I doubt I'll ever write about Middlesex, so I must apologize if anyone was actually anticipating that review. It's a great book, though and worth a read.
This post will be about a book I've been infatuated with since I first read it in grad school.
I've since read The Suicide Index: Putting My Father's Death in Order by Joan Wickersham at least a half dozen times since reading it in 2011 for Professor Bonnie Friedman's creative non-fiction class at UNT. I loved the organization of the book, although there were several people in the class who found it "gimmicky." I think everyone had to admit it was at least a very ambitious way to tell her story, but to better illustrate the way the book works, here's a shot of the first page of the table of contents of The Suicide Index:
I suppose what turned some people off about it was that some of the names of the titles were probably altered in a way to create a better narrative flow. Since the writer chose to index her ideas on suicide and since an index is arranged alphabetically, there is something inherently violated in any attempt to impose your own order on these things. Whatever, I say. It's different, it's cool, and it works for me. I will say there were a couple of times I thought the titles weren't as closely related to their content as I would have liked, but I forgave these little missteps (I guess you could call them), because I also found Wickersham a damn fine writer.
Because I've read this book so many times, it is also probably the most annotated book I own. Not always insightful, the annotations at least speak to how compelling I find Wickersham as a narrator. Exhibit A:
I still find that chapter fucking great and also: illustrative of how her organizational scheme works as a narrative tool. This "chapter" comes early on in the book, and it follows one of the longer chapters in Wickersham's book. It carries a really impactful punch. Stunning in its brevity, completely reliant on its title for context, it shocks you out of the lull of a narrative. It reminds you that you are reading something entirely atypical. It still makes me inhale sharply when I read it.
Rereading this book recently was an entirely different experience from the previous times, however. It was more personal this time. My little sister died by suicide on March 20th. The journey since then has, as one can imagine, been awful, of the worst kind of variety. Reading this book was something I wanted to do soon after. I think I waited about a month before opening it up. But I thought about Wickersham's story a lot in that month before reading it. In a way, it kept me company as I went down the same path Wickersham did. The path nobody ever thinks they will take.
I related to her sense of numbness most this time. When I learned of my little sister's death, I didn't cry. My whole family was crying, but I sat there, numb and outside of myself and wondering what was wrong with me. I was glad to read that someone else went through a similar sort of numb period. Hers lasted a long time, too, and I feel that mine is spotty and that it helps me cope and that it will probably hover around me for awhile. I eventually cried on March 20th, when I heard my mom telling my aunt and then my aunt's unrestrained sobbing. But I think even then, a part of me was willing myself to do it. I know shock is normal, but I felt like a monster. When I was being particularly hard on myself for being unfeeling, it was comforting to recall that Wickersham's narrative has an expansive section on feeling numb, and that sometimes it seizes the body and that it can be hard to shake.
There were things I read with a different eye this time around, but I still found Wickersham's language to be poetic, thoughtful, and most of all, a real comfort.
Something she wrote that I still find profound: "We worried about his heart, his liver, his stomach, his lungs. It was like Breughel's painting of the fall of Icarus--we were looking the wrong way; the focus was on the big events in the middle of the canvas. Nobody noticed the terrible small thing that was starting to happen in one corner."
For Victoria, we all projected different things onto her. I wanted her to be more appreciative, to be kinder to my parents. I wanted her to do these things because I didn't do them very well when I was a teen. But I couldn't see how unfair it was to load her up with my own baggage over being a shitty kid to my parents. I wish I had tried to be more of a peer to her, more of a sister than another authority figure. But this is just one of many wishes I have now, none to ever be granted, all useless and detrimental to the living.
If I'm trying to be kind to myself for the big sister I was to her, I will look back with a sad fondness at our texts to each other. One I sent her on her birthday: "Happy birthday, sis!! You're growing up so fast, and I'm so proud of who you're growing up to be! I love you! Dancing girl in red dress emoji, dancing girl in red dress emoji, lovestruck cat emoji, lovestruck person emoji, person blowing kiss emoji, glowing star emoji, left hand emoji, heart emoji, tortoise emoji, hare emoji, growing herb of some kind emoji, cake with candles emoji, trophy emoji, basketball emoji, confetti flying in celebration out of what looks to be a bugle emoji." And then a follow-up: "(Is that enough emoticons?)"
