The Monday Book – The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois by Honorée Fannone Jeffers

Guest review by Janelle Bailey, retired Literature teacher.

This tome of a novel feels like at times like a contemporary update of Roots, at least as I recollect from my childhood what a big deal it was when that novel and family saga became a mini-series on television back in 1977 and sharing Alex Haley’s family story, tracing the life of Kunta Kinte from his18th century Africa selling into slavery through his life in the US and his descendants’ lives and what they endure and experience. 

This combination of photos released by Harper shows cover art for “The Love Songs of W.E.B. DuBois,” left, and a portrait of author Honorée Fanonne Jeffers. The novel about racism, resilience and identity named for the influential Black scholar and activist, has received the fiction prize from the National Book Critics Circle. (Harper via AP, left, and Sydney A. Foster/Harper via AP)

This book, The Love Songs of W.E.B. DuBois, by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers, operates somewhat similarly in that it takes us back and even a little further back than Roots did, to the 17th century arrival of European immigrants to the US who settled in Georgia, through their interaction with the Creek natives who owned that land, and then through the manipulation of the Creeks and takeover of the land from them, and turning it into a quintessential Southern plantation and cotton farm, to then be run by one big creep of a man, character Samuel Pinchard. While his owning slaves is, unfortunately, somewhat standard behavior for that time in US history, it doesn’t make it feel right or make the story pleasant. We can’t really change that history, try as some will to dismiss or justify it or bury it (for what purpose, I truly do not, personally, understand). But Samuel Pinchard is a complete creep for what he did to little girls…and over and over again.

The story here follows not only Pinchard and his descendants but also some of those who managed to escape him, tracing some lives right up through 2007. Those more contemporary characters struggle in a variety of ways, only some of which have anything to do with their race, though their stories are valuable and rich also because of what we learn about race, what we see through these characters’ eyes, what we learn.. These contemporary characters present their own personal and family histories—tragedies abounding—and including besides race, other big things like childhood sexual abuse by family members, drug addiction, and more.

It is not an easy story to read. And that is not solely due to its being 800 pages long (may have been sufficient at 500, even, with a more critical editor) but moreso for all the pain these characters endure. Included for some of them is the discovery and/or acknowledgment of their own family history and the struggle to accept these stories themselves, or to work through current conflicts with family members that harbor the old stuff. There are layers of discovery and layers of trauma uncovered for the reader but also for the characters themselves. At the point when the reader engages with the characters and their stories, she becomes also invested in the challenges these characters face, and it is—so much of it—pain-filled. Whether a reader’s own history is parallel to these characters’ histories or not, it just cannot be read without hurting for all who suffered similarly.

That makes it a challenging read at times emotionally.

I also cannot honestly say that I “enjoyed” the book overall. Some of that is also due to what it puts the reader through, as previously indicated. It does contain some beautiful storytelling at times, some vivid sensory experiences, and certainly some poetry and poetic writing, both in its inclusion of passages of W. E. B. Du Bois’s writing and in some of the author’s storytelling.

But in being completely honest in this review as I am in all of them that I write, the other reason it wasn’t easy or enjoyable for me as an 800-page read was the inclusion of multiple typos and its reading, at times, like a first draft rather than a final, and then also some inconsistencies in characterization that nearly stopped me from finishing it at times. I came to wonder whether Jeffers was under some kind of fierce pressure to finish and/or whether she had possibly arranged it all differently initially and then changed the organization, for some of the choppiness and change in characters’ development and motivations that I sensed.

It is unfortunate that a book this long and a story this important will possibly not be read by all who would gain from it. I do believe that its stories are important for all to learn and understand. And I am most certainly in support of everyone in the United States learning of these horrors of our own country’s history and how it impacts the people we meet today. But there are other books that do that extremely well that I will recommend before this one. I’m sorry, Ms. Jeffers.

Before you Bum a Smoke…

Come all ye people who bum cigarettes, a warning take from Lee:

My friends Lee and Vicki went to a music show in Roanoke. Lee is six years sober from heroin use. Since cigarettes are considered something of a trigger for the old life, he’s not supposed to have them, but Lee took advantage of Vicki nipping off to the toilet. He requested a cigarette from a smoker outside. When Vicki returned and caught him, he didn’t finish.

This may have saved his life.

As she harangued him (all of us who have loved someone with SUD know this is a loving act) Lee said suddenly, “I have to go to the restroom.” A moment later, Vicki heard a ruckus and followed to find Lee unconscious on the ground, surrounded by a bunch of strangers. Four of them had Narcan out, the rest were calling 911 on their cell phones. 

One of the kind strangers administered the anti-overdose drug Narcan as Vicki took Lee’s face in her hands and cajoled, slapped, and screamed him into waking up. He went in and out three times, and registered an incredibly weak pulse when the paramedics arrived. But with the Narcan, he was holding onto consciousness, drenched in sweat, and slowly realizing what had happened.

When the paramedics found that Lee had asked for a cigarette, they exchanged knowing glances, did a couple of checks, and confirmed: the cancer stick had been laced with fentanyl.

“Never, never, take anything from someone you don’t know these days,” the paramedics said, without judgment. “This happens a lot. And we do mean a lot.”

Vicki didn’t really register their warning in the moment. As she says, “I felt so bad for Lee, because being an ex drug addict, his fear and combativeness towards medical responders was triggered and he was panicking. His mind immediately went to law enforcement and I was constantly having to reassure him that this was not that life anymore and he had done nothing wrong.” 

The paramedics were sympathetic to Lee’s PTSD and helped Vicki bundle him into their car to head back to the hotel once they were sure he was going to be okay.

I asked Vicki if she thought the guy who gifted the cigarette had known the fentanyl was in there. It can’t be proven, as he disappeared when the trouble began, but Vicki thought he had looked high, when Lee described which smoker gave him the ill-fated gift. The paramedics were also of the opinion that people tend to sneak their drugs into concerts via cigarettes. One more reason not to ask for one, ever.

“I’m just in shock,” Vicki concludes. “You hear the stories about how easy it is but never picture yourself in a situation where that could happen. It’s unreal. But the availability of Narcan and people who knew how to use it was very very inspiring. And I’m pretty sure it saved Lee’s life.”

Feel free to share this story, and please, please do two things: carry Narcan, and don’t ask strangers for cigarettes, no matter how badly you want one.