Amazon.com Amazon.com Review (ISBN 0618509631, Paperback)
With novels like
Damballah and
Hiding Place, John Edgar Wideman began his career in an explicitly modernist vein--indeed, his chronicles of life in the Pittsburgh ghetto of Homewood had more than a trace of a Joycean accent. The autobiographical
Brothers and Keepers, however, allowed the writer to find his own voice. Perhaps this dual portrait of the author and his brother Robby--serving, then and now, a life sentence for a murder committed during a bungled robbery--finally forced Wideman to fuse the modernist trappings of his earlier work with the storytelling traditions of African American culture. "My memories needed his," the author recalls. "Maybe the fact that we recall different things is crucial. Maybe they are foreground and background, propping each other up." In any case, the
Rashomon-like result is a raw meditation on fate and family, as well as an indictment of our entire notion of crime and (especially) punishment.
(retrieved from Amazon Thu, 14 Feb 2013 14:00:15 -0500)
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I tried not to read this book through the lens of cool distance and liberal curiosity provided by my white privilege. But I can't shed that privilege. So I tried to listen deeply to the experiences that John shares in this memoir. He unapologetically notes that Black men in the 1970s did not have many options; unemployment was high and racism was alive and kicking. But neither does he acquit his brother for his path, a path lined with women and drugs and, ultimately, with murder. John acknowledges that, though he chose a different path than that chosen by Robby, their anger is the same. The sense of disempowerment, the constant awareness of categorization as a "black man" -- the brothers share this experience fully and absolutely. The line between their lives -- that of a Black man who earned a college degree and taught at the college level, and that of a Black man who committed murder in a drug deal gone bad and ended up imprisoned for life -- that line is viciously thin. If nothing else, this is an acknowledgement and exploration of that perilously thin line.
John and Robert grew up in Pittsburgh in a loving family with limited financial resources. John eloquently captures this theme and distinguishes theirs from families where violence and hatred existed. Poor they might have been, but he honors the love and care that his family provided without "whitewashing" the struggles they experienced. Robert was the youngest son and John compassionately explores the impact of the older siblings' success on young Robby's sense of his options. He wanted to be different; he wanted to forge his own path. Unfortunately, this led to disaster and a life sentence in prison.
Robby's voice is so eloquent in this memoir. The fluid way in which John weaves his own voice with that of his brother is pure literature. At times this memoir reads like a mystery novel, gripping and entertaining, and at other times it reads like a... well, like a memoir.
As a white woman of privilege, trying to describe and effectively endorse this memoir is a challenge. But recommending it is easy. I do so, wholeheartedly and without reservation. (