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Ghana Must Go - Taiye SelaiIn my life, I have surrounded myself with books. From before I could even read, I was drawn to the smell of the pages, the look of hundreds of words gathered together to form something beautiful. And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve applied this romance to my choices in education, choosing to delve into a double major of Journalism and Literature, and then an MA in Modern and Contemporary Literature and Culture. But the thing is, when you constantly surround yourself with something, you become desensitized to it. I read constantly, and so sometimes… when a truly magical book falls into my lap… it takes me a while to realize it. So was the case with Taiye Selasi’s Ghana Must Go.

Selasi — who was born in England but raised in America and of Nigerian and Ghanian descent — is a gift to modern literature. Seriously, she is every lit student’s dream — so much so that I want to contact every professor I have ever had and force them to incorporate this novel into the curriculum along with lessons on metaphor and sentence construction and the art of making every word count. I cannot even fathom how this is a debut novel, by a woman who earned her degrees in American Studies and International Relations, no less. And yet it is.

Elizabeth Gilbert (author of Eat, Pray, Love) says it best: “Taiye Selasi is a young writer of staggering gifts and extraordinary sensitivity. Ghana Must Go seems to contain the entire world, and I shall never forget it.” In its 300 pages, it does contain the whole world — the realities of this world. To quote the book, this is “a token of the absurdity of the world in which [we] are.” To those living white-picket-fenced-lives, oblivious to those realities because they’ve been lucky enough to remain sheltered and strangers to raw pain, Ghana Must Go is a slap in the face. An uncomfortable reminder of the divide between the First World and the Third. An unapologetic account of the lives of an Afro-American family, torn apart (at the core of things) by the white privilege penetrating their every-day lives in Boston — white privilege that results in the patriarch’s (Kweku Sai) systematic firing and subsequent abandonment of his family, unable to confront his shame: leaving behind his wife (Folasade), his eldest son (Olu), his twin son and daughter (Kehinde and Taiwo) and his baby girl (Sadie).

As someone who grew up stretched between Third and First Worlds, in a broken family with seven siblings scattered across the globe (each facing their own demons), there was a lot in this book that resonated with me on an intrinsic level — things difficult for anyone to read, because of the unfiltered, unedited truth behind them. There were few characters I couldn’t relate to, either from my own perspective or that of my family. There was Olu, unable to truly trust in love and be honest with his emotions. Kehinde, scarred by perceived past mistakes, immersing himself into creative outlets as escapism. Taiwo, cold, hardened — a victim of the worst kind of hardship. Strolling through Washington Square Park on the N.Y.U. campus (where I got my BA) falling into the trap of false comfort, false security, false hope in another person. Sadie, ten years their junior — the unexpected baby — and the black sheep, not unlike myself. I saw a piece ofme in them all, and perhaps that’s presumptuous (or even self-centered), but it’s true. I saw my mother in Fola — an immigrant to the First World: a woman who had to sacrifice so much of herself to make sure her kids succeeded… and my subsequent fear of failure.

He had held up his end of the bargain: his success for her sacrifice, two words that they never said aloud. Never success because what were it’s units of measurement (U.S. dollars? Framed diplomas?) and what quantity was enough? And never sacrifice, for it always sounded hostile when she said it and absurd when he attempted, like he didn’t know the half.

In Kweku, too, whose life and death frames the novel, I saw my own dad. Proud. Intelligent. But prone to running away.

The feeling of wanting to appease, and yet wanting with all your might not to want to appease is also extremely prevalent in this text. It’s described as the “African Filial Piety act”:

Lowered eyes, lowered voices, feigned shyness, bent shoulders, the curse of their culture, exaltation of deference, that beaten-in-impulse to show oneself obediently and worthy of praise for one’s reverence of Order (never mind that Order is crumbling, corrupted, departed, dysfunctional; respect must be shown it).

Although described as a familial African trait, I’d argue this is a theme of Hispanic culture just as much, and one I’ve fought with time and time again. Wanting to appease because you must; not because you want to. Because no matter the corruption or dysfunction amongst those around you (be it your parents, grandparents or other such elder), you cannot help but want their respect; their admiration; and dare I say, their love.