Another wish: I wish I could have noticed how fragile she was, how much harder I needed to try to keep her growing.
I suppose what turned some people off about it was that some of the names of the titles were probably altered in a way to create a better narrative flow. Since the writer chose to index her ideas on suicide and since an index is arranged alphabetically, there is something inherently violated in any attempt to impose your own order on these things. Whatever, I say. It's different, it's cool, and it works for me. I will say there were a couple of times I thought the titles weren't as closely related to their content as I would have liked, but I forgave these little missteps (I guess you could call them), because I also found Wickersham a damn fine writer.
Because I've read this book so many times, it is also probably the most annotated book I own. Not always insightful, the annotations at least speak to how compelling I find Wickersham as a narrator. Exhibit A:
I still find that chapter fucking great and also: illustrative of how her organizational scheme works as a narrative tool. This "chapter" comes early on in the book, and it follows one of the longer chapters in Wickersham's book. It carries a really impactful punch. Stunning in its brevity, completely reliant on its title for context, it shocks you out of the lull of a narrative. It reminds you that you are reading something entirely atypical. It still makes me inhale sharply when I read it.
Rereading this book recently was an entirely different experience from the previous times, however. It was more personal this time. My little sister died by suicide on March 20th. The journey since then has, as one can imagine, been awful, of the worst kind of variety. Reading this book was something I wanted to do soon after. I think I waited about a month before opening it up. But I thought about Wickersham's story a lot in that month before reading it. In a way, it kept me company as I went down the same path Wickersham did. The path nobody ever thinks they will take.
I related to her sense of numbness most this time. When I learned of my little sister's death, I didn't cry. My whole family was crying, but I sat there, numb and outside of myself and wondering what was wrong with me. I was glad to read that someone else went through a similar sort of numb period. Hers lasted a long time, too, and I feel that mine is spotty and that it helps me cope and that it will probably hover around me for awhile. I eventually cried on March 20th, when I heard my mom telling my aunt and then my aunt's unrestrained sobbing. But I think even then, a part of me was willing myself to do it. I know shock is normal, but I felt like a monster. When I was being particularly hard on myself for being unfeeling, it was comforting to recall that Wickersham's narrative has an expansive section on feeling numb, and that sometimes it seizes the body and that it can be hard to shake.
There were things I read with a different eye this time around, but I still found Wickersham's language to be poetic, thoughtful, and most of all, a real comfort.
Something she wrote that I still find profound: "We worried about his heart, his liver, his stomach, his lungs. It was like Breughel's painting of the fall of Icarus--we were looking the wrong way; the focus was on the big events in the middle of the canvas. Nobody noticed the terrible small thing that was starting to happen in one corner."
For Victoria, we all projected different things onto her. I wanted her to be more appreciative, to be kinder to my parents. I wanted her to do these things because I didn't do them very well when I was a teen. But I couldn't see how unfair it was to load her up with my own baggage over being a shitty kid to my parents. I wish I had tried to be more of a peer to her, more of a sister than another authority figure. But this is just one of many wishes I have now, none to ever be granted, all useless and detrimental to the living.
If I'm trying to be kind to myself for the big sister I was to her, I will look back with a sad fondness at our texts to each other. One I sent her on her birthday: "Happy birthday, sis!! You're growing up so fast, and I'm so proud of who you're growing up to be! I love you! Dancing girl in red dress emoji, dancing girl in red dress emoji, lovestruck cat emoji, lovestruck person emoji, person blowing kiss emoji, glowing star emoji, left hand emoji, heart emoji, tortoise emoji, hare emoji, growing herb of some kind emoji, cake with candles emoji, trophy emoji, basketball emoji, confetti flying in celebration out of what looks to be a bugle emoji." And then a follow-up: "(Is that enough emoticons?)"
Another wish: I wish I could have noticed how fragile she was, how much harder I needed to try to keep her growing.
