Fire Shut Up in My Bones
Charles Blow is a real writer—like a really good writer. His work won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. Not everyone likes everything by everybody. Some prefer Zora Neale Hurston to F. Scott Fitzgerald, or Arthur Miller to Ernest Hemingway, and so on. That comes with the territory. Influenced, as he was, by long-deceased yet not forgotten ancestors unknown to the public, he is simply trying to be himself. And he excels at it, as we all should. Still, at least in my subjective, non-expert opinion, you’d be hard-pressed to say with a straight face that his writing isn’t convincing. But to each their own. As an author myself, albeit in a different genre and field, I wish I could write that well. Fire Shut Up in My Bones: A Memoir by Charles M. Blow is a must-read.
Language matters; at least, if you’re asking me, it should. I’m not talking wordsmithing for its own sake, to show off or else to worship multisyllabic words, where the more obscure the word, the better. Reading is fundamental, but reading bad writing, if you’re not careful, can ruin not only your palate and comprehension, but your ability to identify, much less appreciate, gifting or skill—or better yet, both. Writing that draws you in, serves you a satisfying plate of good food, and insists you make room for dessert, even if you’re getting kind of full—that’s what Blow contributes. You want to put the book down, but it the story-line drives you to make room for the peace cobbler, pound cake, or banana pudding.
Beyond style itself, part of what makes Fire Shut Up in My Bones so compelling is Blow’s history. As a memoir, he captures numerous coming-of-age experiences that are relatable in broad terms to most anyone, while also reflecting the socioeconomic hardships specific to his upbringing. Racial, cultural, and regional elements only deepen the narrative. With a father who existed only on the periphery of his life, Blow’s mother—through individual strength and communal support—worked tirelessly to provide for her sons, and advance herself.
Blow artfully recounts the practice of “eating tasty dirt” in his part of rural Louisiana. This practice, known as geophagy, has been observed in the American South and other parts of the world; whereby, at times, people consume red clay for perceived medicinal benefits or, in the most pragmatic of ways, to quiet hunger. He goes on to describe growing into something of a high-IQ prodigy, eventually attending and graduating from nearby Grambling State University. He joined a fraternity, got into more than a few complex shenanigans, and, somewhat unceremoniously, found his way into journalism.
However, he also speaks to what rarely is, and takes a lot of courage to address. He tackles the topic of sexuality throughout, his own and that of others, but the most striking revelations center on molestation and attempted molestation he endured, beginning at a young age. These horrific situations, in a profound sense, haunted, misshaped, and nearly broke him.
What he uncovers is difficult to read and yet—I’m sad to say—tragically, not uncommon. Surely none of the episodes represent positive influences on his development, although I cannot say where he stands today regarding his identity and relationships, or the associated decisions he makes. Nevertheless, it is deeply disturbing to hear his account of adults preying on children. It will make you sick, rightfully so.
Instead of protecting them by any possible means, we sometimes lead children to the slaughter as a way of, albeit temporarily, evading our own maladaptive issues. So, we damage others in a sick cycle of celebrated sin. Blow’s resilience and the coping mechanisms he developed are evident throughout.
There is much for him to unpack, both good and bad—to confront, correct, and ultimately surrender in my opinion—as is true for each of us. In the end, the most accurate record of our efforts, or lack thereof, endures in heaven by the One who knows everything about us, to Whom we proclaim at last, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”