Book Review: Trumpet by Jackie Kay

The premise of Trumpet fascinated me when I picked it up in the bookshop. Joss Moody, famous jazz trumpeter, has revealed a huge secret on his death - he was actually a woman living as a man. His wife, Millie, has taken herself off to a village in Scotland to get away from the prying eyes and gossips but their adopted son, Colman, is left in London to deal with the fallout.

I really enjoyed the first few chapters of this. The first lengthy chapter is told from Millie's perspective, flicking back and forth between the present and past as she struggles with her grief. It's a poignant portrait of sorrow and love, serving to remind the reader that things aren't always black and white. Interspersed with the 'real' narrative are chapters that look at proceedings from people who deal with the aftermath of the lie - the doctor, the funeral director, the registrar. I liked those three chapters and I liked Millie's chapters. What I disliked, however, were the chapters that focused on Colman, Sophie the journalist who has talked him into a book, and the small bitty chapters that look at people on the periphery of Moody's life. I understand that Kay wanted to portray how the lie affected everybody associated with Moody but the result is a little too disjointed for my tastes. That said, none of the chapters are badly-written and all are evocative in one way or another.

Colman, though, is a thoroughly irritating character. In all honesty, his masturbation scene was certainly something I could've lived without reading. He's not just being an idiot due to the lie, both he and his mother freely admit to themselves that he's been that way all his life. His pact with journalist Sophie seems completely in character for him. As for Sophie herself, I think she was caught between being a stereotypical journalist (the implications of which are even more repugnant now than they were in 1998) and Kay trying to portray her as something more. I honestly don't think the exposition regarding Sophie was necessary and the chapters in her viewpoint felt a little redundant. 

As you can tell, I had mixed feelings about this one. Very well-written, very human and very descriptive. Kay's poetic tendencies certainly shine through in the prose. However, my enjoyment was marred by the difficulty in keeping up with where you were in each chapter. I'd still recommend it, though, mainly for the sensitive treatment of the subject matter.

Book Review: Red Dust Road by Jackie Kay

Red Dust Road is Jackie Kay's memoir about her journey to discover her birth parents. It could easily be a boring run-of-the-mill tale but the unique situation and Kay's endearing way of examining events makes it something very special indeed. Born to a Scottish mother and a Nigerian father, Kay was adopted by a white couple in the 1960s and eventually decided to track down her birth parents while pregnant with her own son. I've wanted to read this since I heard Kay read an extract from it in 2010 and on my last trip to London I managed to pick up a copy signed by Kay herself. That'll induce me to never loan it out!

I don't want to say too much about Kay's journey because I'd love you to read the book. However, I will say that there are several scenes that stick in the memory afterwards - moments aching with bitterness but also fundamental honesty. I found myself marvelling at how Kay could open up these wounds to the public but then I realised the open air was probably a good way of healing them. Her story is both heartbreaking and difficult at times but - and this is important - it reaffirms the family she already had before she set out to find her birth parents. It's hardly a happily-ever-after type of adoption story, yet that's what makes it so touching.

Most of all, it's an entertaining book. The humour that permeated Jackie Kay's demeanour when I saw her in Sheffield is evident on almost every page of this book. It's that humanity that struck me most of all. An excellent memoir, and one I'd certainly recommend.

Second-Class Citizens?

Two posts about my grandmother in two days. Never mind, I think she's a worthy subject.

I was reading Jackie Kay's memoir Red Dust Road last night and one section towards the end particularly struck a chord with me. Kay's mother had just been rushed to hospital after a fall and a constant nosebleed and the way she's treated is unacceptable - to say the very least.

"I shine a torch up my torch up my mum's nose, and he inserts implements. It's all brutal. He talks softly and she can't hear a word he's saying. He's slick and full of himself; he has the horrible arrogance of the young doctor. He's treating her like she's stupid because she can't hear. I want to kill him." (p240)

Apart from linking directly to my post yesterday about my grandmother's new hearing aid, this pretty much summed up the relationship I see between the older generation and many younger people. By no means all. I don't want to tar any group with a single brush. Nevertheless, the implication is that when you're older you cease to be an important person. People talk over you, talk about you. That isn't right.

