cheyenneisreading's review against another edition
4.0
This book really is a clear demonstration of how what happens in our childhood can have dramatic, significant affects on who we are, and how we act and respond, as adults
liralen's review against another edition
3.0
Gah. Wilson’s mother was, for much of Wilson’s upbringing, desperately unhappy, desperately depressed. The fifties, the sixties: not a time when depression was discussed openly or well understood. As a consequence, Wilson’s mother spent a year and a half, following a suicide attempt, locked in a psychiatric clinic: …more electroshocks. She had one after the other—until they had given her eighteen. But she was not cured. In fact, she was more severely depressed than ever. They could do no more for her because electroshock was the only treatment at Carrier Clinic. (12)
After every treatment, Wilson’s mother would call home, would call her friends, begging for help to escape; after every treatment, she was told that it was for her own good. She came home a shell of her former self, much of her knowledge blitzed from her memory, but no happier than before. Wilson, still a child, was largely in charge of her mother’s care…to the extent that when her father spent a year working in England, and the helper he’d enlisted fell through, it was Wilson who was responsible for making sure her mother was safe. It was Wilson who put her to bed many nights, and who helped her recover from yet another suicide attempt, and who was still in grade school at the time.
Wilson grew up. Came out. And her mother came out too, and everything changed.
The beginning of the book, Wilson’s childhood, is gripping and sad. It wanders a bit in the middle, less family story and more Wilson figuring out her own life in the chaos of the 70s (though of course it would be wildly unfair to define her life only by her parents’ complications). There were moments that gave me pause: when, for example, Wilson describes participating in one of those games…I don’t remember what they’re called in general, but names were pulled from a hat and pairs of queer women were randomly selected to spend a night together, with no pressure (but…also, some pressure) that anything sexual had to happen. The woman Wilson was paired with backed out, Wilson was hurt, and Wilson (and the rest of the group) took her to task for it the next morning. And…just…aii. Feels like that would have been a nice healthy time to talk about consent, and about it being perfectly okay to withdraw that consent, no?
But oh, the whole things is complicated. Later into adulthood, Wilson’s mother got sick again—I won’t go into details—and the round of hospitalisations was a retraumatisation for them both. They’d had to reforge their relationship by then, slowly and painfully, and what a terrible return to the past that must have been: pain, and hospitals, and pain medications, and so on.
Wilson’s work in the radio industry gave her, and her mother, a unique kind of voice: her mother was able to tell her story, in detail, for an audience of queer women who might never have known that they weren’t the only ones who’d been trapped in the closet in the fifties. The world has changed, but in some places it hasn’t changed much, and there’s still a place for her story.
As my mother talked, a fury built in me. My body blazed with it. All those years that Mom and I suffered, all those suicide attempts—the rifle, the river, the rat poison, the overdoses—all the times when I found her half-dead, all those pills tranquilizing her into droopy-eyed sedation…all that was now made clear as the aftermath of her love for a woman, forbidden and punished by society.
Another thought hit me: It hadn’t been her fault. Relief mixed with my rage: There was a reason. My God, it wasn’t our fault! (142)
After every treatment, Wilson’s mother would call home, would call her friends, begging for help to escape; after every treatment, she was told that it was for her own good. She came home a shell of her former self, much of her knowledge blitzed from her memory, but no happier than before. Wilson, still a child, was largely in charge of her mother’s care…to the extent that when her father spent a year working in England, and the helper he’d enlisted fell through, it was Wilson who was responsible for making sure her mother was safe. It was Wilson who put her to bed many nights, and who helped her recover from yet another suicide attempt, and who was still in grade school at the time.
Wilson grew up. Came out. And her mother came out too, and everything changed.
The beginning of the book, Wilson’s childhood, is gripping and sad. It wanders a bit in the middle, less family story and more Wilson figuring out her own life in the chaos of the 70s (though of course it would be wildly unfair to define her life only by her parents’ complications). There were moments that gave me pause: when, for example, Wilson describes participating in one of those games…I don’t remember what they’re called in general, but names were pulled from a hat and pairs of queer women were randomly selected to spend a night together, with no pressure (but…also, some pressure) that anything sexual had to happen. The woman Wilson was paired with backed out, Wilson was hurt, and Wilson (and the rest of the group) took her to task for it the next morning. And…just…aii. Feels like that would have been a nice healthy time to talk about consent, and about it being perfectly okay to withdraw that consent, no?
