Tag: American plains

Heartland: A Memoir of Working Hard and Being Broke in the Richest Country on Earth by Sarah Smarsh

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Heartland: A Memoir of Working Hard and Being Broke in the Richest Country on Earth by Sarah Smarsh

Heartland is a memoir at the intersection of Educated by Tara Westover and Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich. For readers who actively seek out trying on someone else’s shoes, Smarsh’s memoir will amply deliver.

Heartland explores the experiences of four generations of women and men in a working-class class family in rural Kansas, delving into their experiences of love, marriage, work, and education. The book is sectioned into thematic chapters, rather than being strictly chronological, covering her family’s peripatetic travels across the state for work, romance, love — and all too often, sanctuary and safety. Readers should know the book discusses abuse and neglect in a multitude of ways; violence is woven in the fabric of these women’s lives, both a symptom and cause of their poverty.

The book includes a massive cast of individuals from both sides of Smarsh’s family. [A family tree map would have been a helpful addition, but this is a minor detraction.] Through this account and interpretation of her family’s history, Smarsh makes an argument for greater attention to the social, cultural, and gendered reasons for poverty in America. She challenges the popular and misguided myth of meritocracy, especially highlighting the multiple ways spousal and domestic violence play an enormous role in this societal problem.

Smarsh’s delivery of this message lacks — thankfully — pedantism or blame, focusing instead on the interconnected web of cultural expectations and histories which have resulted in these outcomes. Her writing also is smooth, journalistic, and easily accessible; in fact, evoking an emotional response from this reader on more than one occasion.

Heartland is a fantastic non-fiction read on poverty, especially among the white working class, in middle America.

The Wintering Place by Kevin McCarthy

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The Wintering Place by Kevin McCarthy

Five words or phrases to describe McCarthy’s The Wintering Place: Raw, Disturbing, Visceral, Emotionally Invasive, Riveting. This is a novel for fans of Donald Ray Pollock and Cormac McCarthy, readers who enjoy (perhaps with grimacing faces) the feel of dirt under the character’s nails, an odor of decaying blood lingering and fetid, the kind of novel that settles a deep chill in your bones and in your soul. The Wintering Place is a novel about resilience and survival and the cost of that survival on the human soul.

The novel is set in the 1840s on the American plains, in the rural hills and the long stretches of lonely woods. It revolves around two brothers, Irish immigrants, who have fought and lived according to a primal form of justice. They are army deserters, fugitives in more ways than one. Blood and death are on their hands, rightly or wrongly. A woman, the bride of one of the brothers, accompanies them — and together they are a kind of family, dependent on each other for their survival and security. There is a bond of love between, the kind that is weathered by the harshness of life, silent, sullen, and not always kind. The woman is like the brothers: alone in the world, a survivor of a place and time that beats women out of their dignity, power, and softness.

The three of them seek a wintering place. A place to hole up for the dark season. They need only to survive the weather — that is, until they encounter animals of their own kind who threaten them. Humanity is the evil that lurks in the shadows of the forest. The snow, wolves, and frost kill too, but humans pose the most danger.

The three of them encounter ruffians like themselves, Native Americans, officers of the law, traders and merchants who hold the power of life or death over all who dare to traverse the plains in winter. Everyone is seeking a safe wintering place in some way or another.

My description sounds stark, but McCarthy’s prose and the way he unpicks the fabric of the story and lets it unravel into its bare parts, is captivating. I read this novel compulsively, wanting always to know what happens next. Do they survive another day? Will one of them perish in the effort?

The characters were fleshy, real, and irresistible; the stink of their unwashed bodies and the smell of blood permeated the safety of my apartment as I read this book. It was as if I could sense them in the room with me. McCarthy uses an epistolary delivery, bringing the characters into dialogue with the reader directly; it is almost like having a conversation with them.

At the end of the novel, this reader even felt a little lost — as if there was a little death in the finishing of this book.

I must add one more word to the description: Haunting.