#BookReview Queenie by Candice Cart-Williams

Rating: 4.5 Stars

Publication Date: 19th March, 2019

Genre: Novel, Psychological Fiction, Urban fiction, Biographical Fiction

Queenie is one of the most relatable novels I have ever read; and that’s not just because Queenie (the protagonist) is a 25-year-old, Jamaican British black woman trying to navigate life in London without looking and feeling like a complete failure; as most of us are (minus the youthful 25 years of age, the Jamaican British-ness, and the living in London).

The novel starts off on a witty tone that I cackled at: Queenie is in the hospital for a gynae appointment with her aunt Maggie, who happens to be going off about what a horrible idea it is for a woman to knowingly deal with a Gemini man, especially one born in June. I’ll admit that I was struck by a cold sweat when I heard this because,  as some of you will know, I happen to be married to one said Gemini man, born in June (And I’ll have you know, he is the best decision I’ve made in adulthood). We’re also brought into the fact that Queenie and her boyfriend Tom are on a break (Later on in the book, we learn that this is for several reasons: Queenie’s inability to be vulnerable and open up about issues – and Tom’s inability to defend Queenie from his racist Uncle being at the forefront)  and that she isn’t dealing with this well. Her coping mechanisms are not healthy; she constantly makes horrible decisions that she knew were horrible decisions (and I cringed at every single time)– and as a result of this, her life completely unravels.

The novel is a roller-coaster of emotions from confusion, to anger, to disappointment in the decisions she made through the novel and at one point, I was bawling my eyes out (silently, in bed while the Gemini man, born in June peacefully slept). It was so emotional because I fully understood what Queenie was going through – because I found so many similarities between she and I (which suggests that there is a lot to work through, but we already know this). Queenie genuinely is just a plus-sized girl, trying to do well at her job, find and use her voice against the social injustices that black people face; and more than anything else – be loved. And isn’t that all we’re trying to do?

I bawled my eyes out when I read one line in the novel – I’ll let you find the context yourselves because you absolutely have to read it; but she’s asked what she thinks of herself when she looks in the mirror. Her response is “I try not to look in the mirror.” And for me, that was one of the most heartbreaking moments in the whole novel because I know that girl, and have been that girl for as long as I have been alive. This is not about me, however.

Candice Carty-Williams is a phenomenal storyteller, who has the right amount of wit and British humour that seasons the serious theme of the novel. And I’m so pleased to have come across it (all thanks to Angie – who you can learn more about here) and had the chance to delve into something so great.

So, I Inherited A Social Life…

Literally anyone on the face of this planet, who has encountered me, will tell you one thing about me: I am not great at social gatherings. My social gatherings experience includes three phases:

Phase 1: Crippling anxiety at the thought of meeting brand new people who won’t automatically understand my quirks and having to explain the reason why my left eye moves in a cartoonish manner when I chew, without dampening their spirits with tales on childhood jaundice and insecurity of eating in front of people for years following that.

Phase 2: Attempting to train my face to not instantly react the way that it naturally does when people say things that are, quite frankly, incorrect and offensive. This is difficult for my face. While my mouth is able to sow itself shut during the process of my brain screaming expletives at people for saying horrendous things, my face hasn’t quite caught up to the socially acceptable nod and gracefully disagree agenda the rest of my body is aligned with.

Phase 3: Pretending to be happy to be in the midst of people while my shoulders droop and my eyes reach out for help to anyone who will be kind enough to call the fire department or the police to shut down the festivities for some reason or other (I’d be happy with an impromptu (and scandalous) drug bust to happen) freeing me and all of the other patrons from the horror of having to pretend that we’re enjoying ourselves and do not want to tuck ourselves into bed with a great book and a cup of Joe.

 

I have mastered these phases in the few years that I have been alive. I have mastered them to the point of fully understanding that in order to free myself of the disappointingly quick decline from phase 1 to 3 (takes about five minutes after arrival at social events) – it is better for me to just stick to the house. It is a safe space, where I do not have to pretend to like people. This is not to say that I do not like people, of course, it is more to say that I admit to liking people in very small doses spread really far apart. The longer I can go without having to encounter people (and new ones at that) the better. I know that of myself.

 

Now. I recently made the old age transition from being a single gal, into the adventurous life of marriage. My husband is an incredibly handsome, smart and loving man with the social quota of a dolphin.  My husband comes alive in the midst of people – he becomes a flower in bloom, with all of the animations and the knowledge to carry some of the most mundane conversations. He has the ability to listen intently at the right times, to laugh at the right times and to add little pieces of gems into the conversations that just make them so much richer. In essence, my husband is a social butterfly – and as such, has quite the social life.