Selasi has this uncanny ability of analyzing the world — making bold claims about it along the way — but not sounding pretentious or phony whilst doing it. There’s this line, describing the female doctor who ultimately fires Kweku from his role as a surgeon. She had the “four-piece Harvard Box Set (B.A., M.D., Ph.D., M.B.A.)” — and that one line alone reminded me of this ivy-league BS so prevalent in our culture: one where having so many degrees from an elite school excuses you from firing a black man for fake reasons in an epic demonstration of white privilege and sheer human shitty-ness, with no regard for how it will destroy his family.

And then there’s this thing Sadie says: “The bathroom of a mother. A chamber of concealment. A chamber of secrets, insecurities, scents, crystal bottles with spray pumps and baby blue bottles, an undue proportion of labels in French.” My mom is still a mystery to me — someone I’ll never really figure out. And though I had never thought of it in this way, her bathroom (her bedroom, too) are clearly symbolic of that sentiment.

Ghana Must Go isn’t an easy read. Nor is it the equivalent of a feel-good-flick. Yet I would recommend it to anyone, and mostly to those in need of lessons in different cultures and different ways of life to their own. The first part of the book will keep you on edge — its non-linear format confusing, rambled and chaotic (like the confused, rambling chaos of the real world). But as the novel proceeds it becomes easier to follow. Selasi begins and ends with a death, but the life in her words is incomparable to anything I have read in a good, long while.

Interested? Be sure to check out everyone else’s thoughts as well:
Isha
Charlotte
Cynthia

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A few months ago, my fellow blogger friends Ragini, Isha and I realized that we share more than a love of fashion, body confidence and quirky styling: a passion for literature. Those of you who are recurring readers of mine have probably stumbled upon more than one post referring to my binge reading or qualms with film adaptations of certain beloved books! We began chatting via social media about starting up a book club, and were slowly joined by Cynthia and Charlotte in the banter. Thanks to Isha’s exceptional organization skills, a Facebook page was created and a group e-mail session set up. We all came to the decision that our reviews and commentary on our chosen monthly book would be best posted onto our individual blogs, but we will be linking to each other’s pages so that hopefully readers will check out what we all have to say. These are beautiful, intelligent women whose writing and input I cherish, and I am so pleased to be part of this Nerdsville Book Club with them.

Eeny Meeny Book

Eeeny Meeny is high-end British drama producer M.J. Arlidge’s debut novel, and it shows – at times, in refreshing bursts of energy and life, but at others, in painful, borderline offensive comments that have the potential to be funny (ish), but come off instead as offensive due to poor editing and seemingly rushed writing:

“Could a woman have dragged Sam by herself – all twelve stone of him – or would she have needed an accomplice?” (43) – Just one quick example.

“She kind of looked like a social worker, except she wasn’t depressed and her clothes were all right” (107) – Maybe one more.

As a rookie novelist, Arlidge’s thriller is filled with possibilities – moments during which you think, “This is it. Things are going to get good now,” but said instances are quickly trumped by plot developments that seem crudely inserted in at the last minute, and hyperbolic events with little purpose other than shock factor.

Arlidge’s story itself is one that on paper should greatly appeal to me. His novel, which follows a pattern of abductions, imprisonments, starvation and psychological and physical torture, puts the characters through some of the nastiest situations imaginable. Their humanity is tested. Their morality challenged. In order to escape, prisoners must kill or be killed. But like any good psychopathic villain, their kidnapper has planned their captivities carefully, of course. The pairs are not strangers. They are couples, mother and child, friends, business partners, colleagues supposedly fighting for the same cause. When your survival depends on taking the life of someone you know well – of someone you love more than life itself in some cases – what do you do? Who do you sacrifice? Do you choose to die?

The reason writers like Hubert Selby Junior (Requiem for a Dream) and Tracy Letts (August: Osage County) appeal to me is because they have the beautiful ability to put their characters through raw, unthinkably gruesome struggles, and analyze the strengths and weaknesses of homo sapiens’ minds and hearts along the way. They highlight our fragility, our instinctual self preservation, our loyalty (or lack thereof) toward others. The reality is that most of us are only human, and grim tales of suffering often (not always) fascinate us. For me, there needs to be more to a tale than blood for the sake of blood, though. There must be emotion. There must be profoundness tucked within the words on the page. As we watch Detective Inspector Helen Grace discover one set of murders after another, we fear for her stability. Her background, predominantly unclear to us, is one we at least know has come with its share of toils. Her mental release of choice, coated in sadomasochistic tendencies, leaves much to be desired for her psychological safety, and we do remain on edge, waiting to discover her fate.

