to everyone else but we weren't invisible to each other. That day, Cecilia left the orientation room with a white girl, the both of them cracking up at what seemed to be the funniest joke of the year. I'd overheard the white girl introduce Cecilia to someone as her roommate. When I tell my mother that Cecilia and I are no longer friends, she doesn't lift her face from her Facebook account. My mother only recently discovered social media, and is obsessed because it allows her to reacquaint herself with people she knew back in Jamaica. "You and her will mek up back," she tells me, with such conviction that for a moment I believe her. When I am walking out of the living room, she says, "You know dis site nuh easy? It just encourage people fi fass inna people business." I don't respond to her, but I almost smile. The thing about attending university in New York City is that so many of my classmates think that New York is heaven, or close enough, or maybe it's hell depending on how you see things. But to me, it's home. My first year, I overheard my classmates' excitement about the city, the things they had done, the people they had slept with, and when I wasn't rolling my eyes, I envied that they were having more fun than me. My mother couldn't afford to pay for the dormitory and a loan was out of the question since I lived an hour away, so I went to my classes and then I went home. I met Cecilia for the second time during our sophomore year. I'd seen her around a few times, but each time she didn't seem to remember meeting me. She was always with some little white girl, all of them in crop tops and the other dumb clothes hipsters wear. One time I saw her holding hands with a white boy, who was a little bit handsome when I crossed my eyes, but mostly ugly. He had the hipster look to him, greasy long hair and a beard, like he might write poetry or song lyrics. Probably an English major. God, I'd hate to be in his fiction workshop. I could tell he'd had a middle-class upbringing from a place like the Bay Area. You know, I don't think I've met a person from the Bay Area who I liked. His parents would be glad to know that their son had moved to New York and taken up with a black girl. They would call her "beautiful" even if she wasn't. See, if I'm going to date a white man, he has to be sexy, he has to have the swag of a black man, like Justin Timberlake. Otherwise, why bother? That spring semester, I was surprised to see that Cecilia was in my photography class. She ignored me until halfway into the semester, when we hung up our portrait projects on the wall and the teacher liked mine best. With everyone else he was in teacher mode, giving the obligatory compliments and suggestions, but with mine he stood in front of my photos for longer than he had with the others, and then he asked, "Is this your first photography class, Kimberly?" I'd taken photographs of four of the women who live on my block. I didn't ask any of the men because it would have been more awkward to ask them. Plus, half of them always have a fresh look on their face when I walk past in my tight jeans. One of the photographs was of my mother. It was Sunday morning and because my mother belongs to the religion of obsessive cleaning, she was sweeping outside of the house we share with two other families. When I approached with my camera, she hissed her teeth, complaining that I was bothering her. Didn't I see that she had on her housedress and rollers in her hair? Of course I saw, but I wanted to take natural photographs. In my favorite photographs, the people are as beautiful or as unbeautiful as they really are, their faces caught in an emotion that reminds you that life is a whole lot of feeling. I tried to explain that the rollers and the broom added character, which made my mother laugh, and it was while she was laughing that I started taking photographs. I also took photographs of the old women across the street. In the afternoon, one of them goes to the other one's porch, which is where they sit, sometimes talking, other times just looking into the street as if the streets in Canarsie are pretty to look at (they aren't), until it's time to make their husbands' dinners. My mother, because she's paranoid, says that they sit there talking people's business, but I hope it's more interesting than that. I asked if I could take their photograph, and they looked doubtful until I said it was for school. "When pickney want fi better demself yuh ha' fi support dem," Mrs. Patterson said, and it was clear by how Mrs. Johnson nodded that she was speaking for the both of them. In the photos I took, the lines in their faces were illuminated, telling of the places they'd been and the people they'd seen. My last subject was the fat white woman who lives in the house next to us. Her name is Sheryl, and she has big, hanging breasts under her housedress. She always wears a housedress and never a bra. When she's walking her small furry dog, if my mother is outside, she'll stop and talk to her, as lively as though they are friends. Mostly what she tells my mother is gossip. Apparently, the Haitian family that lives down the street hasn't paid rent in three months. Sheryl's breasts fascinate me, and meanwhile my mother is saying, "Oh wow," which is what she says when she wishes someone, especially a white someone, would stop talking. When Sheryl leaves, my mother will sigh dramatically, and say, "Then what I do fi dat woman harass me?" The day I photographed Sheryl, I asked her permission, but I expected to hear no because who would want photographs taken with their breasts hanging heavy and low? "Take me and Coco," Sheryl said, lifting the dog to her face. Behind us, I could tell that my mother wanted to burst out laughing. When Sheryl left, my mother shook her head and said, "White people tek crazy to a whole oda level. Yuh know I haven't prayed inna long