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cgreenstein's review against another edition
dark
reflective
sad
slow-paced
2.25
I really did not like this. I read another review that said the memoir pieces were good, and I agree-- when she wrote about her childhood and early adolescence and what she personally saw and experienced growing up in different countries, I was interested and able to enjoy the writing. These sections were things that only she could have written, and they were insightful observations of her world. I appreciated her unique perspective and found these sections to read smoothly and quickly.
Unfortunately, most of the book consisted of tortured, recurring metaphors about earthquakes (the author has never been in an actual noteworthy earthquake, and while her life has had serious disruptions, the metaphor is extended far beyond its one-time usefulness as a device for starting the book) and a blue chair (symbolizing her isolation and depression, which then serves as a springboard to her ruminations on "madness," which are melodramatic and undermined still further by the decision to use such a questionable term for mental health disorders). These abstract ruminations were repetitive and trite.
Another recurring theme was her fixation on Christianity and her antipathy to it. She astutely notes that everyone has faith, the only question is faith in what, and she also states that her faith is in her father, but she never makes the connection that putting her faith in a human being --who died when she was quite young-- ended in disappointment, whereas faith in an eternal God who does not die will not end in that same way. She certainly doesn't have to believe in a God, but her objections to faith are superficial and show a lack of serious consideration and research and thought. This was frustrating, considering how much of the book is spent on this topic and how she rags on people who do believe in a God.
Where the book really loses its way, however, is in its ruminations on structural racism in broad scope. Her personal experiences with this topic are where her thoughts are freshest and most insightful, but these are limited. Instead, she relates the stories of other people, lists crimes and horrors that happened in places she's never been, and makes sweeping pronouncements about the thoughts and feelings of strangers and groups she does not belong to regarding experiences she hasn't had in order to make her points.
Ultimately, what was so frustrating about this book is that the author's life story is more than interesting enough to stand on its own, as sections of this book ably show. I wish the author had trusted herself and her audience enough to tell *her* story, in all its specific detail, rather than trying to spice it up and pad it out with generic words that other writers could have written.
Unfortunately, most of the book consisted of tortured, recurring metaphors about earthquakes (the author has never been in an actual noteworthy earthquake, and while her life has had serious disruptions, the metaphor is extended far beyond its one-time usefulness as a device for starting the book) and a blue chair (symbolizing her isolation and depression, which then serves as a springboard to her ruminations on "madness," which are melodramatic and undermined still further by the decision to use such a questionable term for mental health disorders). These abstract ruminations were repetitive and trite.
Another recurring theme was her fixation on Christianity and her antipathy to it. She astutely notes that everyone has faith, the only question is faith in what, and she also states that her faith is in her father, but she never makes the connection that putting her faith in a human being --who died when she was quite young-- ended in disappointment, whereas faith in an eternal God who does not die will not end in that same way. She certainly doesn't have to believe in a God, but her objections to faith are superficial and show a lack of serious consideration and research and thought. This was frustrating, considering how much of the book is spent on this topic and how she rags on people who do believe in a God.
Where the book really loses its way, however, is in its ruminations on structural racism in broad scope. Her personal experiences with this topic are where her thoughts are freshest and most insightful, but these are limited. Instead, she relates the stories of other people, lists crimes and horrors that happened in places she's never been, and makes sweeping pronouncements about the thoughts and feelings of strangers and groups she does not belong to regarding experiences she hasn't had in order to make her points.
Ultimately, what was so frustrating about this book is that the author's life story is more than interesting enough to stand on its own, as sections of this book ably show. I wish the author had trusted herself and her audience enough to tell *her* story, in all its specific detail, rather than trying to spice it up and pad it out with generic words that other writers could have written.
melodys_library's review
2.0
I have a hard time rating memoirs because writing one is such a courageous and cathartic act. Baring your soul for all to see takes courage, and who am I to judge someone’s personal recounting of historical events and his/her life?
What I liked: The history. I appreciated the research on the European colonization of Ghana, Armenian genocide, postcolonial states and diaspora. The chapter about language and discussions on race relations drew me in as well.