But it is the prisoners who keep us gripped time after time. Had we seen fewer victims up close, the story would have quickly become obsolete and drifted toward the land boring books set aside to collect dust. It is that we always know there will be more – and suspect that even our main characters are at danger – that keeps us reading. And though the profoundness I crave in my literature – that thing that makes you reflect and remember a book days, weeks and years to come –  is somewhat absent, I could not help become immersed in the victims’ outcomes. Who would kill who? Who would take their own life? Would any pair choose to die together?

Arlidge succeeds in that he makes readers question why they personally are attracted to such tales, and in keeping us sufficiently entertained so that we read the book to its end, where we then find out it will have an unnecessary sequel to it. But he does not succeed in convincing us that he is a good writer. Often, he drifts into cliché and mainstream moralistic phrasing. His career in television transpires through passages and full graphs that come off as blatant stage direction rather than literature. But alas, Arlidge entertained. It is that his goal seemed purely to do so, and not to impact and challenge and relay deep thought, that bothered me.

Eeny Meeny has potential. That we know from early on that the villain is a woman is an interesting plot line in and of itself. Stories along similar genres tend to feature men as the evil geniuses behind the series of unfortunate events we are presented with. That it tests people to its limits in physical, psychological and emotional capacities is gripping. But that the author seemed to rush the story – seeming not to give much thought to his words or how far and deep and subsequently more interesting he could make them – left me somewhat vacant and unsatisfied.

While not my favorite, and certainly not a future repeat read, I do think this book has potential for those interested in crime fiction or horror, especially on the screen. Oftentimes Eeny Meeny felt like a TV script, and while that just didn’t work for me in this case, it definitely might for someone else. It’s important, I find, in literature and in life, to drift outside your comfort zone and delve into new things. I don’t have much experience with crime/horror fiction or film, so this read was a rewarding experience overall.

For more, check out the other reviews by my fellow “Nerdsville Book Club” members:

Isha on An Autumns Grace

Charlotte on Apple Charlotte

Ragini on A Curious Fancy

Cynthia on Cynthia Escribe

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Below is the English translation of the article I wrote on the excruciatingly talented dancer/choreographer/actor/and big, beautiful man, Dexter Mayfield. The article appeared in Volume II of Volup 2’s Supernatural issue,  which can be read here.

Dexter Mayfield

Blogger and television personality Perez Hilton has the reputation of tearing people apart. But the thing is, he’s honest. “When in doubt, ask yourself: What would Lindsay do? Then do the opposite!” That’s pretty solid advice. Perez tells it like it is, and as always, some people love him for it while others want to pull a Mean Girls and sabotage the rest of his life. But one of his best discoveries came, no doubt, last February when he shared a video that went viral. The title: “Big Boys Can Dance Too.” A year later, it has been shared 70,000 times and reached over 21,000 likes on Faceboook. No, it wasn’t Britney shaving her head again or Miley on MDMA. It was a video of 29-year-old performer/dancer/actor Dexter Mayfield of Dallas, Texas. Mayfield was inspiring — an emblem of an early Prince, even. But unlike Prince, he wasn’t petite and lanky. He was a big, beautiful man. And very apparently unfazed by the fact that in the skinny-centric Hollywood limelight, he stood out.

The video was recorded in Australia, when Mayfield was taking a class from Marko Panzic at the Sydney Dance Company. Everyone involved in the production knew it would be special, but they never envisaged just how far it would go. “I was so humbled by it,” says Dexter. “Humbled by the support from friends and family; humbled by all the people who reach out to me; humbled by all the randoms who recognise me; humbled by all of the positive feedback; humbled by the fact that it is still going strong.” Perez no doubt chose to insert “Big Boys” into the title because it’s provoking and eye-catching. The mainstream isn’t used to anyone over a certain size making it big (no pun intended), and most media outlets seem to shy away from incorporating those with extra weight on their bones on their screens. But Mayfield is proud of his size and achievements regardless of weight. “Being a ‘big boy’ and a professional dancer, every time you step on a dance floor in class, or at an audition, or in rehearsal, you constantly have to prove yourself,” he says. “So when you are recognized for being good at what you do, and being who you are, it is one of the best feelings in the world.”

