How to say Babylon A memoir

Review by Booklist Review

In the immediately absorbing prologue in poet Sinclair's (Cannibal, 2016) striking memoir, we meet the author at 19, reflecting on the shores of her childhood homeland at the moment her "fear had finally given way to fire." What follows is a stunning story of coming-of-age, complicated family dynamics, and finding one's path through literature, all set against the lush background of Jamaica. With Rastafari parents raising her as one of four siblings, Sinclair's upbringing was rife with both joy and heartbreak. The tumultuous relationship with her strict, religious father parallels his increasing militancy and fervor for Rastafarianism as she grapples with feeling both rebellious towards his way of life and sympathetic about his causes. "My father was born in the throes of Jamaica's rebellion, the island's Black citizens now orphaned by the circumstance of being Caribbean, mothered by nothing but our own dream of independence." Her complex feelings of loyalty to her family and deep desire to explore the world beyond her island, known as Babylon by her father, permeates Sinclair's beautifully written and insightful narrative. A radiant story of family and self-discovery told through the sharp eye of a talented poet.

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

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Poet Sinclair (Cannibal) recounts her harrowing upbringing in Jamaica in this bruising memoir. Forbidden by her militant Rastafarian father from talking to friends or wearing pants or jewelry, Sinclair and her sisters were subject to his unpredictable whims and rage. After her mother gifted 10-year-old Sinclair a book of poems, she turned to writing poetry, drawn to the medium's structure and emotive capabilities: "In the chaos of our rented house, the poem was order." With the help of scholarships, she attended a prestigious private school in Jamaica to study poetry, and eventually left for college in America (the proverbial "Babylon" of the title, and the main target of her father's rage), where she funneled her conflicted feelings about the move into her work: "I try to write the ache into something tangible." In dazzling prose ("There was no one and nothing ahead of me now but the unending waves, the sky outpouring its wide expanse of horizon, and all this beckoning blue"), she examines the traumas of her childhood against the backdrop of her new life as a poet in Babylon, declining to vilify her father even as she questions whether a relationship with him might be salvageable. Readers will be drawn to Sinclair's strength and swept away by her tale of triumph over oppression. This is a tour de force. Agent: Janet Silver, Aevitas Creative Management. (Aug.)