What I didn’t like: I’ll admit that I was not moved to tears. There’s no doubt that the author had a traumatic, exhausting childhood experience. However, while the author writes about her emotions, I didn’t find her writing emotional. Also, the paragraphs didn’t flow, and felt disjointed and pieced together. Perhaps that’s what the author intended - for it to feel like phases of an earthquake, which was her driving metaphor?
What I liked: The history. I appreciated the research on the European colonization of Ghana, Armenian genocide, postcolonial states and diaspora. The chapter about language and discussions on race relations drew me in as well.
What I didn’t like: I’ll admit that I was not moved to tears. There’s no doubt that the author had a traumatic, exhausting childhood experience. However, while the author writes about her emotions, I didn’t find her writing emotional. Also, the paragraphs didn’t flow, and felt disjointed and pieced together. Perhaps that’s what the author intended - for it to feel like phases of an earthquake, which was her driving metaphor?
vtlism's review
I can't withstand this amount of history and stay awake. Not for me. Needs more of a theme/angle/plot for me.
brice_mo's review against another edition
2.0
My favorite aspect of memoir as a genre is that a “mundane” history can still be absolutely riveting when the author uses the text as a site for sustained reflection—when they write about how they met life.
Conversely, I think some memoirs feel like an (understandable) reaction to years of the author being told, “Your life is so interesting!” These books, while still occasionally enjoyable, often feel like a collection of events that happened to the author.
“Aftershocks” falls into the latter category.
Without question, Nadia Owusu’s life has been characterized by fascinating, singular experiences, and I feel grateful that we get to learn about them at all, but this book reads more like an incomplete autobiography than a memoir.
By attempting to be “about” so many things—grief, race, family, and mental health—“Aftershocks” seems uncertain of a reason for its existence. That is not to say that Owusu is uncertain; she writes with confidence and an admirable vulnerability. Instead, the book itself feels uncertain. The nonsequential storytelling does not develop any clear themes, and it instead begins to feel like multiple competing drafts of the same chapters.
Unfortunately, the central metaphor of earthquakes and aftershocks feels more like a recurrent interruption than a unifying rhetorical device. It feels underdeveloped, like the image is supposed to act as shorthand for interiority we never actually get to see.
In the end, the book left me wanting to watch interviews with Nadia Owusu, but it didn't cohere as a body of work.
Conversely, I think some memoirs feel like an (understandable) reaction to years of the author being told, “Your life is so interesting!” These books, while still occasionally enjoyable, often feel like a collection of events that happened to the author.
“Aftershocks” falls into the latter category.
Without question, Nadia Owusu’s life has been characterized by fascinating, singular experiences, and I feel grateful that we get to learn about them at all, but this book reads more like an incomplete autobiography than a memoir.
By attempting to be “about” so many things—grief, race, family, and mental health—“Aftershocks” seems uncertain of a reason for its existence. That is not to say that Owusu is uncertain; she writes with confidence and an admirable vulnerability. Instead, the book itself feels uncertain. The nonsequential storytelling does not develop any clear themes, and it instead begins to feel like multiple competing drafts of the same chapters.
Unfortunately, the central metaphor of earthquakes and aftershocks feels more like a recurrent interruption than a unifying rhetorical device. It feels underdeveloped, like the image is supposed to act as shorthand for interiority we never actually get to see.
In the end, the book left me wanting to watch interviews with Nadia Owusu, but it didn't cohere as a body of work.
duparker's review against another edition
3.0
Enjoyable and Interesting
Both those words describe this book, and they also don't. The memoir part of the book is enjoyable, but the cultural history and world view shared is interesting. The memoir isn't fascinating or moving, it is fine. The cultural history isn't unenjoyable, but it isn't something that is pleasing to read. 3.5 Stars
Both those words describe this book, and they also don't. The memoir part of the book is enjoyable, but the cultural history and world view shared is interesting. The memoir isn't fascinating or moving, it is fine. The cultural history isn't unenjoyable, but it isn't something that is pleasing to read. 3.5 Stars
robynfaryna's review
5.0
Wow. Fantastic. Poetic. Stunning. Moving. Tragic. This memoir is amazing. A beautiful and heartbreaking memoir about race, life, love, family and womanhood.