time? Tonight mi a get down pon mi knees fi dat woman." After that photography class, I saw Cecilia in Trader Joe's. I was there for various cookies and other sweet treats my mother and I eye in our kitchen and say encouraging things about, like "Oh, three of them are only 120 calories" and "I'm not going to have any more tonight." Cecilia only had two bottles of sparkling water in her hands, while I had a jar of cookie butter and three kinds of cookies. She was standing by the meat section as though she was waiting for someone. "Hi," she said when I walked by pretending not to notice her. She was smiling as though she was glad to see me. I almost looked behind me to see if she was talking to someone else. "Hi?" I asked her. "Kimberly, right?" "Right." "Cecilia." "We've met before. Remember, during freshman orientation?" "Oh yeah," she said, but I couldn't tell if she remembered meeting me. When you're invisible to a white person, you can almost get used to that. But when it's a black person, you can't help feeling hurt. "Those portraits you took were so beautiful," Cecilia said. "Oh, wow, thank you," I told her, annoyed that a compliment from her meant so much to me. "They reminded me of Gordon Parks's work." "Are you serious? That's, like, the best compliment ever." "Is photography your major?" "Maybe. Or I might major in fine arts. You?" "I want to do something creative, but I don't know what yet. I might want to be a writer, but I don't know if I'm any good. My boyfriend is majoring in creative writing and he says that I'm better than any of the people he's had classes with, but I don't know." "Oh," I said, pleased that I was right about her boyfriend. I wonder if white people are as good at reading us. Probably not. We've spent our whole lives observing them. It makes sense that we'd be good at it. "Well, there's my boyfriend." I turned around to see the same guy I'd seen with her before. "This is Kimberly," Cecilia said, motioning toward me. "I'm Adam," he said, smiling in the way nice white men smile. "I'd shake your hand if my hands weren't filled." He was holding two jars of peanut butter, a bag of apples, and a loaf of bread. "Kimberly is the most talented person in our photography class," Cecilia said. This made Adam look at me with renewed interest. "Oh really," he said. "Where are you from?" "I'm from here," I said. "It must have been amazing to grow up in New York." "It was all right," I said, smiling and shrugging. "Come on! All right?" "Where are you from?" "Born and raised in Denver." "Are there any black people in Denver?" "A few." He laughed. "Yeah, it would have been nice to grow up in a place as diverse as New York. Have you always lived here?" "No, actually my mother and I moved here from Jamaica when I was six." "You're Jamaican?" Cecilia asked, visibly surprised. "Yeah. Why are you surprised?" "Because I'm Jamaican. Well, I wasn't born there but it's where both my parents are from." "Really?" "Why are you so surprised?" "Oh," I said, grasping for a convincing excuse. "It's just an unexpected coincidence." They left soon after, Cecilia saying that we should get coffee. I'd only smiled, instead of agreeing with her. The next time we had class together, Cecilia came up to me afterwards, asking if I was free and whether I was hungry. "I can eat," I told her, careful not to sound too eager. Usually, when I wanted a sandwich, I went to a bodega for a cheap, tasty turkey sandwich that was so big I could leave the rest for another meal. The place Cecilia took me to was one of those bougie sandwich shops that also serve soup, salad, and little, uppity bags of potato chips. I paid almost ten dollars for a turkey sandwich that was quite good, but then I couldn't afford a drink and a bag of potato chips like if I'd gone to a bodega in Brooklyn. Cecilia, who had claimed to be "so hungry," ordered a bowl of soup that came with a little packet of oyster crackers. I looked at the small bowl of thick soup with a few chunks of beef and vegetables and asked her again if it really cost seven dollars. "Which dorm do you live in?" Cecilia asked me. "I actually live at home with my mother. It didn't make any sense to pay all that money to live in a dorm." "But then you don't get the full college experience!" "I know, but I'll survive. Maybe I'll go away for graduate school." "How's living with your mother?" "She's annoying in all the ways mothers are annoying. But we're really close, since I didn't grow up with my father." "I couldn't wait to get away from my mother. My father is okay, but my mother is so involved. Both my parents are professors, which maybe explains why my mother has such ambitions for me, but Jesus Christ." "What do you mean by 'ambitions'?" "I feel like my mother planned out my life and all she wanted was for me to agree, and when I didn't agree, it was as though I'd disappointed her." "Do you think it's because your mother is Jamaican? Caribbean mothers want to eat their daughters." "Eat?" Cecilia asked, laughing. "That's a funny way of putting it. I wonder that sometimes, especially when my mother talks about her mother. The first time my mother brought my father home and my grandmother saw how dark he was, she barely looked at him. She disliked him and she could never give my mother a concrete reason why. My mother would speak so badly about her mother, but then when she died I don't think anyone cried more at the funeral." "It was the same way with my mother. My grandma almost kicked her out of the house when she became pregnant with me. My mother will speak about her mother as though she was this horrible person, I mean like the biggest bitch in the world, but then once in a while she'll get all sentimental and say that my grandma was a God-fearing woman. It's weird." Excerpted from How to Love a Jamaican by Alexia Arthurs All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.