A kind of freedom A novel

Review by New York Times Review

BLACK DETROIT: A People's History of Self-Determination, by Herb Boyd. (Amistad/HarperCollins, $16.99.) Boyd weaves the lives of standout African-American figures into this history of the city, tracing its evolution from a French trading post to a symbol of decline. From the country's first black auto dealer to Michigan's first black obstetrician, characters who might have otherwise remained on history's sidelines are the heart of Boyd's history. GOODBYE, VITAMIN, by Rachel Khong. (Picador, $16.) In the wake of a breakup, Ruth - 30, adrift and heartbroken - returns home to care for her father, who is in the early stages of Alzheimer's disease. The novel takes the form of Ruth's diary over that year, resulting in a poignant and even darkly comic exploration of adulthood, relationships and memory. THE WRITTEN WORLD: The Power of Stories to Shape People, History, and Civilization, by Martin Puchner. (Random House, $20.) Puchner, an English professor at Harvard, makes the case for literature's all-importance to societies and the shape of humanity's history. His research has taken him to every continent, in the search for sacred and foundational texts, and spans centuries, from Mesopotamia to Cervantes to Harry Potter. SEE WHAT I HAVE DONE, by Sarah Schmidt. (Grove, $16.) Schmidt revisits the unsolved Fall River murders at the center of Lizzie Borden's life: In Massachusetts in 1892, Lizzie's father and stepmother were hacked to death. Schmidt imagines the lead-up to the grisly crime, and Lizzie's possible madness. Our reviewer, Patrick McGrath, called the novel "a lurid and original work of horror," which evokes "the disintegrating character of this sweltering, unhygienic and claustrophobic household of locked doors and repressed emotions." HUNGER: A Memoir of (My) Body, by Roxane Gay. (Harper Perennial, $16.99.) Reflecting on her life through the lens of her body, Gay engages with questions about desire, nourishment and protection. As Carina Chocano wrote here, the memoir reads like Gay's "victorious, if not frictionless, journey back to herself, back into her body, from the splitting off of trauma. Is the responsibility for her body really hers alone?" THE MISFORTUNE OF MARION PALM, by Emily Culliton (Vintage, $15.95.) In this debut novel, a Brooklyn mother has embezzled a modest amount from her children's private school. When it faces an audit, she leaves her family behind and goes on the lam. As she tries to carve out a new place in the world, Marion turns out to be a delightful antiheroine and defies expectation at every turn.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 30, 2019]

