(‘rapturous’ review of The Black Notebooks, by Toi Derricotte, not using the letter ‘a’)

Toi Derricotte is not here to comfort you. She is not here to tell you everything will be alright. She’s here to be honest, even when it’s ugly. Chiefly when it’s ugly. Derricotte’s nonfiction Notebooks is profoundly compelling. It unflinchingly explores the writer’s own insecurity concerning her ethnicity, consistently pushing beyond simple, comforting ‘truths’ to focusing on the conflicts, the complexities dwelling behind the disguises we put on to get through life while pretending ‘everything is fine.’ Derricotte is not, indeed, the first writer to notice how not fine she/we are, but she distinguishes herself by her commitment to exhuming the deepest, most troubling consequences of our obsession with ethnicity, forcing us to confront its distorting effects.

This book is not for everyone, to be sure, which Derricotte herself notes in the course of the book. Those looking for simple, comforting solutions will be foiled, since Derricotte pointedly, purposefully refuses to provide them, choosing to wrestle with thornier, more explosive (or implosive, considering the work’s focus on interiority) concerns. But those who find themselves touched by her difficult, uncompromising ‘interior journey’ will be forever indebted to Derricotte for her honesty, her insight, her generosity. I recommend it highly. You might not like it, but if you don’t then it’s you, not her. Her book is very, very good.

(this review is true, bt-dubs. the book is recommended in the strongest possible terms.)