All Souls, by Michael Patrick MacDonald

So I finally finished my first of the senior summer reading books! Ambitiously I purchased all six at the start of the summer; admittedly I knew that this would probably be the only one I'd finish.

I knew I wanted to read this book because so many of my students have read and loved it over the past few years. There's something about a book with such a range of appeal that makes me want to read it regardless of its merit. In some cases I have been bitterly disappointed. But All Souls is every bit as grievous and appealing as my students have promised.

What I like most about the book is quite straightforward: the story. The focus is essentially on the author's mother, her eleven children, and growing up in the projects of South Boston in the seventies and eighties. Socially, it is about this horrid mobster snitch, Whitey Bulger, and about the busing riots (and the book really does explore race in uncomfortable ways, with the author's eventual faith in humanity holding strong in spite of the horrific race and class warfare that leads to the difficult life people lead in poor communities, such as this urban one). This book also deals really honestly with poverty, drugs, clothing, music, cockroaches--in other words, the stuff that defines everyday life. There are no "frills and furbelows," and what is most amazing is watching the author grow up to discover that his purportedly idyllic and close-knit community is actually a crime-and-drug-laden war zone in which the poor are played upon for profit. And yet the layers of denial continue! But there are always lies that we tell ourselves about our choices, our habits, our lifestyles, our community--and seeing those lies shattered is paramount to shattering one's own identity, which is what I think happens to poor MacDonald. Not that he lets us fully see it in him--and, fortunately, he returns to have faith in Southie (and himself) in the end. This is not an easy feat, considering the pain and loss and lies he and his mother endured. But it's certainly not a story of triumph, or good winning out over evil, or the power of love, or hope, or anything like that which we would prefer to have happen. It's just about what happened, and why, and that's it. You know... kind of like life.

What I disliked about the book is more a matter of style than anything else, really. Yes, the prose is lacking the modern artistry and polish that contemporary authors usually package along with their abstract-meaningful matte cover art; but this narrative doesn't need that florid stuff because it has the storyteller's voice, which is what matters most with any book and at the same time is so rare. In fact, it drives me crazy to see the number of writers today who are gifted crafters of words, yet clearly lack the storytelling muse (and yet they still keep writing, and writing, and writing...). So that's what I really, really appreciate about this book. The only thing that bothers me--more in retrospect than while I was reading--is the distinct distance between this memoir and its author. The memoir is more about his family and the general feeling of Southie than about the author in particular; though clearly his life is shaped by his impressions, which is what he needs to share. But now I want to know so much more about him, since except for the disco clothes and The Rat (I didn't grow up in Massachusetts, but I've lived here long enough to remember The Rat! But I haven't really been to Southie ever) we don't hear much about thisMacDonald. It's almost as if he thinks his siblings' stories are more important; and yet he clearly seems to have a charmed life as the sort-of "seventh son." And he's the one with the courage and voice to tell the tale! But his mother is clearly the heroine of the story, and of course now I want to meet her... perhaps she's been on Oprah? The author's perspectives on race are also disturbing and troublesome--honest, yes; but still white and rather painful save at the end. So I don't know if I want to read MacDonald's new book, but I certainly am curious to see what it is about.

In all, All Souls is a sad and honest book. I really couldn't put it down; people were making fun of me for picking it up in snatches, just to read a paragraph--it was that kind of book. The best kind: a real book, not a forced one, that lives and breathes (and stops, at times) organically, of its own accord.