A Picture Worth 1000 Words

The more graphic novels I read, the more gems I find. I’m eclectic in my reading tastes. I’ve dabbled in everything from superheroes to fairytales.

Some of my favorite graphic reads have been memoirs. I’ve found several middle grade pallet cleansers, like Raina Telgemeier’s Smile, which I loved just as much for its sweet story as its artwork. The character’s expressions reminded me of Calvin and Hobbes, a style that I love.

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Lucy Knisley’s graphic memoir, Relish, had a similar brightness to its story and artwork, but added a more literal sweetness by putting recipes at the end of every chapter. When I showed this to my mother-in-law, a fantastic cook, she loved it too, and my copy passed on to several other reader-cook family members.

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Utterly different but still excellent, Lies in the Dust by Jakob Crane depicted the story of Ann Putnam, the only girl to apologize for her part in over twenty deaths during the Salem Witch Trials. Timothy Deker’s use of black and white for the illustrations emphasized the dark history that inspired this book with its lack of color.

It was shortly after this that I read the March trilogy by John Lewis. This too was illustrated entirely in black and white, an ideal choice for this moving graphic memoir.

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Congressman John Lewis tells the story of his role in the Civil Rights movement juxtaposed against the inauguration of President Barack Obama. These were beautiful not only for of the history they tell, but also for of the way it’s told. The black and white illustrations take on an almost symbolic nature since the book is all about racism and the fight for equality. Also, the lack of color softened the violence depicted in the novel, allowing it to remain historically accurate in its intensity but muted enough for younger readers. It’s hard to know what to show when the history being told includes so many murders, but I thought they did an excellent job.

I loved all of these books, but March was one of those reading experiences that I want to share with everyone. It’s a true story of bravery in the face of death and torture, of people standing firm for truth, of a people’s fight for freedom.

It’s an account of real American heroes.

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John Lewis speaking at Lincoln Memorial on August 28, 1963
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A Love Letter to “Beloved”

I recently read Toni Morrison’s “Beloved” for the first time. I expected to be made uncomfortable, because facing the real life horrors of American slavery should make everyone uncomfortable. What I didn’t expect was a tangible reminder of why I love reading and writing as an art form.

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I had previously read about the horrific treatment of black slaves and been sickened by it. I had read before about the desperation of runaways on the underground railroad. I have read about segregation, seen its modern day equivalents, and lamented how long it is taking us to truly love and treat one another as equals. But as far as the past goes, I always kept those things separate. There was slavery in the South and freedom in the North. “Beloved” opened my eyes.

The quote below comes directly from Toni Morrison’s Pulitzer Prize winning masterpiece. The character speaking is Baby Suggs, a freed slave living among other free blacks in the free state of Ohio. In the face of all that “freedom”, she still says this:

“Here,” she said, “in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in the grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don’t love your eyes; they’d just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face ‘cause they don’t love that either. You got to love it, you! And no they ain’t in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream out of it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they don’t love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I’m talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I’m telling you. And O my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it and hold it up. And all your inside parts that they’d just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver — love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet. More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life-holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize.”

I read this passage twice before I had to take a break and absorb the meaning of what I had just read. Most of the book took place in Ohio, and still the blacks were only given low level jobs, denied education, made to wait outside the store until the white customers left and forced to walk on the opposite side of the street when white pedestrians passed. This was their reality. They escaped slavery but the self-righteous-anti-slavery northerners still treated them like lesser beings. Essentially, they left worse for bad. I closed this book with my eyes and heart opened a little wider.

This is why I love to read. This is why I love to write. This art form, like many others, is not just about entertainment, it’s about pulling back the curtain to show truth, making people stop to consider their beliefs or actions, leaving behind people with eyes, minds, and hearts opened a little wider.

Thank you Toni Morrison, and not just for prose that smelled like poetry, but for writing something that made me uncomfortable, that made me think, and, ultimately, changed me forever.

Quote from Toni Morrison’s “Beloved” published by Alfred Knopf Publishing in 1987

© Rachel Svendsen 2015