Kay's rage grows as she tries to engage the doctor who she sees treating her mother like a "second-class citizen". However, it's what happens when she and her mother leave the hospital that got to me most.

"Another hospital orderly appears to tell me a taxi is here for me. She looks at me and then she looks at my mum and says, 'Are you taking the old biddy back to her care home?' My mum doesn't hear her, thank God." (p241)

Old biddy?!! I was incensed, primarily because I see people thinking that about my grandmother all the time. I have the urge to hit people in the supermarket on a Saturday, jostling her small and slight frame as they rush around, treating her as if she was invisible. I also - and at this point I don't care who knows it - resent her daughter for treating her much the same way. How dare they treat her as nothing more than an old biddy? And how dare they think that the only reason you're with an older person is because you're paid to care? Even if she hadn't been her adopted daughter, Kay could still have been a friend - someone not paid, simply someone who cares. Jackie Kay then lists all the things her mother has done in her life that these people disregarding her don't know about. I suppose ignorance is something of a defence (a lousy one) when it comes to this issue. What I'd like to know is how people who have known these elderly people for decades, and perhaps all their lives, can turn around and disregard them as second-class citizens. I can't answer that because I've never had the urge to do it.

Reading Challenge: Short Story Challenge

At the beginning of the year I condemned myself for not reading as many short stories collections as I should have. Unfortunately, I haven't really rectified that problem this year so when I came across a reading challenge from the Library of Clean Reads blog specifically to encourage reading short story collections I knew I had to participate. More details about the challenge can be found here.

I'm going for the 'Tales Galore' category which is seven to nine books, mainly because I already have seven collections sitting on my bookshelves. Here is the list so far:

1. Night Shivers - Charlotte Riddell
2. Sensation Stories - Wilkie Collins
3. Wish I Was Here - Jackie Kay
4. The New York Stories - Edith Wharton
5. The Collected Stories - Katherine Mansfield
6. Daughters of Decadence - Various
7. Touchy Subjects - Emma Donoghue
8. ???
9. ???

I'll add the final two collections later and the list is subject to change. I'm looking forward to delving into these collections, several of which have been festering on the shelf for quite some time. Although Riddell and Collins have links to my PhD work, I promise that this is all fun reading.

Another London Trip

Last week I toddled off down to London again. I'd had everything booked for months but I wasn't expecting to be in such a precarious state when the time arrived. However, when I managed to switch my brain off from PhD worrying, I found it was quite a tonic.

The point (and highlight) of the trip was to see the fabulous Idina Menzel at the Royal Albert Hall. If the pedigree of that Broadway star wasn't enough (Wicked, Rent and Glee) then the identity of her conductor would have sealed the deal - Broadway composer Marvin Hamlisch (A Chorus Line, They're Playing Our Song and innumerable film scores). There was such warmth between Idina and Marvin that it really impacted on the enjoyment of the evening. And, I have to say, the My Fair Lady suite that Marvin conducted during his warm-up was amazing. I can't think of a set of melodies I'd rather hear in the Royal Albert Hall.

Idina was absolutely excellent. Not a dud note as far as I'm concerned. There were so many outstanding songs that I can't list them all but my favourites were probably 'I'm Not That Girl', 'Look To The Rainbow', 'No Day But Today' and 'For Good'. The latter, from Wicked, was sung without a microphone and I can attest that she was perfectly audible from the furthest corners of the building. I'm not sure how many singers have got the vocal power for that these days. As beautiful as her singing was during that number, I was equally entranced by the stillness of the audience. Throughout the rest of the evening everyone was somewhat raucous but during that song everybody was straining to hear each note. I've never known so many people be so well-behaved at any given time. Overall, the evening was fantastic, although I was so tired that I was commenting on the corridor walls moving around as we went for the tube.

