How pretenious, I thought to myself while reading the first few chapters of The Help by Kathryn Stockett. This author, an affluent white woman has the gall to write from the first person perspective of an African American woman serving as a maid in Mississippi in the early 1960s. How could she possibly pretend to know what that experience feels like? How could she create a believable-even just a passable-narrative of the thoughts inside the minds of these characters, that are so different from herself? But, there I was, riveted by Aibileen's tenderness towards the little white baby she was charged with caring for, laughing at Minny's sass, crying over the purity of the goodness prevailing over the disgusting injustices. Stockett was doing it. And she was doing it incredibly well. Of course, how she was doing it became clearer as she introduced the character Skeeter- the white writer, who takes it upon herself to collect stories and observe the world around her carefully, critically: seeking truth. I assume this is Mrs. Stockett's closest self representation with her novel.
Now to get the grit of it, the review. How was her writing? Efficient, smooth, colorful, descriptive. I felt as if I was both watching a movie in my mind, and chatting with a friend, as I read through the pages. How are the characters? Love-able, relate-able, realistic, and sometimes despicable (I'm looking at you, Hilly). How is the plot? entertaining, suspenseful, and sometimes realistically mundane as it follows everyday lives. Would I recommend it? Yes. Not only did her style of writing inspire me to try a more conversational approach to my own writing, but the story itself celebrates women's strength, highlights the importance of doing what is right, and forces the reader to remember both how dark and how beautiful life can be.
I just loved it.
5/5 Stars.
1 comment:
When I read this book, I related the story to my childhood in the 60s in Pennsylvania. I was lucky because neither of my parents expressed any racism so I didn't group up with prejudice, but violence was all around us. I remember riding with my mother, my sister and her best friend, who was black, afraid of what the whites would do if we were seen.
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