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163 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1990
“Everything I could see looked unreal to me; everything I could see made me feel I would never be part of it, never penetrate to the inside, never be taken in.�
“Oh, I had imagined that with my one swift act—leaving home and coming to this new place—I could leave behind me, as if it were an old garment never to be worn again, my sad thoughts, my sad feelings, and my discontent with life in general as it presented itself to me.�
“I had begun to see the past like this: there is a line; you can draw it yourself, or sometimes it gets drawn for you; either way, there it is, your past, a collection of people you used to be and things you used to do. Your past is the person you no longer are, the situations you are no longer in.�
I disliked the descendants of the Britons for being unbeautiful, for not cooking food well, for wearing ugly clothes, for not liking to really dance, and for not liking real music. If only we had been ruled by the French (...)I loved Kincaid's handling of the theme of white, middle-class privilege, and had many moments throughout the book when I felt YES IT IS LIKE THAT EXACTLY, wondering how little has changed over the nearly 30 years since the publication (or maybe Polish middle class simply reached the level of American middle class of late 1960s as described by the author in 1990).
I couldn’t bring myself to point out to her that if all the things she wanted to save in the world were saved, she might find herself in reduced circumstances; I couldn’t bring myself to ask her to examine [her husband’s] daily conversations with his stockbroker, to see if they bore any relation to the things she saw passing away forever before her eyes.Lucy’s mother, the woman Lucy leaves behind, is an intense woman, difficult and fascinating. On Lucy getting her first period,
she laughed and laughed. It was a kind laugh, a reassuring laugh. And then she said that finding blood in my underpants might be something one day I would get down on my knees and pray for.The same woman tells Lucy she named her “after Satan himself. Lucy, short for Lucifer�, which surprisingly makes her daughter go “from feeling burdened and old and tired to feeling light, new, clean. I was transformed from failure to triumph. It was the moment I knew who I was.� Lucy’s mother � who, as we get to realize, was hurt by Lucy many times - is capable of uncompromising love, telling her loving-hating daughter she will love her, despite everything, until the end of her life. I definitely want to read this book again, perhaps even teach it (references to casual sex and drug use are not detailed and do serve a purpose).
Jamaica Գ’s novel Lucy tells the story of Lucy Potter, a 19-year-old woman who moves from her native Antigua to the United States to be an au pair for a well-off white family. The family is composed of a couple, Mariah and Lewis, and their four children. Lucy grows close to Mariah, who becomes a mother figure to her. The affection Lucy feels for Mariah contrasts with the deep conflict Lucy feels when she thinks of her real mother back home. The story of Lucy’s first year in the U.S. is interspersed with memories of her childhood in Antigua, especially of her love-hate relationship with her mother. Lucy’s mother sends her many letters during her stay with the family, but they remain unopened as Lucy refuses to read them. With a powerful mix of pride, contempt, and sorrow, Lucy is determined to forge her own path.
Written in a style that is deceptively simple and may even seem naïve, Lucy is actually so layered with meaning that I read it twice. Between those readings, I read another book, but Գ’s invisible hand had gripped me and kept drawing me back.
Lucy is an act of protest. It is an exploration of a woman’s rage at feeling confined by family ties, especially her desire to free herself from her mother’s influence. Anger about European colonization is another important theme in this novel. The most striking example of this occurs one day when Mariah blindfolds Lucy and takes her to see a field of daffodils as a surprise. Lucy has a violent reaction to the daffodils because they remind her how, as a schoolgirl in Antigua, she was made to memorize an old English poem about daffodils, although they were not part of the island’s natural flora:
“I did not know what these flowers were, and so it was a mystery to me why I wanted to kill them. Just like that. I wanted to kill them. I wished that I had an enormous scythe; I would just walk down the path, dragging it alongside me, and I would cut these flowers down at the place where they emerged from the ground.� (p. 29)
It takes courage to write an unlikeable protagonist, especially an unlikeable female protagonist. There is so much pressure on girls and women to be likeable all the time, and not show anger or be disagreeable. The protagonists of both Annie John and Lucy break free from this mold: they are wonderfully disagreeable, angry, and yes, unlikeable. I feel grateful to Jamaica Kincaid for writing female characters who dare to displease.