 

In this regard, we are complete opposites.

 

As a “byproduct” of being married, I have since inherited my husband’s social life. Since we jumped over the broom (figuratively – there was no broom and the shoes I wore under my wedding gown would not have allowed for any jumping at any point) I have encountered so many people – I’ve gone to dinner parties, I’ve gone to fellowship braai’s and then some. I have had to smile and hug more people than I generally would; I have spoken to more people than my mind can fathom. I’d like to pat myself on the back and take all of the credit for the fact that I have been able to get through these instances without having to step away into the bathroom to curl myself into a tiny ball to breathe for a full five minutes before returning, but alas I cannot.

 

Just this past weekend – we attended an Empire themed 40th birthday celebration. His biggest concern was the need for him to appear in costume (which somehow, turned out incredibly well. For someone who openly abhors the colour gold – he sure looks amazing in it.) as he is completely against the concept of having to appear as anybody but yourself at all moments in life. For reference, he went as Lucious Lyon and I, as the version of Cookie Lyon crouched behind a vehicle scared out of her mind.

My biggest concerns were my make up (which, by the Grace of God, came together quite well) and the fear of having to make conversation with brand new people without it looking painful (*insert GIF of Maleficent trying to smile here*). Don’t ask me how but I survived and we left at a time that was suitable for the both of us (He has since discovered he cannot be in a place with loud music for too long a period without feeling like he is losing his mind). I would even go so far as to say that I had a good time. (Also, they served an amazing butter chicken and I’m slightly ashamed of my cook-in-sauce version I religiously make when visitors come).

 

Naturally, Sunday turned out to be one of those “I’m not leaving the house unless it involves copious amounts of food and the promise of never seeing daylight after that” days because I was drained.

 

I openly admit that it takes a lot out of me. I admit that I probably turn into the worst recluse following the social benders. I’m appreciative that he humours me with days spent not leaving the house following these events/activities. And I think that that’s what makes humouring him with my socially awkward encounters with the people in his life, worth it. The balance of us both understanding the way we are, and going out of our way to meet each other in the middle. The knowledge that neither of us are trying to change the other and force them into being what we would prefer.

 

So here we are; he and I. The social butterfly and the hermit – going through this life thing together and enriching the process with the excitement and the horror of attending social events. And somehow, I look forward to the pandemonium that ensues.

Source

A Cringe-Worthy Life or Moments?

I have experienced one too many sleepless nights in the twenty-eight years I have been alive. I suspect that a good 40% of those sleepless nights have been related to up-coming stresses (You can read more about my anxiety here). I also suspect that the remaining 60% have been past experiences that pop up in the middle of the night to remind me why I am trash and why I don’t have friends (I have trash behavior and I also have friends, so there’s that).

 

Too many of us remember the horrible, embarrassing moments we have had in the past. We all cringe every now and again, remembering what an utter idiot we have, in the past, made of ourselves in front of human beings who obviously, still remember it. These human beings remember these things every single time we encounter them. These people always look at us with pitiful looks, thinking things like “oh, the poor nimrod”. These people will never forgive us for making simple mistakes, or falling in front of everybody – or the time that we gave the wrong answer in front of our crushes. And if they are not to forgive us for our gross inadequacy in life, who are we to forgive ourselves?

 

 

I think I remember when I started to feel embarrassment every single time I remembered something I had done. (P.S. This is not to blame anyone who took part in the following scene of my childhood; it just happens to be one of my first experiences with feeling particularly ashamed of a behavior that I otherwise thought to be normal.)

 

My parents and I (Somehow, my siblings were not in this particular scene – suspicious) had visited relatives in the Lubombo region of the country. Upon arrival, we were given the “make yourselves feel at home” spiel and I, as a six or seven year old child, took that quite literally. I took to making myself familiar with the surroundings, in which, I happened to stumble upon a plastic bag full of luscious, green Granny Smith apples nestled in the fresh produce drawer of their brand new, silver grey refrigerator. I didn’t know this at the time, but apples were soon to become my favourite fruit in the whole wide world (until November and December rolls around and we can have mangoes, peaches, plums, and litchis added to the readily available fruit list). And so while my parents were engaging in riveting conversation with each other while I was seated on the brown (my memory isn’t that great but I feel like it was brown) carpet in the living room, I took to exploring this particularly amazing taste that exploded in my mouth with each bite I took of each apple I continuously fetched from the fridge as soon as the last one was finished.

