Reviews and Comments

I have to say I'm a bit surprised by this book's subject matter. So far, the book seems to be about the hardship of being a heterosexual and cis gender woman. We follow the characters' experiences with emotionally and physically abusive men, sexual violence, the horrors of pregnancy, miscarriage, female genital mutilation and more. In Part 1, for instance, the main character Chiamaka searches for true love while shrinking herself for male partners who do not truly see her or love her. Each part of the book describes different aspects of women's suffering.

In so many ways, reading Dream Count makes me feel like we're still living in the same world of Alice Walker's The Color Purple, written in 1982 but set in the early 1900s. As a queer woman in the United States who has never defined myself by my romantic relationships, my marriage or maternal status, or my proximity to men, much of this feels a bit archaic even while I realize that many women today experience these things. Additionally, the book is set in Nigeria where gender roles may still be more limited than they are in the U.S. and homophobia is indeed still legal.

At a time when women are deciding to be "childfree," have our own careers, are deciding to remain single rather than be dragged down by bad men, are out and queer, own property by ourselves, publicly call out sexual violence (#MeToo), etc. the themes of this book only present one side of what could be said to comprise "women's experiences." (And to be clear, Adichie does not claim in any way to be speaking for all women.)

I keep thinking about the transphobic comments Adichie has made in the past while I read this book. It occurs to me that if you think of womanhood as a biologically disadvantaged state of being, largely defined by the vulnerability and hardship of having a uterus and vagina, it becomes impossible to understand how individuals assigned male at birth could ever possibly be women. There is no excuse for transphobia, and I hope that women like Chimamanda Adichie who don't understand how you can be a woman if you haven't had to deal with menstrual cramps every month since the age of 12 seek out narratives by trans women to build a better understanding. What is necessary is the redefinition of womanhood based on notions of power, intuition, softness as strength, beauty, the carrying of water, the tending of gardens, the provision of food, non-biological motherhood, the ability to heal ourselves and others. To be sure, trans women's narratives also often center the experience of suffering, for different but related reasons (subjugation by cis men--the patriarchy--is a problem for us all.) Still, I think understanding trans women are women can help cis women understand our own womanhood in a way that is actually empowering.

I finished this book a couple of weeks ago, but I keep remembering the part about how the author did not realize that Black Lives Matter co-founder Patrise Cullors was an artist. Ebonyjanice explains that so many of us become known for our activism--our role in interrupting white supremacy--that our actually work, our creative work becomes backgrounded: "We are being known for our resistance and not for our living."

She also goes on to quote her own tweet, "I just thought about the fact that I may never fully self-actualize because I do not know what it looks like to dream of my highest self outside of white supremacist systems. Which is to say, everything I create is created from resistance rather than from a place of just being."

"I wanted to consider what my highest imagination of myself revealed without white supremacy as the filter through which I create, build and exist. I realized that in order for me to be able to get to the work my soul must have, I needed either a new vision or a clearer vision of how to do justice work that didn't cost me my body. This, intuitively, called me to dreaming as a deep, intentional part of my practice."

This book is another step along the path toward the formation and realization of Black womanist thought. I am 46 years old and grew up with a copy of The Color Purple in my home. I read Their Eyes Were Watching God for the first time when I was in high school and I minored in Women & Gender studies in college, reading bell hooks, Assata, Audre Lorde and so many others. In the last several years, I've become intimately familiar with the writing and work of Patricia Hersey. For someone like me, this book was mostly review--and I think that's a good thing. It was a good opportunity to refresh my memory and to witness younger generations building on the knowledge passed on by our ancestors.

That being said, I think what is needed now is the centering of the most vulnerable and oppressed among us. I think that womanist thought will benefit from centering the voices and perspectives of trans and disabled individuals and may also make these kinds of books less repetitive for those of us who have been following womanist theory for a long time.

