June: A Novel by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore

June was a very strange novel.  Indeed, if it weren't for the fact that I received this book from the publisher in exchange for my honest review, I likely would not have finished it.  I had a very difficult time getting into the story, which is always a turn off for me, I want to be hooked right away.  I just didn't particularly like or care about the characters much.  The main character, Cassie (yes I know the book is titled June, but I still deem Cassie the main character), was probably the hardest to like.  Through much of the book she was in some sort of depression or deep funk.  She slept much of the time, didn't take care of herself and let her house fall apart around her.  If you're not rooting for the main character, it's not easy to want to keep reading, but I did.

Another strange thing about the book was that the house that Cassie lived in, her ancestral home, was a character itself, as though it were alive.  The author, Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, referred to the house as thought it had feelings and memories.  Even stranger yet though was that Cassie dreamed true dreams, about actual events that occurred in the life of her grandmother, June, before she was born.  She saw the story of June's life as though it were a movie.

Not strange, but disappointing to me was the way the author stereotyped the lesbian character in the story, Lindie.  She hated wearing dresses and preferred to dress like a boy, even preferred rough and tumble boy's play.  Beverly-Whittemore also stereotyped the people in the fictional town where the book took place.  Being from Michigan myself, I can definitively say that not everyone who is from a small town in the Midwest is dumb, out of touch with the rest of the world, and serves Kraft Mac & Cheese and instant potatoes to company. 

The good thing that June has going for it is surprise twists.  I often didn't know where the story was going and even up until the very end, was not sure how things were going to turn out for the characters. I like that!

Writing My Wrongs: Life, Death, and Redemption in an American Prison by Shaka Senghor

Writing My Wrongs was an interesting read and very eye-opening as to what life is like in the inner city and in the prison system.  The lure of drugs is powerful and lures many into addiction and a life of crime.  It was extremely disheartening to me to learn the story of a young boy who went so wrong.  His own analysis is that his downfall was a mother who physically and emotionally abused him, although he did have a good father.   It has long been my belief that the breakdown of the family is one of the greatest contributors to the increase of incarceration in our society, but the love of Shaka's father couldn't save him.

Shaka's world is rough and grimy at best, but nothing compared to his life in prison.  The inner city of Detroit is indeed hard, but seems mild compared to what exists behind bars.  Corruption, abuse, drugs, gangs, rape and murder abound.  Not exactly an environment for rehabilitation, but more likely a place where the criminal will become even more hardened.

For the majority of his prison sentence for murder, Shaka Senghor blames everyone but himself for his crime and imprisonment.  Like so many people today, he has a difficult time with personal responsibility and owning up to his mistakes.  It is only when he begins the process of self-examination and admits his own failures and shortcomings that he begins the process of turning his life and attitude around. 

However, there were a couple of things that bothered me in this story, which is touted as a story or redemption, inspiration and beauty.  The first is that very close to the end of Shaka's prison term, after he has supposedly changed and become an truly different person, ready to make a difference in the world,  he pays another inmate to stab someone.  His only comment about this is that he was "conflicted about this decision" and then goes on to brag that it was the last act of violence that he took part of in prison.

The second is the reverse prejudice that Shaka Senghor has.  He has a major problem with anyone other than Blacks.  When he is in prison, he reads only Black authors, associates with only brothers.  He talks about how important it is that Black people know where their food comes from.  Really? Isn't it it good that EVERYone knows where their food comes from.  He also has a fantastical view of Africa, as though it were Utopia.  I know through many, many stories from loved ones who are refugees from Africa, that this is far from the truth.  It bothers me when anyone, whether they are a minority or not, is prejudiced that way.

One more warning:  This book contains a lot of foul language.