But oh, the whole things is complicated. Later into adulthood, Wilson’s mother got sick again—I won’t go into details—and the round of hospitalisations was a retraumatisation for them both. They’d had to reforge their relationship by then, slowly and painfully, and what a terrible return to the past that must have been: pain, and hospitals, and pain medications, and so on.
Wilson’s work in the radio industry gave her, and her mother, a unique kind of voice: her mother was able to tell her story, in detail, for an audience of queer women who might never have known that they weren’t the only ones who’d been trapped in the closet in the fifties. The world has changed, but in some places it hasn’t changed much, and there’s still a place for her story.
As my mother talked, a fury built in me. My body blazed with it. All those years that Mom and I suffered, all those suicide attempts—the rifle, the river, the rat poison, the overdoses—all the times when I found her half-dead, all those pills tranquilizing her into droopy-eyed sedation…all that was now made clear as the aftermath of her love for a woman, forbidden and punished by society.
Another thought hit me: It hadn’t been her fault. Relief mixed with my rage: There was a reason. My God, it wasn’t our fault! (142)
kickpleat's review against another edition
3.0
The first half of the book dealing with the author's turbulent childhood with a mentally ill mother and an absent father was well-told and engaging. But the second half of the book detailing the author's failed relationships were painful and awkward to read.
audaciaray's review against another edition
1.0
Only got through the first hundred pages... the sentences are nice, and I can tell that she really worked on them, but there's a lot lacking in the flow and consistency of the story. My close reading self couldn't get past not knowing how she knows what she knows. How does she know about her parents' awkward sexual encounters during the honeymoon? And the real kicker... in relating a story about antisemitic graffiti etched on her dad's truck in dust when she was a baby, she writes, "My parents never spoke to me about the hatred someone's finger had etched onto Dad's car." Then how did she know it happened? Sloppy stuff.
amphipodgirl's review against another edition
4.0
Chana Wilson had an incredibly hard childhood. Her mother, Gloria, was often suicidal, in and out of mental hospitals, heavily altered by electroshock and psychiatric drugs. For one year of grade school, her father was away in England, leaving her alone with her mom. During that year, Gloria attempted suicide twice. Chana cared for her mom, cleaned up after those attempts, and never told her dad about them.
Later, when Chana was a young woman, she learned that her mother was a lesbian. Her depression began when her woman lover ended their relationship and said they both needed to "be good wives and open their legs for their husbands". Medical professionals tried to "help" her by getting her to adjust to her heterosexual marriage. This sense that she was broken, and this denial of her core self, crushed Gloria for a long time.
But the human spirit is a powerful thing. In the 1970s, Chana and Gloria both came out as lesbians and had an exciting, glorious time riding the wave of cultural change and liberation. Over time, they healed much of the hurt in themselves and between them.
This book is many things. It's a history of social change, from the repression of the 50s through the social revolutions of the 1960s and 70s to Chana's state-recognized same-sex marriage in the 21st century. Chana was in the thick of these revolutions, active first in the antiwar movement and then the women's and gay liberation movements. She did a lot of classic hippie things, hitchhiking, crossing the country in a VW van, living on the land in northern California, being under FBI surveilance...that part was vivid cultural history.
It's also a portrait of a mother-daughter relationship, from the reversal of her childhood, where the young Chana has to put her heavily medicated mother to bed and be sure to stub out her cigarette, through coming out, communication, and healing, to caring for her mother again in Gloria's final illness.
Finally, and in some ways for me most powerfully, it's a detailed tracing of Chana's own internal emotional experiences and growth. Some of the moments that grabbed me most were the ones where Chana describes the actual physical sensations of emotion, conscious and unconscious, in her body -- the heavy tightness that comes when we have fears we won't name, the lightness that comes with freedom. Tightness in the chest, the rush of blood in the temples...it struck me that she must have really taken herself back into these moments in her mind to write the book.