There were moments in the book when I thought for sure that the author would turn her focus to transgender experiences (such as the chapter on the importance of names), but she did not. She calls out transphobia on at least a handful of occasions in the book, so it's not that she is transphobic. It's just that she is limited by her own identity and personal experience, which is absolutely natural. So, it's not that I have major critiques of this book, it's more that it makes me want to seek out more womanist writing from queer, immigrant & first gen, trans & non-binary, disabled, etc. perspectives. And not just for the sake of "diversity," but because womanist theory is so potentially revolutionary, and we can only complete the mission if all of these voices are allowed to shape it.

Reading this book as a perspective on spirituality and environmentalism is probably more important than reading it for scientifically proven facts. It's clear that Emoto's research findings are colored with subjectivity. For instance, claims that water exposed to classical music create more beautiful crystals than water exposed to heavy metal betray the author's own biases. However, none of this takes away from the spiritual messaging of this book, which perfectly coincides with so many other spiritual doctrines: that consciousness creates reality, that love and gratitude are the most essential and revolutionary spiritual values.

Emoto is basically using his research on water crystallization as the standpoint from which to draw spiritual realizations, which mirror universal spiritual tenets. It's a quick and beautiful read and his photos of water crystals are fascinating and exquisite. The strength of this book is that it ties spiritual beliefs to something tangible and ubiquitous. Also, the idea that water has memory is an idea that has been explored in peer-reviewed scientific research and is considered credible by many, so it's not that all of Emoto's ideas are pseudo-scientific. Furthermore, an idea does not have to be scientifically credible to be valuable and useful.

Last Day in Lagos avoids nostalgia while successfully communicating the glorious high experienced by attendees of the Second World Black and African Festival of Art and Culture, also known as FESTAC ‘77. We are lucky to have Marilyn Nance’s free spirited b&w photo documentation of this special event that was to have no sequel (although maybe one is still possible.)

Photos of Miriam Makeba, Sun Ra, Stevie Wonder, Fela, as well as random event attendees from all over the globe, are interspersed with interviews and articles that give us greater context for this mind-blowing event, including criticism. As a Nigerian American, it’s important for me to learn more about Nigeria’s position as a global cultural leader in the 1960s and 1970s. Since the 80s, all we hear about is government mismanagement and economic collapse. It’s also important to understand the exchange of inspiration between African Americans and Africans during the Civil Rights and Black Power Movements.

This book is worth the read for any fan of Gossip, punk rock, riot grrrl, for anyone queer who came up in a small, Southern town, for abuse survivors, for feminists and those who believe art can play a part in creating a more just world.

The writing itself is so-so but in the spirit of punk rock, skill and technique aren’t the most important thing here. My honest opinion is she should have waited until she was older to write a memoir. She was in her early 30s when this book came out and her life has unfolded immensely since then, most notably with her career in acting.

For me, as someone who knew Beth, lived in Portland during the early to mid-2000s and eventually became her label mate, I was fascinated to learn details that I was unaware of. It’s a short, easy read which makes it perfect for alienated teens searching for a glimmer of hope outside of their current reality.

“If you can breathe, you can get through anything.”

I lived in Louisiana for seven years. I knew people who would go to Angola for the prison rodeo and craft fair and I could never bring myself to go. After reading Solitary, I now understand the facts to support what I’d always felt in my gut. The land where Angola Prison sits is saturated with the poison of generational curses earned through centuries of violence, torture and exploitation.

It feels cliche to say that this book is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, but it is indeed about just that. The most important parts of this book to me describe the self-discipline and will power involved in maintaining one’s sanity and dignity under the most trying, inhumane circumstances.

The first quarter of the book goes quickly. It was actually fun to hear about what New Orleans life was like for Woodfox in the 1960s. The book slows down immensely during the course of his 44 year sentence to solitary, not so much because of the mundanity of that experience but because of the detailed description of trials and other legal manners. Much of the length of this book is filled with this type of content. It was a bit of a slog to get through, but all I could imagine is that if I was wrongly convicted of murder and sentenced to life in solitary, I’d be replaying the details of my court case over and over in my head, obsessing over every contradiction, too.