I have been holding this off for a while. In the previous post, I gave myself permission to expose my writer persona and admitted my fear as a mother in relation to Katherena Vermette’s debut The Break. If the previous post takes on a personal level, this post addresses its social context.
It is imperative for everyone who calls Canada home to learn about the atrocity and lingering damage of the Indian Residential School system, only abolished as recently as 1997. Not only does this point to the fact that it is not a distant history, indeed it cannot even be considered history because systemic injustice persists. Emotions are particularly high following recent discoveries of the unmarked graves of children who were residential school students on the former school sites. In light of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission Reports, along with a national apology issued in 2015, a lot of what was called to action remained lagging, if not downright neglected.
I am learning about the content within the context and the significance of this story, among many. In doing so, I need to acknowledge my privilege as an immigrant, and to learn about the ongoing history in which this story is situated.
To reiterate, within this context The Break should not be read as crime fiction or issue novel. It is about how families come together in time of crisis, as well as about the danger and harm on individuals who are marginalized from their family and other support network, isolated from their culture and tradition, and deprived of a sense of identity.
Although the premise of the book is difficult, it keeps you going as trauma unfolds, and it grips a reader’s heart not only to seek justice for the wronged, but also for the ones who do wrong. The book portrays people with such humanity, there are no absolute villains – the villainy is in the systemic oppression and injustice that marginalize people. Nor does the book present victims sunken in their woes. Sympathy does not go a long way and it takes power away. Instead, the book invites empathy and compassion. It tells a story that hurt people hurt people, and it takes all our relations – human connections – to keep the hurt from passing on.
That being said, I have been unable to find the right tone and sensitivity to write about Phoenix, the villain in question and the protagonist, without making sure I do not make llight of the crime committed and the trauma that she and her family goes through. It is not until I came across Kristy Taylor’s poignant book review titled “One girl’s trauma exposes plight of nations” did I find a good leeway to elaborate what has been more articulately expressed. Taylor highlights the multiple experiences portrayed in the book. See here:
“The Break speaks to the experiences of mothers who, while knowing that their children are made increasingly vulnerable to predacious forces almost immediately as they are let out of the house, must nevertheless find the courage to propel them into the world. It speaks to the story of women who, in the foreboding face of violence and institutional racism, have little choice but to turn to protective agencies whose deep-rooted bigotry too often tends towards victim-blaming. It speaks to the story of a mother’s heartbreak, of women unable to support their children because they, themselves, continue to tread the path of their own horrifying experiences; heartbreak that is often masked by the terror that should they petition for help, their little ones might be stolen from them by a child welfare state seemingly only a slight stepdown from the Indian Residential School system. It speaks to, as well, the plight of so many Indigenous women as they are left to raise their children alone, their men so often lost to their own traumatic stories like the generations that came before them.”
This post is going to be a continuation of Taylor’s observation and closes in on 15-year-old Phoenix Anne Stranger.
Severed from Family
Phoenix has few possessions that she carries with her, but she cannot go anywhere without four photographs she keeps in her pocket close to her heart. One of which she constantly checks on – a photograph of her greatgrandfather whom she has not met but holds dearly.
“She knows Grandpa Mac only from a picture. She got it out of Elsie’s shxx once, and never gave it back. In it, the old man looked like Ship does here, slumped, skinny, brooding, only, in the pictures, grandpa Mac was sitting on an old car, the old-fashioned kind with a rounded top, all shined up. Even in the dull photo the car looked shiny. And the brooding man looked somehow happy too.” (Vermette 146)
Another picture freezes a particular Christmas in time, before the three sisters were broken apart by the cruelty that awaited.
“Sparrow started walking and talking there, and everything was good for a while. It looks that way, in the picture. Good. Phoenix’s face is so young, and her hair’s so poofy, but she looks happy, or like she’s trying to be happy. Cedar is smiling wide too. Sparrow’s not even there, and she’s not looking at the camera, too distracted by all the toys she got. You’d never guess how fxxxed up everything was by looking at this picture.” (Vermette 233)
There is one she holds close to, but would deny her attachment if found – the last happy picture of her mother Elsie, who has been unable to care for her children while struggling with her own trauma and addiction. Phoenix despises her mother and has since cut ties with her.
“The other picture is the same day but of Elsie. Phoenix took the photo. Elsie is bending over and laughing, not ready for her picture to be taken. She is reaching out for the wrapping paper, picking it all up off the floor. The floor was covered with it. They got so many presents that year. It was almost like Elsie knew that was going to be their last happy Christmas. Phoenix likes this picture of Elsie. She looks so real, like she did, when things were good for her. Phoenix almost feels sorry for her mama here, but checks herself and slips the photo back behind the others.” (Vermette 233)
The last photo is of Grandmère.
“It’s black and white, and she’s all dressed up in old-fashioned clothes and standing on some corner downtown. She looks so fancy, like she was a real important lady. Phoenix knows she really wasn’t. She was just a half-breed and couldn’t even go into half of the stores back then. But she still dressed up to go there. She knows this ‘cause Grandmère used to tell her stories of the old days. Phoenix loved those old stories, even if they all turned out sad. But it was nice, sitting there with Grandmère who was so old she could barely see but she could still talk and tell the same stories over and over. Phoenix keeps them all now, what she can remember, keeps them safe inside her. She used to think of them as good secrets only she knew.” (Vermette 234)
It says a lot what Phoenix cherishes most are family photographs.