Right, what else did I get up to? Well, a little shopping, of course. I couldn't bypass the opportunity to go to the Dress Circle, my favourite London shop bar none. I did set myself a mental limit of £50 but remembered at the last minute that I hadn't got the album I went in there for - the Betty Blue Eyes cast recording. Along with that, I also bought cast albums of Fings Ain't Wot They Used T'be, Matilda and Merrily We Roll Along as well as the DVD of Liza With A "Z" (hugely and thankfully reduced). My favourite find of the day has to be a three disc set of songs by the marvellous Kay Thompson. For anyone who hasn't heard of her, watch Funny Face then do what I did and get absolutely obsessed with an extraordinary woman.

I went a little mad in Paperchase (two notebooks, a card, two bookmarks, a Renoir postcard and some stickers) and also made the mistake of going into Foyles. However, that was for my father's belated birthday present. The fact I walked out of there with Jackie Kay's Red Dust Road and Up and Down Stairs by Jeremy Musson is beside the point. Anyway, I think just the two books in a shop that size shows enormous self-restraint. Well, that and I got lost in there.

I also got to see the Atkinson Grimshaw exhibition at the Guildhall Art Gallery. For anyone unfamiliar with this Victorian artist, I can't recommend a better piece than this by @Amateur_Casual which gave me my introduction to an artist whose work I'd admired on the front cover of my copy of The Woman in White without knowing who he was. I have to thank my good friend Claire profusely for not only allowing me to drag her round there but for also not looking too bored while I did so. I talked myself into buying the catalogue of the exhibition and I can't wait for an opportunity to put my feet up and peruse it. However, knowing my luck, that chance will be some time coming!

So...that was London in October. Back in Wakefield I find the damp returning to my bedroom wall and the dog ecstatic to see me. At least I have good music, good books and good memories to keep me going!
 

Jackie Kay & Gay Icons

Last night I went to Sheffield to hear writer, Jackie Kay, talk as part of the Gay Icons project. Aside from being an entertaining evening which added several things to my already-extensive fun-reading list, her response to one of the audience questions raised an important issue, I thought.

Someone questioned why she'd referred to more gay men than lesbians as her icons in this brief talk. In a nutshell, her response was that it didn't really matter about their gender, they all had inspiring aspects to them. And that, I think, was the key issue for me.

Unfortunately, we still live in a world where a celebration of gay icons like the one taking place in Sheffield at the moment is necessary. The news of the United Nations dropping homosexuality from its anti-execution resolution is a stark reminder that around the world people are still heavily persecuted simply for who they love. Events like this one in Sheffield are a celebration of the fact that in the UK it's acceptable to have gay icons and to shout it from the rooftops if you so wish.

My problem is just the old issue: we want to be the same as everybody else and yet we accentuate our differences.

Perhaps, that's unfair. It's hardly accentuating a difference to reveal that this gay man or this lesbian inspired you in some way. What perturbed me was that people seem to expect that your icons will automatically be in 'your group', so in Jackie's case they should be lesbians. Maybe this was a fair assumption coming from a room full of women but I don't think a lesbian should necessarily have to exclude gay men from a discussion about gay icons. In fact, I don't completely buy into the idea that we should be celebrating gay icons at all.

Please don't misunderstand me: I'm not saying that Alexander McQueen or Quentin Crisp or Leonard Bernstein should be celebrated with the gay aspect hushed up. I may be idealistic but I'm still hoping for the day when it becomes less of a jaw-dropping fact for someone famous (and I use that word with a cringe) to come out. But I hate the fact that if you ask a lesbian writer for her inspirations and she cites people aside from other lesbian writers then the listener automatically feels a little disappointment.

I hate the grouping prevalent within society - as most of us do. If someone asks me for my modern literary icons in a few years I want to reel off my list without worrying whether it fits someone's perspective of how I should answer.

For the record, my literary icons right now would be: Sophie Hannah, Kate Atkinson and Sarah Waters, to name but three. I can justify my choices at length but I refuse to change them to fit what someone else expects.