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A tale of reckoning and revelation focused on the author's fraught relationship with her father. Sinclair, a poet whose 2016 collection, Cannibal, won multiple prestigious awards, mines her peripatetic Jamaican upbringing as the eldest of four children raised by a father who adhered to a strict brand of Rastafari. She rebelled against her father's expectations that she be a woman who "cooked and cleaned and demurred to her man, bringing girlchild after girlchild into this world who cooked and cleaned and demurred to her man." The bulk of the book describes Sinclair's chaotic childhood, during which she, her mother, and siblings felt terrorized by her father. "Beatings became a fact of life, like dirt and air, and they arrived without warning, without reason," she writes. "There was no pattern, except the chaos of my father's interior life." Less frequently, the author attempts to depict him as sympathetic: "Through reggae music, he began to identify his own helpless rage at the history of Black enslavement at the hands of colonial powers, and his disgust at the mistreatment of Black Jamaicans in a newly postcolonial society. In the island-wide abuse lobbied against the Rastafari, my father soon began to see himself." Despite his strictness, however, her father sometimes broke the rules. "In the months that had passed since I snooped on my father watching television," the author writes, "the more I had grown disillusioned with his lessons of purity, and the more my questions about him swarmed." Sinclair found solace and release through writing poetry, and she overcame her father's objections, along with other obstacles, to attend college in the U.S. Even after leaving, the author has continued to be haunted by her father. "The scorch-marks of his anger were everywhere I looked, my family withered and blistered." Sinclair's gorgeous prose is rife with glimmering details, and the narrative's ending lands as both inevitable and surprising. More than catharsis; this is memoir as liberation. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Prologue Prologue My Life had stood--a Loaded Gun-- --EMILY DICKINSON BEHIND THE VEIL OF TREES, night's voices shimmered. I stood on the veranda of my family's home in Bickersteth in the small hours after midnight, on the lonely cusp of womanhood, searching for the sea. My birthplace, a half speck of coastline hidden by the tangled forest below, was now twenty miles away in the dark. When I was a girl, my mother had taught me to read the waves of her seaside as closely as a poem. There was nothing broken that the sea couldn't fix, she always said. But from this hillside town fenced in by a battalion of mountains, our sea was only an idea in the distance. I pressed my face into the air's chill and listened. Out here was the bread and backbone of our country. The thick Jamaican countryside where our first slave rebellion was born. These mountains tumbling far inland had always been our sanctuary, hillsides of limestone softened over time, pockets of caves resembling cockpits overgrown with brush, offering both refuge and stronghold for the enslaved who had escaped. Echoes of runaways still hung in the air of the deepest caves, where Maroon warriors had ambushed English soldiers who could not navigate the terrain. The English would shout commands to each other, only to hear their own voices bellowing back at them through the maze of hollows, distorted as through a dark warble of glass, until they were driven away in madness, unable to face themselves. Now more than two centuries later, I felt the chattering night wearing me mad, a cold shiver running down my bones. A girl, unable to face herself. The countryside had always belonged to my father. Cloistered amidst towering blue mahoes and primeval ferns, this is where he was born. Where he first communed with Jah, roaring back at the thunder. Where he first called himself Rasta. Where I would watch the men in my family grow mighty while the women shrunk. Where tonight, after years of diminishment under his shadow, I refused to shrink anymore. At nineteen years old, all my fear had finally given way to fire. I rebuked my father for the first time, which drove him from the house in a blaze of fury. What would happen to me once he returned, I did not know. As my siblings and mother slept inside, frightened and exhausted by the evening's calamity, I paced the dark veranda, trying to read the faint slip of horizon for what was to become of me. As I stared past the black crop of bush into the night, the eyes of something unseen looked back. Something sinister. A slow mist coiled in the valley below. The air shook across the street, by the standpipe where we filled our buckets with water when the pipes in our house ran dry. There, emerging from the long grasses, was a woman in white. The woman appeared like a birdcatcher spider ambling out of its massive web. Her face, numb and smudged away, appeared to me as my own face. I stood unmoving, terrified as I watched this vision of my gray self glide down the hill toward me, cowed and voiceless in that long, white dress. Her head was bowed, her dreadlocks wrapped in a white scarf atop her head, walking silently under the gaze of a Rastaman. All the rage that I burned with earlier that night had been smothered out of her. She cooked and cleaned and demurred to her man, bringing girlchild after girlchild into this world who cooked and cleaned and demurred to her man. To be the humbled wife of a Rastaman. Ordinary and unselfed. Her voice and vices not her own. This was the future my father was building for me. I squeezed the cold rail of the veranda. I understood then that I needed to cut that woman's throat. Needed to chop her down, right out of me. There, I could see where these fraught years of my adolescence had been leading--with each step I had taken into womanhood, the greater my hunger for independence. The more of this world I had discovered, the more I rejected the cage my father had built for me. There, in her frayed outline, I saw it, finally: If I were to forge my own path, to be free to make my own version of her, I had to leave this place. If I were to ever break free of this life, I had to run. But how would I ever find my way out? How would I know where to begin? Here, in the same hills that had made my father, now sprung the seed of my own rebellion. I was being called to listen to what the land already knew. To unwind the hours that led to this catastrophic night, I had to exorcise the ghost of its making; I had to first understand my father and the history of our family. To carve my own way forward, I had to first make my way back. To where the island's loom and my family's yarn made one knotted thread. I had to follow until I could find just where this story's weaving began: decades before I was born, before my father was born. Before he had a song for this strange captivity, and a name for those he longed to burn. And before I learned too well how to say it. Babylon. Excerpted from How to Say Babylon: A Memoir by Safiya Sinclair 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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