Scan barcode
A review by brice_mo
Aftershocks: Dispatches from the Frontlines of Identity by Nadia Owusu
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.