 

I don’t remember being reprimanded at that moment. I know that I was of course, possibly on apple number seven. I do, however, remember how every single encounter that followed with the relatives we had visited, began with “Oh there she is, the little girl who finished our weekly supply of apples in one sitting”. It probably didn’t always go like that (or ever, if we’re being honest but the apples were mentioned over and over again). I remember how embarrassed I would get when this was brought up. I literally would hide behind my mother and hope that my disappearance from their peripheral at that moment would make me invisible for the rest of the encounter. I remember wanting to run away and never wanting to see them again because, I clearly hadn’t behaved well in front of them.

 

I can laugh-cry about it now. Because, 20 something years later, it is still embarrassing to me. I recently saw these relatives on my wedding day and all I had running through my mind was: “Please don’t mention the apple incident to my husband – I’m not sure I’ll be able to explain that to him.” 

 

Of course, 20 something years later, I have amassed many (MANY) moments where I have felt that I behaved less than – and as such, there are many (MANY) people I would rather not bump into, lest I see the pity in their eyes because the memory of that horrible time I coughed while I had a terrible cold and a little snot escaped from my left nostril, has brought itself to the surface right at that moment. Which means, I still quiver in shame during the nights (and days) because I have not displayed myself in the best possible way I could.

 

I’ve had more regretful moments in more recent times. Things I probably shouldn’t say out loud but here we are:

• I sang a Beyoncé song at my wedding – specifically to my husband. I know what you’re thinking – how could I? What was I thinking? Everyone knows; the vocal range or ability doesn’t matter. Beyoncé WILL embarrass you when you least need to be embarrassed. I went ahead with it. It has been captured by the 200 plus humans that were there and the vidoographer. If I pretend to never see you in the street after, understand that this is why – thank you for your understanding.
• Husband and I were hosting a braai (some of you will know it as a barbeque) at our house to thank everyone who had played a key role in the wedding festivities and somehow (I’m not going to shift any kind of blame to anyone but the numbers I received, were nothing close to the actual numbers) we ran late on serving food and then we proceeded to quickly run out of food. I felt incompetent. I felt inadequate. Luckily, my sisters were on hand to take over because my mind had completely ceased to function.
• On Friday, last week – I was brought into a little playful quarrel between colleagues. One of them asked me to come in and slap the other to control him, in front of their other colleagues. I happened to refuse and proceed to spew utter nonsense from my mouth, visibly confusing every single one of them and causing one to leave the room we were in, to quietly laugh in their office space. I, for some reason beyond comprehension, could not accept defeat and quietly walk away from the situation. I instead, tried to explain what I meant and why it made sense. It didn’t make sense to them. And I returned to my desk feeling every single bit, a wounded dog that had been bit AND reprimanded for being a “bad dog”. I wanted to hide. I wanted to replay the moment and just not step outside the office to grab a glass of water. I wanted to erase the whole thing. I, unfortunately, cannot quit my job to ensure that I never see these people again.

 

I’ve had to ask myself why these things affect me to the point of doing everything humanly possible to avoid ever seeing the people I have had bad experiences in front of. I’ve noted this. I want people to experience me in the best light possible. This means I speak eloquently, I walk elegantly and I laugh like a glass of sparkling wine tastes all the time. All. The. Time. Anyone alive will tell you that this is not realistic. Anyone will tell you that everyone has horrible moments in life that they can do nothing about. Sure, when you look back on it, it feels like you could have done something to change the outcome but could you really? Can you really be sure that you will never have an embarrassing moment ever again in your life?

 

Can you make sure that everyone experiences you positively in life? Can you manipulate their view of that experience of you? Because that’s where the cringes come from isn’t it? Knowing that someone has translated your embarrassing moment as just who you are. That someone knows you as a loser? As a klutz? As a right idiot who just says the first thing that comes to their mind under pressure? You cannot control that.

 

I’m learning that I will have more moments that make me feel like disappearing into thin air. I’m learning that I can control the way that people experience me in the instances that work out the way that I want them to. That’s the best case scenario. But we’re not really certain that every situation will end that way.

 

Maybe I should learn that whatever people think of my less than desirable moments, is their own problem. And perhaps that would give me nights that are less restless. Maybe I have to acknowledge that I can’t control the narrative in people’s minds and that that is okay.