Reading Memorial Drive is tender & raw, watching grief build and unfold. It’s incredibly intimate. So much so that when I realized Natasha Trethewey does speaking events about this book, I marveled at her fortitude, to be laid bare that many times before audiences. To be so vulnerable.
I can’t imagine telling this particular story, sharing the work of this grief, over and over again.
Memorial Drive, as many truly good books are, is about many things: childhood, divorce, racism, domestic violence, and grief. And it’s about love.
Natasha Trethewey is a poet (literally). Which, in an odd way, removed me a bit from the tragedy as it unfolded. I felt it deeply, but somehow both esoterically & ethereally (is that even possible)? It felt profound. So raw. But I did not find myself broken as I might have if the work had been a different type of memoir.
It wasn’t that she wanted to put ME there. She wanted me to SEE HER there.
In case it has been unclear thus far: This book deserves a spot on your reading list.
When I hear stories of great pain, I often feel as though I am carrying out a sacred duty–to bear witness to that pain. To see it. To honor it. And to join the teller in remembering…
This book is sacred in that way.