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Review by Booklist Review

Evelyn, Jackie, and T. C. are complex and authentic generations of a New Orleans family. The novel's title captures reality for all three: free people trying to exercise free will while the webbing of race and class prevents them from finding free opportunity. In the 1940s, Evelyn's family is among the most successful African Americans in town, and her love for Renard, son of a janitor, causes them legitimate concern. In the 1980s, Jackie, Evelyn's daughter and herself a new mom, attempts to reconcile with her husband, Terry, whose crack addiction was born in part by his less-than status among his white peers. In the 2010s, Jackie's son, T. C., is released from prison and must find a way to provide for his own newborn son. Sexton's characters share the traits of kindness and struggle, and her first novel disavows any notion that prejudice is history: perhaps changed in form, it is still passed along with the generations. This novel sparked a competition among literary agents, and for good reason. This family is worth every minute of a reader's time.--Dziuban, Emily Copyright 2017 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Set in Sexton's native New Orleans, this emotionally wrenching, character-rich debut spans three generations in a city deeply impacted by segregation, economic inequality, and racial tensions. It begins with a 1940s romance between Evelyn, the eldest daughter in a relatively well-off Creole family, and Renard, the son of a janitor, whose dreams are bigger than his station in life can hold. Their daughter, Jackie, becomes a mother in the Reagan-era 1980s, struggling through the economic downturn that derails her husband's promising career and starts him on a tumultuous path of addiction and empty promises. Their grandson, T.C., lives through the devastation of Hurricane Katrina, watching it transform his city-and himself-into something unfamiliar. Yet when his ambitions falter, he braces himself with the need to be present in his newborn son's life in the way his father never was. Sexton's narrative navigates complex topics with an adroit sensitivity that lends sympathy to each character's realistic, if occasionally self-destructive, motivations. Being able to capture 70 years of New Orleans history and the emotional changes in one family in such a short book is a testament to Sexton's powers of descriptive restraint. In this fine debut, each generation comes with new possibilities and deferred dreams blossoming with the hope that this time, finally, those dreams may come to fruition. Agent: Michael Carlisle, Inkwell Management. (Aug.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A multigenerational exploration of systemic racism in America.Evelyn is 22 and studying to be a nurse. Her family is well-known in New Orleans' 7th Ward. Her mother is a beautiful Creole woman. Her father's distinctly African features are offset by the fact that he's a doctor. It's 1944, and Evelyn, her family, and her peers are unabashed in their colorism. Evelyn and her sister, Ruby, assess men and other women by the lightness of their skin and the natural straightness of their hair. Among other Negroesthe preferred term in this time and placeEvelyn's appearance and relative wealth shield her from some of the harsh realities of the Jim Crow South. But what privilege she enjoys becomes an impediment when she falls in love with a man with no money and no family. Over the course of the novel, Sexton follows Evelyn, her daughter, Jackie, and her grandson, T.C., as they negotiate the realities of race and class in the United States. Jackie loses her husbandand her solidly middle-class lifeto the crack epidemic of the 1980s. T.C. starts dealing weed after the world he knows is destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. Some of the dilemmas these characters face would have beenand will berecognizable to many African-Americans. For example, Evelyn's beau (and, eventually, her husband) doesn't want to risk his life fighting for a country in which he is not a full citizen. And, even though Jackie knows the devastating impact of crack firsthand, she also recognizes that the war on drugs has a disproportionate impact on black people. Some of the nuances are particular to New Orleanswhich has a distinct and complicated history with regard to racebut Sexton's choice of this unique setting is effective, too. There aren't many places in the country where three generations can take an African-American family from life in an established, upper-middle-class enclave to a hand-to-mouth existence in public housing. Sexton's debut novel shows us that hard work does not guarantee success and that progress doesn't always move in a straight line. A well-craftedand altogether timelyfirst novel. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Evelyn Winter 1944 "My thighs are touching," Ruby would say, as if they just started touching the minute before. "You can't see it though," Evelyn would assure her, her own legs so far apart another leg could fit between them. "Who are you fooling with 'you can't see it'? Anybody with eyes could see it. You don't even need to have eyes; you just need ears, and you could hear my thighs swishing together." "You can't hear anything so soft," Evelyn would go on, and she'd spend the rest of the day wading through that topic. Just when she'd think she got to at land, Ruby would pull her back into the murk with a question about her behind. Matters would improve a little on Friday, but Ruby would maintain an edge around her even then, and everyone near her felt the prick. Today was a Friday. "His pants legs are uneven," Ruby said about the new boy standing on North Claiborne and Esplanade wearing a brown wool suit, a grey V-neck sweater beneath the jacket. He stood next to Andrew, whom all the girls fawned over at the debutante ball last season. Evelyn's own escort had been second in charm; he had even silenced her nerves by pointing out his friends' waltzing mishaps, but despite her mother's urgings, she hadn't accepted his visit, and a week later when his interest subsided, she couldn't help but sigh. She looked up now, exhaled the smoke of the cigarette dangling from her angers. It was still early February, and the winter air hadn't lost its chill. Still all the Seventh Ward girls congregated after school outside Dufon's Oyster Shop, the best Negro-owned restaurant in the city, and smoked. Evelyn had come to relish the anticipation of the first, slight inhale--she was a lady--and the long release afterward. She would never have referred to herself as an anxious person--Ruby had claimed that role in the family--but any nerves that jingled inside her settled at just the thought of a drag. She blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth so as not to hit her sister and smiled at the thought of the uneven hem. "Maybe he was in a rush." "Even still," Ruby said, breathing in so sharply she almost made herself choke. "He might have found time to even out his pants' hems," she laughed. "Cute though. Too brown for most people, but it is a nice shade of brown." Evelyn nodded. Cute he was. Men and women rushed past them, bustling in and out of offices and stores, the Boot Seed and Feed, Queen of the South Coffee, Miller Funeral Home, Meriwether's Photography, Bejoie Cut-Rate Pharmacy, the Sweet Tooth Ice Cream Parlor, and Fine Time Billiard Hall. The outdoor market where Evelyn's mother made groceries was just a block away at St. Bernard Avenue, and Evelyn could smell the Cajun spices simmering. The butcher let out a high-pitched call. "Veal to roast, and cabbage and green beans." Ruby raised her voice to combat the new noise, "And his hair lays so at, and that's not a conk either." The uneven man looked over at the girls then, and Evelyn held his