On Sing, Unburied, Sing

I first became interested in Jesmyn Ward’s work when I read her essay, “Witness and Respair,” which can be found in The Best American Essays 2021. Ward’s husband died in January 2020 of a respiratory issue at age 33, just before the outbreak of the COVID-19 pandemic. In her essay, she articulates powerful emotions about the weight of tragedy, both personal and societal. She discusses the pain of her beloved’s death, the outbreak of the COVID-19 pandemic, the death of George Floyd, and the constant pain, death, and oppression experienced by black and brown people. In my view, Ward’s essay is the crowning literary achievement of 2020. Notably, Ward was also chosen to guest edit The Best American Short Stories 2021 and, in her introduction, she argues that the best literature is restorative. Between these two essays—one introducing a larger collection, the other attempting to come to terms with what feels like the apocalypse—I wanted to read more of her work.

After reading Sing, Unburied, Sing, it is obvious that “Witness and Respair” was not Ward’s first time wrangling with ghosts. I am not certain what other readers have taken away from this book, but to me it is fundamentally about brutal historical legacies and familial trauma. The two major perspectives, Leonie and Jojo, are 30-year-old black mother and 13-year-old mixed-race son. Leonie strives to learn how to heal the way her mother does, through herbs and rituals, but she frequently smokes meth and she lacks the skills to be a good mother, often preferring the love of her white boyfriend, Michael, who is also the mother of her two children. Michael’s parents are profoundly racist individuals and his father was the former sheriff in Ward’s fictional town of Bois Sauvage. Just after high school, Michael’s cousin fatally shot Leonie’s brother, and Michael’s father covered up the incident just as earlier generations would have done. Michael’s parents and, especially, his father, refuse to accept his relationship with Leonie and do not have a relationship with their grandchildren.

The other perspective, Jojo, offers a glimpse through the eyes of a teenage boy who wants nothing more than to be like his grandfather. Throughout the story, Jojo continuously asks his grandfather about his experiences at Parchman, or the Mississippi State Penitentiary, and we learn stories of what was effectively legal slave plantation and, specifically, the story of another 12-year-old black child named Richie. The ghost of Richie does have some perspective chapters in the second half of the book, but these are decidedly subordinate to Jojo’s story, only really supplementing his perspective. What I found so interesting about Jojo’s character is that he can almost be characterized as “maternal” in his love for his three-year-old sister, Kayla. The bond between them shines through in this book, and it was one of the most rewarding aspects to me.

I know that some Goodreads reviewers criticize the use of literal ghosts in this story, but I found that they are absolutely critical. While this could be a story about a family that lives on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi and makes a trip to Parchman and back, the ghosts bring it together and give it a dimension that it could not otherwise have.

Ward has a powerful way with words and if any author is capable of “speaking truth to power,” it’s her. Absolutely incredible.