April 18, 2024

Both books are powerful.

Both books are beautifully written.

Both books are stories of generational trauma and intergenerational healing.

Both books offer windows into a culture that is being rediscovered and treasured.

Both books reveal injustice and yes, evil.

Both books reference the Carlisle Indian Boarding School.

Both books follow the lives of multiple generations.

Both books are about institutional violence and oppression.

A Council of Dolls by Mona Susan Power

Mona Susan Power is an enrolled member of the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe and currently lives in St Paul. Perhaps someday I’ll see her in one of our coffee shops or the grocery store, and if I do I will tell her how important her book is, and how I hope she continues to tell the stories. Following the great success of her first novel, The Grass Dancer, Power experienced deep depression and learned she was suffering from P. T. S. D., as well. How grateful I am that she has found resilient reserves within herself to continue her writing

I’m sorry I didn’t buy this book, rather than read a library copy. Maybe I will buy it now, so I can read it again and underline favorite passages. Power says she is an “intuitive writer,” meaning the story and the characters come to her. Maybe that’s why the human and the doll characters seems so real.

The story follows the lives of three generations of Dakota girls/women: Sissy (b. 1961), Lillian (b. 1925) and Cora (b. 1880s) and their dolls. It is up to the reader to decide if the dolls are real, spirits with powers to heal and save the girls from further tragedy or are the products of the girls’ imaginations. I must admit, although my growing up couldn’t be more different from these women, I thought about the dolls in my life as a young girl and how they often brought me comfort and gave me a sense of purpose even.

Favorite Passages

Cora telling about her father says,

My father says that we should welcome all stories to see if they are worth remembering. “You can put ideas on and off just like moccasins. You can wear them and set them aside, hold onto those you find meaningful. Don’t be afraid of learning something beyond what we’re able to teach you. Even the wisest person doesn’t know everything, But it’s also important to preserve the ideas that make sense to you, even in the face of resistance–someone telling you that you’re wrong and only they know the truth. Such boasting is evidence of a fool, perhaps a dangerous one.”

p. 141

A last word from the dolls:

We’ve learned that healing the present doesn’t only clear waters flowing into the future, recovery also flows backward and alleviates the suffering of ancestors. So they can set down their tears and dark memories, their guilt and shame, their vengeance. And because Time is our relative, a flexible being that moves through every thought and memory, branching into a million rivers of possibility, healing even one of its streams will eventually heal the world.

p. 286

Wandering Stars by Tommy Orange

I admit it took me longer to read this book than Council of Dolls, and I’m sorry I didn’t wait longer after finishing “Dolls” to read it. By the end I just wanted the painful stories of addiction and loss to end, but perhaps that is the point.

Tommy Orange is an enrolled member of the Cheyenne and Arapaho Tribes of Oklahoma who was born and raised in Oakland, California, and this book often references the challenges of finding and knowing other Indian people in that part of the country. Wandering Stars is both prequel and sequel to his earlier much acclaimed novel There There. I suggest reading There There first, but it isn’t necessary. I am grateful for the family tree at the beginning of the book and referred to it often.

The book follows the descendants of the 1864 Sand Creek Massacre, moving through the generations to the present day. The references to Richard Henry Pratt, who became the founder of the Carlisle Indian Boarding School, both the cause and the result of so much evil, are harrowing.

“Stars” refers both to the family descendants in the Bear Shield and Red Feather families, but also to one of the characters who is shot at a Pow Wow.

One of the doctors, who wore a faded-ass baseball cap with a fish on it he didn’t think the guy should have been wearing on the job, told him the bullet shard in him was shaped like a star, like that was some cool shit. Then the doctor told him he should be grateful that it stopped moving, that an exit wound could be what kills you. The doctor said they would keep an eye on it, the star shard, because, he warned, they’ve been known to wander, parts of them getting into your bloodstream and poisoning you. And then the doctor, still apparently trying to comfort him about the bullet staying in, said it wasn’t bullets that killed but the path they took, This seemed to him like some dumb-ass bumper-sticker wisdom, like: Guns don’t kill people, people kill people, or, The journey is the destination.

p. 119

There were so many times in the book I wanted to shout, “Don’t do it.” An indication of how well-drawn these characters are. And so many times I cheered for these characters, as they rose above addictions.

I felt good talking to my son and eating the bread I made there in our kitchen, on our land, in our home. I had a family now and the drinking was behind me. I’d lived enough life, almost died enough times to know when a good thing came along, a thing you didn’t know could fill you right up, which only when it filled you let you know there’s been a hole in you before.

p. 34-35

I initially went to using as a way to feel the world, when I’d learned somewhere along the way to numb it. But I wanted to feel the world without having to use, and not simply become obedient to the cold demands of a cruel world, or to an equally cruel addiction.

p. 304

Such good books. Heavy and meaningful. And now I’m ready for something lighter, but still well-written. Stay tuned.

An Invitation

What emotionally hard to read books have you read? I would love to know.