It may seem cruel that Lucy ignores her mother’s letters, but I can understand her burning need to create a new life for herself, one that is truly hers and not her mother’s. Some mothers consider their daughters an extension of themselves, thus curtailing their independence and ultimately diminishing their lives. This sentiment is stated both explicitly and implicitly throughout Lucy:
“I had come to feel that my mother’s love for me was designed solely to make me into an echo of her; and I didn’t know why, but I felt that I would rather be dead than become just an echo of someone. . . . Those thoughts would have come as a complete surprise to my mother, for in her life she had found that her ways were the best ways to have, and she would have been mystified as to how someone who came from inside her would want to be anyone different from her.� (p. 36)
Eventually, in adulthood, daughters who find themselves in this situation have to cut the psychological umbilical cord in order to thrive as individuals. In doing so, we are telling our mothers: I am a separate person with values and desires that are different from yours. You may have given birth to me and raised me, but you do not own my body, my life, or my choices.
At the end of the novel, Lucy is lonely and unmoored. She has nothing, but she is the author of her own destiny. It is the only thing she has ever wanted.
The times I loved Mariah it was because she reminded me of my mother. The times that I did not love Mariah it was because she reminded me of my mother.
I did not know that the sun could shine and the air remain cold; no one had ever told me. What a feeling that was! How can I explain? Something I had always known � the way I knew my skin was the colour brown of a nut rubbed repeatedly with a soft cloth, or the way I knew my own name � something I took completely for granted, “the sun is shining, the air is warm,� was not so.
Oh, I had imagined that with my one swift act � leaving home and coming to this new place � I could leave behind me, as if it were an old garment never to be worn again, my sad thoughts, my sad feelings, and my discontent with life in general as it presented itself to me.
She said the word “spring� as if spring were a close friend, a friend who dared to go away for a long time and would soon appear for their passionate reunion. She said “Have you ever seen daffodils pushing their way up out of the ground?
So Mariah is made to feel alive by some flowers bending in the breeze. How does a person get to be that way?
I was then at the height of my two-facedness: that is, outside I seemed one way, inside I was another; outside false, inside true. And so I made pleasant little noises that showed both modesty and appreciation, but inside I was making a vow to erase from my mind, line by line, every word of that poem.
Mariah said, “These are daffodils. I’m sorry about the poem, but I’m hoping you’ll find them lovely all the same.�
I felt sorry that I had cast her beloved daffodils in a scene she had never considered, a scene of conquered and conquests; a scene of brutes masquerading as angels and angels portrayed as brutes…It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t my fault. But nothing could change the fact that where she saw beautiful flowers I saw sorrow and bitterness. The same thing could cause us to shed tears, but those tears would not taste the same.
“Oh, it was a laugh, for I had spent so much time saying I did not want to be like my mother that I missed the whole story: I was not like my mother—I was my mother. And I could see now why, to the few feeble attempts I made to draw a line between us, her reply always was “You can run away, but you cannot escape the fact that I am your mother, my blood runs in you, I carried you for nine months inside me.� How else was I to take such a statement but as a sentence for life in a prison whose bars were stronger than any iron imaginable? �
“The stories of the fallen were well known to me, but I had not known that my own situation could even distantly be related to them. Lucy, a girl’s name for Lucifer. That my mother would have found me devil-like did not surprise me, for I often thought of her as god-like, and are not the children of gods devils? I did not grow to like the name Lucy—I would have much preferred to be called Lucifer outright—but whenever I saw my name I always reached out to give it a strong embrace.�
Excerpt From Lucy: A Novel by Kincaid, Jamaica
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