'Memorial Drive' by Natasha Trethewey

‘Memorial Drive’ by Natasha Trethewey

 How do writers use Instagram? Joyce Carol Oates, prolific writer well into her 80s, posts mainly photos of cats, but then, without words, she published the photo of  a book. This book.  I had never heard of Natasha Trethewey, its author, but as JCO mentions it, I looked it up and was intrigued – a memoir,  written by a Pulitzer prize winning poet, and what a story…

I loved the book for oh so many reasons.

The books begins with the recollection of a dream that concludes

‘Do you know what it means to have a wound that never heals?’

The prologue: ‘The last image of my mother, but for the photographs taken of her body at the crime scene, is the formal portrait made only a few months before her death.’  Followed by a detailed description of the photo, of various backgrounds used at the time for formal portraits in professional studios, followed by thoughts and feelings the photo evoked for decades in the writer.

The end of the story is known: the mother gets shot when the author is just 19; the author today is a famous poet and author of several books.

With language that delights Natasha Trethewey takes us into the world of the child, the child that observes, notices, yet does not tell her mother of the way her new husband treats her, in the mother’s absence. She wants to protect the mother from that knowledge, and now is haunted by the question as an adult – what if… What if she had spoken up early, could she have prevented the deadly outcome? The guilt she still feels as an adult, wondering – if only…

Yet, at some stage, at school, when she does not want to watch a police film (why? I wonder, suspecting racism in the official video shown in the 70s…) she speaks up, to a trusted teacher, with a simple statement ‘Last night I heard my stepfather beat up my mother.’ ‘You know, sometimes adults get angry with each other.’  is the response she gets. And she knows, that there’s nothing the teacher is going to do with this information.

Yet, there’s no judgment, and as a reader I’m challenged to think – what would I do? Is there a right response? A question worth pondering in New Zealand too, and not from the Pakeha perspective. I wonder, as a teacher in New Zealand, a Maori / Pacifica / immigrant child telling you about domestic violence – can you trust the police? The institutions that are supposed to protect children?

The author finds a way to talk to her mother:

‘Mommy,’ you say quietly, so as not to be overheard. ‘Do you know how, when you love someone and you know they are hurting, it hurts you, too?’ You have waited until the whole sentence is out before looking up at her, directly in her eyes, doing everything you can to hold her gaze for the moment it takes until her mouth falls open. It’s as if she is about to speak, but then she only nods, her lips pressed tight against any words.’

Later that night you hear it, your mother’s voice as she tells Joel, “Tasha knows.”

You are ashamed and you don’t know why. The need in the voice of your powerful, lovely mother is teaching you something about the world of men and women, of dominance and submission. You hear it emanate from the most intimate of spaces, the bedroom with its marriage bed. Your shame and your sadness are doubled. You hear in your mother’s words a plea to get him to stop. You hear her desperate hope that his knowing you know, knowing you listen, will put an end to the abuse. As if the fact that you are a child, that you are only in the fifth grade, will change anything at all. And now you know that there is nothing you can do.

YOU KNOW YOU KNOW YOU KNOW.

The book describes. Actions, thoughts, feelings. No judgments. Not for the mother; never for the mother. Not the teacher, not the white father; the author does not question – why did the marriage fail? – but shares what she remembers from her childhood.

The book is truly heart breaking. Twenty years after her mother’s death the police release records related to the case. What courage it must have taken the author to read through those records.

Gwendolyn Ann Turnbough was a strong, capable, educated, courageous woman. We don’t know what she worked, but despite being a single black mother, Gwen obtained an education and earned the family income. She left her husband. He went to prison for the abuse he inflicted on her. After his release she was using all tools available to protect herself – and despite her best efforts was let down – despite a warrant for an arrest, and a police guard, the officer left his post, and she was shot.

Reading through the transcripts of the phone conversation between Natasha’s mother and her murderer is plain awful. Knowing the outcome I skipped it – too painful. For me as a reader, I find it hard to comprehend how courageous a woman Natasha Tretheway is to read through those police files. To transform those horrible events into a beautiful piece of writing, well suited to challenge the reader to consider the response to domestic violence. Racism. Sexism. Without ever mentioning any ‘ism, the book shows how it is to live with a combination of them all.

It also writes about the strength and support of family, portrays the abundance of love the little girl and her mother were surrounded by, only to fall victim to an abusive man anyway – the strength to get out was not enough.

 Highly recommended reading.

Highly recommended also to listen to Natasha Trethaway interviewed by Elizabeth Gilbert on Elizabeth Gilbert’s instagram page