gaze for less than a second, so quick if he doubted it had happened, he could convince himself it hadn't. She shook her head back at her sister. "No, much more natural looking than a conk." "All that, but he couldn't hem the pants evenly." "I wouldn't have ever noticed those pants if you hadn't hit me over the head with it, Ruby," Evelyn said, though it wasn't true. It was clear that despite his pressed suit and neat tie, the uneven man didn't belong among the passé blancs he stood with, no, not with their damn near-white skin, straight black hair and even straighter nose, their moustaches like silk against their lips, and she didn't know what possessed her to declare otherwise. She liked what she'd said though, not only that, but the fact that she said it, and for the rest of the day whenever she thought of the uneven man, she thought of the weight of her voice when it came out. Since that day was a Friday, she had to go the whole weekend without seeing him again. at was ne because she had memorized him. Evelyn was in her second year of nursing school at Dillard University, and for a Negro woman to even consider such a rigorous field, she had to be up on her memorization. Because of it, she didn't need to see a face more than once to imagine it fully, and she spent the weekend doing just that. She remembered details she hadn't even known she'd seen in the first place: that the shorter hem of his pants revealed a faded grey sock. at he was the color of ginger cookies her mother might bake then sprinkle sugar over, that that similarity made his skin seem like something she might taste, that he was tall, taller than her daddy even who was six three, that he was skinny, but not breakable, that he had small slivered eyes that when she caught them seemed to be breaking through their lids with something vital to say. When she thought on him longer, she realized he had been holding a biochemistry textbook, probably studying to be a doctor. Just like Daddy. Maybe he could help her with amino acids. In all her memorization, she couldn't get the codes straight. The following Monday, Evelyn led the way from her house on Miro Street to St. Bernard Avenue then North Claiborne, her sister swishing behind her, and looked for a cigarette, feeling steadied by it even as she reached through her pocketbook. Sure enough, the uneven man walked up halfway through her smoke. He was with Andrew again, a boy with an even hem, but something lacking, and maybe it was an uneven hem, which she'd grown used to associating with comfort. "That ol' passé blanc has a smug look on his face," Ruby said about Andrew. "He must think he's too much." "He's cute," Evelyn said, smiling while she talked in case the uneven man looked over. "Not so cute he can't look at a woman decently," Ruby said. "Besides, not as cute as Langston." Langston was her last boyfriend, and he had been cute all right, so cute Ruby had heard from a senior at vocational school that he was carrying around phone numbers for every girl in the Seventh Ward with hair past her bra strap. Ruby had taken that hard, which meant their mother cooked her favorite food all week, and every sentence Evelyn directed at her was presented like a question that had no business being asked. When Ruby had gotten over it, she had sworn to the light brights, but here she was again. "I could do better," Ruby said, "and I have done better, but he's over there looking like he's the best I could do in the state of Louisiana. Not so," Ruby added. "He's not so bad, just putting on a show," Evelyn said. The uneven man looked up at her again. He leaned, whispered something to his friend, and both men walked over. Ruby's man was leading the way, which confused Evelyn but didn't deter her. When the men reached the girls, Ruby's stood in the front right beside Ruby, and the uneven man lingered in the back watching his shoes. They were okay shoes, Evelyn noticed. One-tone lace- up oxfords that had been shined too many times. She hadn't seen them the day before in all the fuss about the hem, and they were okay, but certainly no competition for the rose blush she had applied to her soft nearly white face, or for the long hair Mother had straightened the night before and which Evelyn had rolled into a coil at the base of her head. She stared at him, holding her head high and still, feeling as if she was pushing her chin forward to coax him into talking. "How do you do there, young lady?" Ruby's man asked. Ruby was most con dent Monday afternoon. They hadn't gotten back to Mother's yet, and those beans were still at the top of the pot. "Not as good as I was when it was just me and my sister," Ruby answered. "So that's your sister, huh?" "That's what I said, isn't it? You're not too quick on your feet, are you?" "Y'all are some pretty sisters. Your mama must be pretty too, huh?" "Why are you asking about my mama?" Ruby wasn't even fooling this time; she was fierce when it came to their mother. "Aw, I was just making conversation, lil' girl. Don't get ya panties all up in a knot." "You certainly don't need to know a thing about my panties," Ruby said, trying to maintain her frown, but it was hard on her pretending to be so uninterested. She had a weakness for red beans and red boys. And then that talk about her panties. Evelyn couldn't take it anymore; she could feel her face heating. The uneven man was lost in his shoes, and she was just standing there, being ignored, as if she weren't the one Daddy twirled around the parlor for their extended family when he drank more than one glass of Sazerac after Christmas dinner. Evelyn moved her books around in her hands to get his attention. The uneven man looked up, but when he saw her, he looked down again. Evelyn hadn't noticed the color of his eyes the other day either. They weren't so brown they were black like most people's his color. They were an actual brown, the way the color came out in the crayon box. He had long eyelashes, and their tips might have touched the top of his cheeks when he blinked. He looked up again. "You two are sisters?" he asked, stammering over the word sisters , and as he spoke he lifted his grey felt fedora and pressed it into his chest. "We are," Evelyn said, nearly sighing she was so relieved.
 "Are you the oldest?"
 "How'd you know that? Everyone always thinks she's the oldest 'cause she's--" Evelyn almost said the word vocal but didn't want to sound resentful. "I could just tell." He looked down again.v "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" Evelyn asked, partly to keep the conversation owing and partly because she was interested. "Twelve living, two dead," he said.
 "Are you the oldest too?"
"No ma'am, the baby. My mama died having me."
 Evelyn's heart was beating fast, and she was feeling powerful emotions she didn't know how to read. It wasn't what he was saying, but the way he was parceling out his story, like a mother would cut meat for a child, that made Evelyn's heart feel fragile. She moved forward a little and hoped Ruby wouldn't see her do it. "Where do you live?" she asked. "Amelia Street, Twelfth Ward, two blocks from Flint-Goodrich Hospital." Evelyn was surprised to hear that. Though she knew he wasn't one of them, she didn't think he was that far off. She looked down at his books again, large hardbacks, biology and organic chemistry. She'd been right; he would have had to be premed to be studying subjects like those, but there weren't any well-off Negro people uptown. She considered his hem again. She never cared about status the way Mother and Ruby did; it was more how unaccustomed she was to being wrong. "Where do you live?" he asked. His stammer was back this time on the first word, where . Excerpted from A Kind of Freedom by Margaret Wilkerson Sexton 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.

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