Disconnected from Her Community
Willingly or not, Phoenix lost her family connections one after another. In an even broader context, she also lost her support network from her community, along with the language, culture, tradition, and sense of belonging following the death of her greatgrandfather. She only has minimal exposure to ceremony and healing at the least expected place.
“At the Centre, they taught her how to smudge properly. They taught her about medicines and what they do and how to burn them for ceremony. The smoke is supposed to cleanse you, they said. When she first broke up the sage it reminded her of breaking up weed. She felt embarrassed. She thought the Elder would know what she was thinking about and ban her from doing it or something. But he didn’t. She did the same thing she’s doing now, breaking off the tiny leaves and pressing them in her fingers. Only instead of rolling it in a ball and putting it in a smudge bowl, she sprinkles the weed apart into a paper, then rolls it in her fingers until it makes an even joint.” (Vermette 151)
Thrust into the System
There are sporadic hints and glimpses of what brings Phoenix into where she is and who she becomes. Regardless, one event after another toughens up Phoenix, hardly out of choice.
“The Centre was like a kiddie pool compared with [youth] lock-up, just a bunch of messed up kids with too much time on their hands, all depressed and shxx. Phoenix has never been that pathetic, not really.” (Vermette 28)
The Last Shelter
Uncle Alex “Bishop” (street name Ship) is the only person she can turn to.
“’Think of someone you admire,’ the counsellor had told the group in one of their hand-holding bullshxx therapy things. She thought of him, Alex is his name, Alexander, like his dad, but no one calls him that now. Most people don’t even know that’s his name, but Phoenix knows because they’re family. She always calls him Bishop in front of people, but in her head, he’s still Alex.” (Vermette 26)
Alex’s home is as close to a home in which Phoenix feels safe.
“She’s so fxxxing glad to be here.
She limps to the disgusting kitchen on her throbbing feet, stumbles into the first upright chair there, and dumps her bag down. Her ears burn. Her face thaws with pinches across her wide cheeks. She pulls off her worn runners and rubs her toes. Her feet have that sting like when they fall asleep and are waking back up. They lost feeling hours ago and became clubs on the end of her legs. She trudged like that through the whole North End for hours. She puts her feet up on another chair. They ache and twitch, and she tries not to move them.” (Vermette 25)
And yet he is unable to take her in. As one of the most prominent gang leader of the city, Alex “Bishop” cannot afford to shelter her niece. His sympathy for Phoenix can only be expressed in the screaming voices of “You’ve got to fxxxing go, Phoen!” “Just get the fxxx out of here, Phoen. You have to fxxxing go!” and toned down to the final “I need you gone,” following her crime that would expose the den and jeopardize the whole gang.
Phoenix is once again out on her own in the coldest month of February.
But Why?
Now we know the context of how Phoenix committed the rape. There are still questions unanswered. Tommy the investigator consulted her mother Marie, worldly and wise.
“’Why? Why would she do that, I mean?’
‘It’s a power thing. Rape is about power. She wanted power.’
‘But why … why not just beat them up? If all she wanted was power.’
‘She was probably messed with. Kids that are messed with get messed up. You can’t make sense of that sort of thing. That’s why we call it crazy.’” (Vermette 298)
The back story cannot justify her heinous act and the malicious intention, even at the spur of a moment, but it does give readers an ugly fact that people normally choose to turn away from when they read about a crime in the papers.
Tenderness
Despite all the fearsome and tragic account of Phoenix Anne Stranger, this book also gives a peek into the most intimate of a person who is, afterall, longing for love, tenderness, and a home. Near the end of the book, as readers see justice being done, Vermette preserves a moment of tenderness of what Phoenix can only express to the child in her womb.
“They took her for a scan to make sure. She lay on the table and they squirted cold jelly all over the bottom of her belly. The attendant looked so scared of the crazy convict and her guard. Phoenix would have laughed but then the room was filled with this whosh sound, like water. Whosh whosh it went, over and over. ‘Heartbeat.’ The attendant’s voice shook and she turned the monitor to Phoenix. It was black and white and as grainy as an old TV, but she could see the nose, cheeks, and a hand out like it was waving. ‘It’s a boy.’ Phoenix nodded. She couldn’t have said anything even if she wanted too. But good, she thought. Good that it’s a boy. He’ll be strong.” (Vermette 321-322)
In the previous post, I argued that The Break should not be pigeon-holed as crime novel or issue fiction. This week, I am re-asserting the argument by providing the voices and the context. When Vermette engaged in a book club organized by the publisher, she shared how the quote “hurt people hurt people” resonated with her and propelled her to write this novel. This may be why I find The Break informative – more on the emotional than the intellectual level. It forces readers to look past fear and prejudice; to examine the root cause of the perpetuated hurt before they jump in to condemn the consequential hurt; to put a face to the person who would otherwise be blurred by the mistrusted labels of “at risk youth”, “delinquent”, or worse, more hateful names. The social implication of The Break is all the more relevant following the recent national outcry upon learning the legacy of the Indian Residential Schools and the systemic racism that carries on right here, right now.