Reviews with content warning for Physical abuse - On Sundays, She Picked Flowers

This was basically a 2-star read for me, but I dropped the second star because there were so many typos that some parts were nearly unreadable, which made the experience really frustrating.

I think I can see why people liked this story but it wasn't for me. Somehow despite being so short it dragged on way too long, the time skips felt pointless, and the fairy tale aspects didn't mix well with the more modern parts of the book for me.

No one reported that Pontiac stolen in 17 years? No one noticed all those people dying?

Content Warnings

7_hiree's review

Go to review page

dark emotional hopeful mysterious reflective relaxing slow-paced

Plot- or character-driven? Character
Strong character development? Yes
Loveable characters? Yes
Diverse cast of characters? Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus? No

5.0

Yah Yah possesses a tenderness for their own craft and creations, and a strong talent for metaphor, which makes their writing friendly for the mind. They skillfully set up evocative themes with a frankness that detests shock. I picked up On Sundays after graduating and feeling very far removed from my ability to feel pleasure when reading. It was like getting my feet in some really soft grass after a very long time of walking on concrete. On Sundays is something that has the potential to stand the tests of time. Through Jude, we glimpse history through the perspective of a neurodivergent survivor of abuse, and through her romance with Nemoira, we glimpse how people come to love each other through heavy personal history. On Sundays begs the question of how people come to forgive and love when they've seen the worst of other people.
I found it easy to read through the spelling and grammar errors and just notated corrections (you're gonna wanna notate On Sundays and scream in the margins, talk to the characters in your mind, it's half the fun)
However one thing I struggled with on rereading was

when Nemoira betrays Jude, I was blindsided. This is my first consciously queer gothic novel-- I've read Sula, which I'm not sure Toni knew was fruity when she wrote it, I love Black gothic and horror, and I prefer queer literature in general (Baldwin, Qiu Miaojin, Akwaeke Emezi, not AO3 and blorbo). On a level, I did know it was coming, and I do love how it was delivered- the knife, the brutality, the full circle. This is about the cycles of violence. Jude's rituals and hauntings underscore the cyclical, ritualistic nature of trauma. And Nemoira's views about honesty, morality, and humanity diverged from Jude in a lot of ways already. The buildup was there in knowing these things. But reading back, I struggled with their coming together afterwards. I don't think it has to be tied up neatly with a 'kumbaya and they did the relationship therapy and happily ever after', and that's what's beautiful about it. But I struggled to understand what changes developed in the time between Nemoira's death and revival. The hardest thing about grief is, what do you do when that person has pissed you off? There's a grief in being angry with, betrayed by, someone who has taken care of you, who you have taken care of. Was it all for nothing? There's a sort of imbalance in the exploration of Jude's grief for what they lost in killing Ma'am with what they lost in killing Nemoira. I think exploring this grief would have created new questions, while also creating more questions from its overarching question, while tying the novel into challenging the discourse of the times, the genre, allat.

And another thing I love-- On Sundays She Picked Flowers is so skillful in its use of the fantastic, it functions beautifully as an allegory about revolution, indigeneity, and home. Nemoira is clearly indigenous to America, while also navigating the state as a Black woman. Her biggest enemy is the state, and so her morals are emblematic of anarchic potential. Jude, on the other hand, is a part of an ongoing diaspora. She's Black American, her people are city people who came from the country. She is an Atlanta resident, but also knows that she is of the earth, which is a big part of her friction with hegemonic white supremacist authorities (encoded in her family and the Church). Nemoira is naturally on the move, and confident in the fact that borders and the state cannot define her home- though she bristles at the white men and police who try to do so. Jude's instability comes from struggling to make 'home' a less loaded space and word for herself. Home has always been hands on her, words beating her around her ears, the thin plastic sheen between her imperfect and unloved body, and her mother's perfect and treasured things. Together, Nemoira and Jude explore the intimacy of working the land, stewarding it. This intimacy creates a direct connection between the body and land, drawing a line between the worldview of the Church (a body that is soiled and holds a pure soul) and one that says, 'no, this life is what I know and this life is what I'll love and fill'.
And what comes from and between the love of two people who have such differential experiences with society, society as the state, and the humanity of themselves and others? God, I could write an essay about this book, and my notes already look like one. This that shit Audre was talkin about in her essays about difference and the erotic.
Final note: as an avid fan of someone who loves things that ooze sensuality and horniness, I do give this novel a sensuality and horniness rating of 10/10.

Content Warnings

More...