https://blackgirlnerds.com/review-promise-a-story-of-love-dignity-and-survival/

The first time I heard Rachel Eliza Griffiths recite poetry, it gave me a sense of home. It was 2015, and I had just moved to Houston, Texas. I knew a few people, but I was lonely and feeling a bit lost. I attended a poetry reading by Griffiths at a local bookstore. As a poet myself, I connected with her beautiful words and how they created these amazing visuals. It reminded me that the move I had made was good and that I would be okay.

Griffiths’ talent as a poet/lyricist is evident in her debut novel Promise, as it has noteworthy phrases, descriptions of scenery, and the expression of characters’ innermost thoughts and feelings. She blends elements of music, the forces of nature, symbolism, and colors to build suspense and foreshadow upcoming events. She blends African and African American myth, folklore, superstition, and wisdom into the story seamlessly. It is also reminiscent of “the talk” that Black parents must have with their children, as a means of survival in the face of systemic racism and discrimination.

Promise is a coming-of-age story about womanhood and femininity. It’s also about the devastation that racism leaves and the way it destroys everything and everyone; it’s about home and family and the way these places — physical or emotional — are tied to the world and to life; it’s about growing into a world that is dead set on hating you. Promise dives right into the complexities of relationships and family secrets. It’s a story that paints pictures of generational trauma and the profound impact it can have on our lives.

Ezra and Hyacinth (Cinthy) Kindred are sisters on the verge of womanhood who live in an isolated rural coastal town in Maine with their one-armed father, a teacher at the local school, and their homemaker mother. Their parents are guarded about their origins and upbringing. As children, the girls stay in their places and ask no questions, even though the truth surrounding their lineage is eventually revealed. The girls are sweet and wholesome — raised to be respectful, studious, observant, and of course focused on going to college. In other words, these are the things they have been taught as the keys to success.

As Ezra and Cinthy grow into womanhood, they attract attention through no fault of their own. Their bodies are maturing and catch the eyes of white men who have preconceived stereotypical notions about Black women’s bodies and sexuality. Their outstanding performance at school earns top marks and placement at the head of the (overwhelmingly white) class — exclusive places that 1957 social politics don’t allow Black girls. It doesn’t take long for the prominent people in the town and law enforcement to step in to ensure the Kindreds stay “in their place.”

What ensues is a series of events with tragic outcomes that many Black families today can relate to — wrongful incarceration, police harassment/violence, unfair banking practices, limited employment/low wages, discrimination in education, theft, ruination of property, and children harassed by teachers and peers. Even a childhood friendship the sisters have with a white neighbor, Ruby, changes as she comes to realize the leverage her white skin has.

I was amazed that Griffiths prepared Ezra and Cinthy for what could come of their friendship with Ruby and dismissed her declaration of sisterhood to them. All too often in stories this reality comes as a surprise, and it always bothers me because we already know how things go regarding these situations. “’We’re not going to grow old together. We can’t. I know you want to make yourself believe that we’re chasing the same freedom, the same life. But we’re not,’ said Ezra carefully. ‘We’re not sisters. I have a sister.’” It was this sad reality of a conversation between the girls that made the moment feel authentic.

Many scenes in the novel, in my opinion, reminded me of classic poems by Langston Hughes (“Mother to Son”) and Dr. Margaret T. Burroughs (“What Shall I Tell My Children Who Are Black?”) in which mothers/parents wrestle with preparing their children for a lifetime of inequality, mistreatment, frustrations, and setbacks. In Promise, the girls are sustained by their village — adults who love and support them. It is in the music, food, faith, and ancestors that will sustain them through troubled times. It’s sad that they are taught from birth how to survive in a world that only sees their skin tone and determines their place in society based on that. Even though those poems by Hughes and Burroughs are decades old, they are still very much relevant today.

The story is beautiful yet heartbreaking. It doesn’t pull any punches, and Griffiths cuts through all the Northeastern niceties to reveal that the heart of white supremacy is the same whether it is a small town in Maine or Mississippi. There is no allowance made for Black families in majority white communities. There is inherent racism that lies in the power structures that built this country in stolen land. While other stories such as Get Out and Lovecraft Country have spoken to this issue, Promise takes things a few steps further, making it difficult to get through. I had to take a few breaks while reading because of the horrific racism that takes place. I was still emotionally exhausted after finishing this book. 

The racial climate being as it was in the late 1950s, there is a lot of violence, racism, and death in the story. But on the flip side there is faith, courage, wisdom, love, and strength. I don’t think any of us enjoy reading about racial suffering, but it is a truth we cannot escape from.

Overall, I give Promise 5/5 stars. I’d recommend this to those who appreciates historical fiction and can face the reality of what has truly happened in this country.

Promise is available on Bookshop.org where every purchase supports independent bookstores.