Criticism for his body manifests itself differently than one would think, perhaps because any kind of performance art seems to go hand-in-hand with a rigorous and narrow aesthetic standard. But when Mayfield dances in front of choreographers, directors, casting agents and producers, they like that he is something unique. He consistently makes it to the next call and the next, optimistically awaiting the final hire. But then it never comes. “Those who are not in the room, who ultimately make the final decision, are not open to having something different on camera to show the masses,” he says. “It’s so disappointing, and frustrating, but you have to remain positive and move on to the next opportunity.” A lot of people would say those words with a hint of antagonism or bitterness, but not Mayfield. Mayfield is genuinely positive and confident. Maybe it’s because he has been “overweight” since he was seven years old and has dealt with the typical teasing, giving him thick skin no doubt. Maybe it’s because he knows he’s damn good at doing what he does, and always has been — whether he was performing at school talent shows or dance ministries as a kid, or as a principal dancer with Jennifer Lopez and Sarah Bareillis. He loves himself, he loves his curves, he loves his build, and he isn’t afraid to tell the truth. “Our physical bodies are only one aspect of who we are as individual human beings,” says Mayfield. “So once you accept all aspects of yourself: your mind, your heart, your spirit, your balance of energy, your personality, your overall being, you will naturally come to accept your body and its attributes.”

Though known best for dancing, Mayfield is a multi-talented kind of guy. In 2008, he was asked to sub a dance class at Planet Funk in Houston, where he was presently based. From there stemmed a love of choreography, giving him a chance to see the moves in his head come alive via talented dancers. He’s also done a fair share of acting, landing a role in a live-stage adaptation of How to Train Your Dragon, kicking off the tour in Australia. “Becoming a different character all while keeping it grounded and making it your own was so enlightening, and just downright fun,” he says. A future dream, though, is to dance with the B herself: Beyonce, a.k.a. Mrs. Carter, a.k.a. Yonce. Or maybe to act on a show similar to Glee but intended for a somewhat older audience. Or maybe, probably, both.

Mayfield believes that “it’s only a matter of time before the image of a leading man or woman is open to everyone deserves a shot at it, regardless of body size.” And with that everlasting optimism that this man seems to radiate from head to toe, there’s no doubt he’ll get there someday. He’s already moved to Los Angeles. He’s been trained by amazing choreographers like Tricia Miranda, Kevin Mager, Derrell Bullock and so many more. He’s landed a role in a major stage adaptation of a Dreamworks film. And he channels epic greats like Stevie Wonder and B herself. Yeah, there’s literally no way this big-hearted big boy isn’t landing his big dreams.

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As someone who has never particular been into furniture one way or the other, and seen it as a necessity rather than a luxury or art form, speaking to Charlotte Kingsnorth, industrial designer, was something of a trip — an eye-opening experience that helped me understand just how inspiring this outlet of creativity can truly be. You can check out my story on Kingsnorth in the latest issue of Volup 2 (the Supernatural Edition), Page 192.

Charlotte Kingsnorth

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I wrote on the differing perspectives of beauty in the four nations I have lived in the past two years: The U.S., Spain, Czech Republic and England. This is not an attempt to stereotype or generalize entire cultures or countries. It is purely based on personal experience.

The piece appears in Volume II of Volup 2’s Supernatural issue, available to read online here, and beginning at Page 134.

beauty around the world

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Marie BrozovaA piece I wrote while living in Prague on the incredibly talented and mesmerizing color pencil artist, Marie Brozova.

Almost concealed by the sunset colored tangle of curls, her face is home to wide, dreamy eyes that look at you as if they are searching for something – perhaps inspiration for a piece of artwork or some kind of sign that you can be trusted enough to be allowed inside her fairytale land.  It’s a land she has crafted for herself in an effort to escape the clutches of actuality by creating a realm where fantastical universes and creatures become a new reality – a reality she wishes to share with everyone.

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