I found this a very hard book to put down. It's an exciting, true-to-life, loving, difficult book. I recommend it highly.
Later, when Chana was a young woman, she learned that her mother was a lesbian. Her depression began when her woman lover ended their relationship and said they both needed to "be good wives and open their legs for their husbands". Medical professionals tried to "help" her by getting her to adjust to her heterosexual marriage. This sense that she was broken, and this denial of her core self, crushed Gloria for a long time.
But the human spirit is a powerful thing. In the 1970s, Chana and Gloria both came out as lesbians and had an exciting, glorious time riding the wave of cultural change and liberation. Over time, they healed much of the hurt in themselves and between them.
This book is many things. It's a history of social change, from the repression of the 50s through the social revolutions of the 1960s and 70s to Chana's state-recognized same-sex marriage in the 21st century. Chana was in the thick of these revolutions, active first in the antiwar movement and then the women's and gay liberation movements. She did a lot of classic hippie things, hitchhiking, crossing the country in a VW van, living on the land in northern California, being under FBI surveilance...that part was vivid cultural history.
It's also a portrait of a mother-daughter relationship, from the reversal of her childhood, where the young Chana has to put her heavily medicated mother to bed and be sure to stub out her cigarette, through coming out, communication, and healing, to caring for her mother again in Gloria's final illness.
Finally, and in some ways for me most powerfully, it's a detailed tracing of Chana's own internal emotional experiences and growth. Some of the moments that grabbed me most were the ones where Chana describes the actual physical sensations of emotion, conscious and unconscious, in her body -- the heavy tightness that comes when we have fears we won't name, the lightness that comes with freedom. Tightness in the chest, the rush of blood in the temples...it struck me that she must have really taken herself back into these moments in her mind to write the book.
I found this a very hard book to put down. It's an exciting, true-to-life, loving, difficult book. I recommend it highly.
anthroxagorus's review against another edition
5.0
This book is...
A beautiful and sweet memoir of a mother
-A fun romp for a lesbian to have a lesbian mother/best friend
-A glimpse at the sexual/antiwar/feminist revolution
-A difference in generations on being lesbian
-A glimpse of psychiatry done wrong.
-A glimpse at seeing a loved one passing on.
In my selfish interests, I found it incredibly interesting to see the framework of the feminist revolution. I understood on some level the idea of denying men entirely, even for sexual needs, but what struck me was also how being a lesbian is also tied to breaking from conventions in the sexual revolution, ie fighting monogamy. I also found myself comparing this novel to The Bell Jar in terms of the electroshock therapy.
It's truly a shame Gloria wasn't able to write her own story, because it surely is one hell of one. (Finally, I love Chanda Wilson speaking of her mother's death, because I am wholely unprepared with handling deaths of the future)
I love this book and I love its honesty. It's not only a sweet memoir or a cultural recording, but a truly unique story to be told. I am grateful for it, and for giving me a lot to think about.
A beautiful and sweet memoir of a mother
-A fun romp for a lesbian to have a lesbian mother/best friend
-A glimpse at the sexual/antiwar/feminist revolution
-A difference in generations on being lesbian
-A glimpse of psychiatry done wrong.
-A glimpse at seeing a loved one passing on.
In my selfish interests, I found it incredibly interesting to see the framework of the feminist revolution. I understood on some level the idea of denying men entirely, even for sexual needs, but what struck me was also how being a lesbian is also tied to breaking from conventions in the sexual revolution, ie fighting monogamy. I also found myself comparing this novel to The Bell Jar in terms of the electroshock therapy.
It's truly a shame Gloria wasn't able to write her own story, because it surely is one hell of one. (Finally, I love Chanda Wilson speaking of her mother's death, because I am wholely unprepared with handling deaths of the future)
I love this book and I love its honesty. It's not only a sweet memoir or a cultural recording, but a truly unique story to be told. I am grateful for it, and for giving me a lot to think about.
memarq0's review against another edition
3.0
I'm honestly surprised not to have encountered this memoir in a graduate course on 2nd wave feminism. Very genuine and clear. No sugarcoating here, but no getting caught up in details, either. A very fluid, readable literary memoir.
More...