Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Book Review--Torch in the Dark--5 stars

Book review of "Torch in the Dark"--5 stars

It's rare that I'm captivated by a writer's style from the very first sentence, but that's exactly what happened with "Torch in the Dark" by Hadiyah Joan Carlyle. Considering the life that this author has led, it's amazing to me that she's so eloquent in her delivery. The raw honesty, the rhythm, the pace's all brilliant.  I can't think of one negative thing to say about this book.  

Authenticity resonates throughout "Torch in the Dark."   Situations were described that weren't flattering to Ms. Carlyle, but she told them in a "this was how it was" style that demands respect.  My admiration for the woman's grit, determination, and honesty grew with every turn of the page.  

Horrific things happened to Ms. Carlyle as a child and teenager, yet she unfolds the details with grace and eloquence rather than shoving them into the reader's face for shock value. Each word feels as if it bled onto the page from an open wound. Her story evolves in such a way that it feels like we're being given a gift to see inside her world. 

This book deserves each of the five stars it's receiving here. If I could give this book a dozen stars, I would. 

Bravo, Ms. Carlyle! I cried, I laughed, and I cheered for you. Reading such honesty is refreshing. Thank you. As for that school counselor who told you never to write again when you were a teen, this reader is grateful you didn't listen!

A blurb of Torch in the Dark:

Torch in the Dark tells the moving story of how Hadiyah Joan Carlyle, a single mother haunted by memories of her own traumatic childhood, pioneered as one of the first women since World War II to enter the trades as a union welder. Beginning in a Jewish immigrant neighborhood in New Jersey, the story moves through San Francisco’s colorful Haight-Ashbury in the sixties to arrive at last at Fairhaven Shipyard in Bellingham, Washington.
For Hadiyah, welding became a metaphor for healing from the dark past as well as a path to self-reliance and economic survival. While providing insightful perspective on the culture of the 1960s and 1970s, Torch in the Dark offers profound inspiration for anyone struggling with issues of abuse and oppression.


There I am walking up this street, Telegraph Avenue, walking up to a place of high energy, of guys with long hair, tie-dye shirts, and sandals, smoking weed. No one pays attention to me. How can I get someone to look at me? Hot pink skirts, slinky girls with low cut blouses looking, looking at the boys, boys looking, looking around puffing, everyone puffing, holding, holding books, Lawrence Ferlingetti, standing, sitting, sitting outside Cody’s sipping coffee, puffing weed.
I keep walking, the baby tied to my front, my fat belly sticking out, my insides wanting to spill all over the street, and I keep walking until the baby won’t stop crying and I see his pursed mouth and I sit down on a chair in front of Cody’s bookstore and I lift my Mexican blouse, my white blouse with stitched embroidery criss-crossed. The baby sucks, and I’m wondering what is going on as I can see people moving, and my feet want to move, and the baby is attached to my tit, and I want to scream, but I let him suck until I can’t stand it anymore, and I lift him up, burp him, and start walking up the street, the only person with a baby, with a kid.
Everyone is walking fast, and my body is weighted down, and I keep going until I get to the edge of the campus, and there are boxes and a boy with no shirt and a beard and bushy hair screaming, “Down with the pigs. Get out now.” Someone hands me a pamphlet. There’s another box with another pamphlet about end the war now. Students are walking to the center by the fountain, the center called Sproul Hall, where there is a big crowd, and I look up and see two people on a platform, and a guy with dark hair is shouting, “Freedom now! What do we want? Freedom now!” A girl with long blond hair is shouting something about freedom, and I ask a guy next to me wearing a turtleneck sweater what’s going on, and he says, “It’s the Free Speech Movement, the administration is pigs—we’re for freedom, freedom, lady, so that baby there can be free. Hear me, lady, freedom!”
I can’t stand the noise, and the baby is screaming, and he’s wet—I can feel it—so I duck through the crowd, and I walk away down Telegraph Avenue, and I stop now on the other side of the street and go into the bathroom in a cafĂ©. I go in and unstrap the baby and start to change his diaper by the sink, and a girl comes out and blows smoke in my face and says, “Cool, lady, cool.” I want to go home, so I get the diaper changed, and I walk down Telegraph Avenue to the green and white sign that crosses Dwight Way and walk down Dwight Way into the apartment above the restaurant, and my face is wet. Tears are coming down, and I don’t know what is going on. I call Ned, but he’s in session. Harry says he’ll call me back, and I lie on the mattress on the floor, and the baby lies there with me, and Sue comes in and says, “Haven’t you fed him?”

1 comment:

Virginia S Grenier said...

Thank you for taking the time to read and review Hadiyah's memoir.